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Resonance

Published by Tom Devine 2010 Copyright Tom Devine 2010 Internal Artwork, Cover Artwork and Cover design by Vera Carbin This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. Typeset in Garamond All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

To Ella.

If heaven's price, Is crimson rain, It furthers one to wait. If love shared twice, Be not in vain, Advance and meet your fate.

Part I Knight's Solstice

1 ~The Place I Dreamed Of~ His eyes scanned the message once again as his fingers tapped anxiously on the desk. Each time he read it he became more convinced that he had been mistaken, and was forced to look again at the stream of characters arranged neatly against the burning white window. At first it was just another lost communiqu among the hundreds of unread emails sitting stagnant in his inbox, but after noticing the sender he knew that this one was actually going to be worth his attention. Had the request made in the message been presented by anyone else he probably would have found a way to turn it down. The very next morning, a Saturday, he was to ride a train to the city and partake in a day of lavish consumerism and material worshipprobably a perfect day for her. The chime of the instant messenger rang in his headphones as another faceless user-name sprang up in the corner of his screen. He breathed deeply, placed his hands behind his head and leant back in the chair until the familiar pain in his back allowed no more. Things sure had changed quickly. It was almost too fast; the transitions in his life had usually been slow and laboured, but nowadays they moved spontaneously, eventfully, and sometimes even treacherously. A few months ago he had hardly thought about her at all, but now the prospect of a trip to the city with her was prompting an almost contented smile. A few flicks of switches later his computer lay silent. His eyes were open but he wasn't looking anywhere in particular; not that the darkness presented anything of interest for him to see. He shifted his weight slightly, causing the pains in his back to ease away into the soft mattress. Floating in his mind he saw an open field, surrounded by trees. He could hear a river in the distance; or was it a stream close-by? The wind was light and playful. The sun was soothing and lethargic. Her dress swayed gently about her knees. She spoke, but he couldn't hear the voice. Was his imagination lacking the data necessary to simulate the sound, or was the sound of rustling leaves and bird calls simply taking a higher priority in his cortex? He tried to read her lips. Could that really be what she was saying? Hours later his eyes opened, then almost immediately snapped closed again

as a sharp ache burrowed itself into his side. It had been a long time since he hadn't been injured by his sports training in some way, but he was somewhat grateful that at least now the injuries he tolerated were only physical. Light filtered dimly through the curtains and the birds sung loudly through their dawn chorus. He didn't bother to check the time; he could guess well from the surprising regularity of the birds' morning songs. He was slightly nervous, though more anxious really, about what the day would bring. He lay still for a moment and clarified in his mind the plan that had been generously laid out before him, so efficiently thought out that it was as if he had made it himself. She would be at the station at eleven. They would be in the tea house by twelve. He could only imagine where they would be by three. As he lazily stirred his Crunchy Nut around the bowl, he stared aimlessly out of the window. It wasn't like him to be so distant, but he had a lot on his mind after last night. What a difference a day makes. He had plenty of time before he had to leave, and plenty he could be doing to fill it, but somehow today he just felt like his mind was too busy. As the quick hours passed he autonomously went about his routine, excusing himself from a trip to the D.I.Y. store and even managing to type a few more lines of his notes for law classes. If he thought about her, time would seem to slow considerably, and at the moment the passage of time was the only thing separating them, so he tried as best he could to keep his mind distracted. He shut the door steadily behind him and stepped out onto the drive, the carefree stones grinding audibly underfoot. His figure moved rigidly down the hill into the town, stopping only to exchange hurried small talk with an acquaintance in his bedroom window. A few minutes later he found himself walking out of a newsagents clutching two cans of Red Bull. Resultantly he walked with a noticeably reduced jingle in his pocket. Fifty yards away was Bradford Station. The jingle in his pocket disappeared completely as he made his way through the ticket office and crossed the wrought-iron bridge to the opposite platform. Bradford was just one of the many stops on the West-bound track that would eventually take one, if they had the funds for it, to the famous cultural centre of Bristol. Thankfully today the journey was much shorternot that this prevented the amount of money he had lost in acquiring a ticket from being anything short of extortionate. He sat down on a lonely bench, leaning forward with his arms resting on his legs. He was there for a while, almost perfectly still, until he saw her come through the tired ticket office. Her dress swayed gently about her knees.

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2 ~Living just enough for the city~ By the end of the train journey, pleasantries had been all but exhausted. His mind clocked over at double speed as he tried to gauge her feelings from her words. She was giving nothing away; an idiosyncratic stream of poker-faced communications that neither seemed like words between strangers or friends. Even when they reached the high street, they still seemed to have talked about nothing. He mentioned his fading injuries in passing. She mentioned her day plan in detail. He couldn't remember what she had said. She was fully aware of this. Eyes flickered knowingly as they viewed his upright figure standing halfcasually deep inside Top Shop. Mouths twitched with emotion when they saw her prompt an awkward response from him with a question about lingerie. Nave hearts moved warmly as he handed her the as yet uncreased bank notes by the till. The tea house was calling his attention, but his mind was fixed on her. She was pulling him by the hand into Boots, where somehow he knew he would end up leaving with more shaving equipment than he had entered with. The stands were filled with colourful products, all soon to be replaced by similar yet supposedly superior versions. He remembered he had seen some of these things advertised in Cosmo. Apparently so had she; he listened to her list off the virtues of this or that bottle of chemical face enhancement as if she were a talking advertisement herself. He felt slightly ashamed that most of what she said he already knew. Finally he found himself standing nostalgically outside the tea house, an incredibly old yet well maintained building that towered over the thin street it called home. She was afraid to go inside; to a person less well versed in the ways of gentry it surely would have seemed a daunting construct. The door creaked with over-use as he moved in to meet the eyes of the waiting doorman. After a brief inquiry he showed them to a table and gracefully laid menus down on the rich burgundy tablecloth. She looked nervous, she kept looking briskly at each table in her arc of vision then back to him. The room was full of people, yet extremely quiet. Slow murmurs and comments about better times weaved steadily between the sharp tones of spoons tapping teacups and the occasional chair scraping as a party decided they had denied others the use of their table for long enough for them to deserve it. Orders were made as light conversation began to flicker between them like the staggered passing of front-runners in a marathon; gradually the density increased

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until a full blown yet understandably drab and well mannered conversation lived its life of quips and observations. The vibrations of the once still air were bridging the minds of the two across a space that was two feet too wide for his likingbut then in such establishments one cannot exactly be as they would in their living room on a cold winter's evening. They talked mainly about things that any other man would have forgotten by the next day, but he was sure to remember. He talked of his friends, and of how humorous their various lots in life had become. She did the same, and they both shared each other's insensitive yet undeniably amusing descriptions of their acquaintances over their respective blends of plant-infused hot water, laced with milk and disturbed rhythmically with a beam of forged-mineral until satisfaction reached the participant. Only then would consumption seem logical. The taste was good, the experience was better. The tea house was a perfect location, for when the thread of conversation had ran its course and needed to be respun, the silence in between seemed almost desired in the heavy atmosphere. Not much later, steps echoed back and forth between the narrow walls as the two figures, juxtaposed in height but not in objective, moved wistfully back onto the high street. One wore a dress, an almost gossamer white, the other wore a shirt, an aquamarine blue. Both wore a smile. For a moment in the bustle of the crowded street their hands met before moving faultlessly away with a pendulum swing; an unwanted yet necessary effect. Neither assumed anything. Both imagined everything. The crowd knew nothing. The girl said something. It's busy. Yes, he replied hastily. Yes it is.

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3 ~Zeitgeist~ The air was warm for October. The mood was warm for midday. Grass brushed freely against their creaking footwear as they progressed as aimlessly as ever across the common. Around them, the sounds of birds periodically broke the persistent hiss of the city, now at least a mile distant. The train station was so far away it would cause aches in the leg just to think of it, but fortunately his mind was somewhat busy considering the appropriate location to put his hands as he walked. Somewhere deep in his consideration was the thought of resting a hand in hers, and as they walked it seemed as if his brain span around to bring these once rearguard thoughts to the helm of his concern. Under the sombre willow trees by the lake they stopped; she claimed her feet hurt. It was a claim so see-through he probably would have thought she was just joking had he not been alert. Luckily, his perception and awareness were on a plateau of diligence, and barely the merest deviation in her line of vision gave him some insight or another into her thoughts. The wind was still now, as if waiting for the concert to begin. The score was long expended, the players were weary, but the crowd wanted more. Improvising was simple enough, but it was not the means to an end. He began to wish he had allowed his conductor, an old friend, to be on stage with him; though in the end a conductor cannot deviate from the score. Music is not written by instruction. A few phrases later he found himself looking up at the sky. The roaring engines of a nameless craft shook the roots of the willow and prompted her to shield her ears from the intense fluctuations that boomed mercilessly across the open common. His ears remained unshielded yet undaunted by the experience. She asked why the plane had been so low, seemingly talking to herself. He gave an answer; she asked no more and remained still, as if the atmosphere she had purportedly spoken to was itself answering with a sure change in pressure that dulled her curiosity. Water moved jaggedly down a rock face, a slave to its destiny of descending to the turgid reserve below. The sound weaved calm into their minds as they slowly wandered by, both unconsciously avoiding each others gaze. The aqueous display on the lower side of the common was a literal oasis of calm in the busy city, and he indeed found solace from his stressing social dilemmas in its presence. She seemed not to be particularly effected; the way she walked suggested she favoured a faster pace, that this spot was not of interest to her active mind. He didnt know if the signals rushing into his cortex were originating from

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the flowers beside the path, or the flower beside his arm. He couldnt tell if the reason his eyes looked downwards was to avoid the piercing light of the inescapable star or to avoid the piercing beauty of his undeniable obsession. He struggled to understand if it was the long walk, or the long silence, that kept his heart racing. The ground inclined downwards and his long legs were forced into small movements by the steep drops. She, however, half-ran down the hill, forcing him to follow at the expense of his bad knee. By the time they were once again overshadowed by the Georgian structures of the city, the pain had become prevalent in his mind. On the train it started to fade. Stepping off onto the platform was horrible. The journey in escort across town to the rolling suburbs was laboured at best. He was over a mile from his house on the other side of town, and probably one hundred meters below it as well. But in the end, the walk back was easy. He felt nothing but a faint tingle on his cheek as he drew himself steadily up the looming hill. The shouting pain in his knee was unheard. The sweat on his brow was unattended to. The doubt in his mind was unpicked. She liked him.

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4 ~To Know A Black-Powder Star~ Clouds journeyed in vain across opal skies, victims of sporadic winds and currents that guided their grandiose existence towards inevitable yet unpredictable ends. Beneath them he lived in the freedom of his cell, at one end lay his bustling residence, at the other: a rusting school. Of course he wasn't the only one incarcerated in an educational existence; the dull tide of information and shepherded thought was mixed with islands and eddies of social convention. More importantly, sometimes the mist rising from the waves of data breaking in his mind would be illuminated by a thunderous flash of reactive chemical process, a sudden firework boom that mimicked the jump-start in his heart as he saw her. However, as rarely as the constituents of black-powder would collate in an ocean did he experience their interaction. It was as if her cell existed in different dimensions that in places overlapped with his; sometimes he would catch a glimpse, sometimes a word, and in those rare distortions where dimensions merged and worlds met he found himself falling into her reality for hours at a time. One day the journey into such an anomaly led him twisting back around to a familiar part of his own world: Mr. Salvat's Coffee House. Jolly orders were made with impeccable timing and the graceful host laid refreshments of the highest quality before the grateful couple. The table between them was a gorge, and the workers on either side were going to have to build in perfect synchronization to construct a bridge strong enough to support all of their weight. The only problem lay in that neither side knew just how many workers the other side had; a mist blocked their view, leaving both hesitant in venturing too far into the humbling space before them. Loose leaves danced to the tune of the gale outside the window, whilst the atmosphere in the coffee house shaped itself to the tune of the harp and harpsichord emanating from speakers hidden in places, unbeknownst to all but the most regular of customers. In pointing them out he enlightened her, and all actions have an equal reaction. Today they discussed rather uninteresting topics, but with marvellous elaboration and exaggeration he inflated their appeal. Like a hot air balloon the mood rose, and from the precarious hanging basket below it suddenly became clear just how many workers were on the other side of that gorge. One does not travel through the mist, but over it. There she is. Hot air balloons turned to larks as they swam in the thick air with canon

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recreation. The church bells tolled on the hour, the sound echoing mightily between the Earth and the overcast sky. Even this event could be mimicked, corrupted, and made so seemingly odd that a friend might find it humorous. Indeed, an event can be as valuable a resource as any twine, stone or nail, and a skilled craftsman does not need a blueprint to build a causeway. Cut mineral slipped like sand through an hourglass into open hands and cold air grazed their faces. Hardly a moment passed before he found himself again dropping carved nickel into the hands of a waiting host. Like water, his wealth seemed to always flow downhill these days. In exchange, tattooed cylinders of sucrose liquid graced their hands, and in consumption the energy burst into their veins. Like a lark, the feeling of being able to go anywhere he wished grew. The roof of his cell seemed far away, and a few short minutes later he felt sure it wasn't there at all. When a man leaves his surroundings he feels paranoid, but when a man is not alone he feels free. She seemed happy, and all actions have an equal reaction. Like a broken pendulum, they arced through the oxygen rich air around the swings in Barton Farm Park. Like a cymbal they crashed to the ground as they leaped from their enchained seats and found that their Red Bull wings were lacking in substance. Of course: you can leave your cell, but you're still in prison. Time found the pair and split them like bamboo, sending them their respective ways. Again, her lips had met his cheek, and all actions have an equal reaction. Like a skilled craftsman, he didn't need a blueprint; they say you can just tell you're in love.

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5 ~Chalk~ The pencil left its dull trail across the page. The last day of summer had come lateit was almost Novemberbut then again this had been a strange year. Everything was different, by some measure at least. To say if things were truly better or worse would require a test of relativity, and she by no means could recall the experience of her past lives to provide such a measure. She turned to the window and rested her head gently on her folded hands, her eyes half closed in the brightness. The wind whistled softly whilst the birds squeaked rather more harshly. The paper on her desk flickered like the wings of a dragonfly as the playful breeze danced around her wall-bound sanctuary. Perhaps after so much time the breeze had grown tired of its freedom? Or was it, like all things, just afraid to be alone? Alone was something she hadn't known, and still didn't really know. It takes knowledge of how you might benefit from being with someone before you might feel alone without them. Such a thing must, as time would prove, also require a test of relativity. They were paltry concepts to her anyway: she did not have the will to dwell on the introvert as so many a lost soul had done and would do. She was a rationalist, down to earth, goal driven. She didn't have time to be lonely, but then how can one love if they do not have the valley of loneliness to bridge? Even the abstract notion of affection required her time. Time is prey, love is a predator, but to her it was not the top predator by any means. Of course this was the issue. In his world, love walked the land, love ruled the skies, love commanded the waters, and time was becoming scarce. Should their continents collide, what would happen to this delicately balanced ecosystem? Would her mighty rationality invade his world like sharks strafing a shoal of fish, or would the mighty quake from the meeting of realities run these efficient hunters into extinction? Would the fledging young love be able to cross the frightening mountains rising up in the contact zone? How much of the land would be sacrificed to feed an ever growing and ever strengthening population? She did not have to think about these things; her mind was clear in reminding her that she had more important things to focus on, but it was something she desperately wanted to be thinking about. Surely even the most rational person should acknowledge such pondering? Silken wisps of hair searched her lips and her eyelids cursed the beaming sun which broadcast powerful rays even they could not fully stop. They had failed to

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protect their purpose in the world, and were filled with sorrow. How could they feel anything else when their best efforts were unsuccessful? A sorrow that flows from the knowledge that you can never overcome an obstacle. A sorrow that grows from seeing your progress halted as if by a wall of ghosts stood arm in arm across a golden door; faceless strangers to sympathy were the spirits of destiny. She would not write any more today. That decision came to her naturally. Then what would she do? That decision was hidden in another room, to which the golden door was veiled with shimmering starlight radiating through the sorry downheartened blinds across her eyes. To bask in the light a while longer, to let her thoughts dance with emotion, to see his silhouette in her minds eye: these were the things she would do. She could not deny herself such fundamental feelings. To allow them would be new, unknown and fearful, but to deny them would be treachery unto her own heart. It was, for her, a time of revolutionary thinking that would change her life forever in ways she would seldom have fathomed on that warm autumn afternoon. The wind was dancing now to the dirge of changing destiny as a young girl learned to love.

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6 ~Ceremony~ He brushed a hair from his shoulder as he carefully donned his uniform. A dull green combined with a jet black in a cacophony of camouflage that juxtaposed stubbornly with his pale face and hands. Flecks of polish were shook from his boots as he strode from his house with a heavy gait brought on by the weighty soles projecting him another fruitless inch towards the sky. In the dark of night he would be missed by the casual eye had he not been moving with such speed along the cracked pavement. As he walked, his hands clenched into the military mode as his brain ticked back into the foray of protocol that in the minds of many made violence seem civil. It was cold and his uniform was lightly sewn, but he knew there was no place for such lavish desires as warmth in a service that demanded temperance to even the most fundamental wishes of the body. After all, among the clouds, now sulking in the dusk, the cold would be his eternal company. If he got his way it would be a company he embraced from a loaded seat, encased in metal and plastic arranged by the greatest masterminds of the military world. When prompted, the flying mineral behemoth would spring to life, a life dedicated to service, a life dedicated to death unto the death. With the clack of boots impacting on wet concrete echoing around steadfast figures, the routines were performed. His eyes recorded with haunting definition the tell-tale silhouettes of craft he may one day view in a cross-hair as he forcibly memorized the lessons of the stalwart instructor. As he saluted his superiors to leave the centre, he felt the familiar ache of fatigue torment his mind like water gasping through a crumbling dam. It was late, so late in fact that in times gone past he had been driven away from the Bradford Air Training Corps by the costly time commitment, but now, today, he felt in his mind a clarity in purpose that stemmed from a half-esoteric idea of just how he would find his place in the sky. As he walked briskly along the amber-lit road, his ears were invaded by the wail of an ambulance rushing by, a sound that inherently symbolized, to him at least, the chaos of existence mixed with the humbling good-will of mankind. The sound shifted down to a lower pitch as the cruel whipping sound waves broke on the world at his back. Gradually they faded into obscurity as the sound of tyres rolling on wet concrete shored up the airwaves with the perpetual gushing overtone of a mobile society. He hadn't walked particularly farthe tiredness in his mind had spread to

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legsbefore he heard the shrill pulsar sirens approaching again. The cumbersome vehicle adeptly strafed the rows of parked cars and the crossing points of the town centre as it made its desperate yet familiar dash to the Royal United Hospital, the enormous medical institution that sat sentinel over the city of Bath a deadly ten miles away. It passed him as he was crossing Bradford's historic bridge, and before he reached the other side he had a sudden inspiration as to why his phone was vibrating impatiently in his pocket, and what he thought the reason might be almost kept him from answering. The last thing in the world he wanted was to hear was that he was right in his inexplicable intuition. One minute later, as he folded his phone shut, he had found out. The feeling that had phased through him like a dose of deadly radiation as the ambulance had passed was miraculously true. Inside the ambulance, unconscious for reasons unknown, was her.

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7 ~Balancing Act~ Urgency permeated his every movement and his every thought. An unwelcome feeling of dread was brewing somewhere within his bodyso potent that he could not pinpoint a locationand his tired mind was forced into overdrive. His vision seemed to deteriorate. He saw the world as a shady monochrome imprint that flashed with the occasional brightness of colour. He reached the agreed location and halted slowly as if he doubted his ability to stop instantly from a walking pace. His feet stamped impetuously as the the night's cold lashes whipped around him like a swarm of flying snakes. The waiting was unbearably tense, his energy was unbearably low and the combination was creating strange anomalies in his mind's eye. The glowing ball of light that was the street-light above him seemed to move in a hypnotizing dance, orbiting some central point with a random pattern that was beautiful in its unpredictability. It was an abstract feast for the aesthetic mind that only the creativity of free consciousness could provide, and as his head was slowly drawn further and further upwards to view the dancing spirit, his pupils struggled to keep up with the barrage of signals being sent from a confused cortex. Like a rope thrown to a floundering swimmer, the voice of her father recalled his attention to his surroundings. In front of him was a dark family car, her father sitting in the driver's seat with a dull look in his eye and a young girl in the passenger seat who looked to have been angered by his slowness in returning to reality. Forcing another wave of energy through his body, he responded with utilitarian seriousness to her father's short questions and stepped almost nobly into the back seat. The girl, who from her face he could assume was his love's younger sister, stared at him as he got in and continued doing so for a few seconds after they had started moving, even after he had started looking back. When she turned around to look out of her side window he felt that in her lack of speech he had passed some examination; she had judged him so pointedly that it was possible she had done so deliberately just to see if he would react. Perhaps in other situations he would have, but right now he was in no mind to question the behaviour of a child. The journey was quiet but rough. The radio churned out the faint drones of guitars accompanied by half-hearted orthodox lyrics as the car lurched and reared at every roundabout. By driving in such a rushed manner they might save only thirty seconds on their journey once traffic lights were taken into account, but to drive nonchalantly at such a time was almost an act of ignorance as to the severity of the situation, especially when plagued by paternal despair.

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His head seemed to pound, and when the car wasn't being flung back and forth between brakes and suspension his eyes closed and the billowing impenetrable veil of sleep started to pull itself around his aching form. This irresistible pull was doing full battle with his overpowering anxiety over her condition. The result was that he both desired and abhorred sleep, and the conflict only perpetuated the dulling of his struggling mind. The adrenalin that had kept him standing during the nerveraking half hour between him being called and being picked up was wearing thin, and his energy levels were crashing. It took him a few seconds to realize that the car had stopped and that the telling vibration of the door on his arm had disappeared. The front doors opened and he unconsciously followed suit with his. It was at around this time that his memory of the night when he would look back on it would fade. All he knew of what happened in the hospital that night was what he had been told by her from what she had coaxed out of her protective family; it would be months before they would even tell her the full details. What he could remember for himself was a blinding light that tormented first his left then right eye, one after the other, and a collection of still images that he could flash into his mind when he concentrated hard enough. Most of these images he recalled a single time then proceeded to forget them further, but one image stuck in his mind eternally, and became forever associated in his head with what he would later consider a point of no return in his life. It was the crushing image of her in that hospital bed surrounded by a sea of wires and twisted machinations, the destiny changing devices that held an innocent power over life and death just as easily as a human might hold the power to move a chess piece across a richly lacquered board. These blameless contraptions of life stood crookedly around her enchanting form. She was covered by a loose white garb that shone in the heavy buzzing light. Her eyes were delicately closed and her face relaxed; her gentle breathing had created condensation on the oxygen mask. Her hair was spread freely across the pillow and around her shoulders, with curled strands softly adorning her face, moving lightly back and forth as her breathing created waves of minute movement across her skin. The image of that dying angel haunted his dreams, and in reality he found no escape. His forehead had pulsed with pain when he had woken up sometime the next day, surrounded himself by a sea of wires and holy machinations.

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8 ~Locking the Door~ Like any self-respecting teenager, the story he told his friends contained no signs of weakness on his part, and even sounded quite romantic to those who were inclined to think that way. The tale he weaved was of a heroic dash to catch the last feeble conscious words of a sleeping beauty, one where his falling unconscious himself and spending a day and a half in hospital was brushed over by humorous descriptions of the other patients' reaction to him storming through the building in his military uniform. It was a tale of a time that in truth he could not remember, but it was plausible enough to gain acceptance. He had made sure to describe the night in such a way that things seemed to have gone more in his favour than reality had prescribed. After all, his less considerate comrades had made it quite clear that he had missed a great chance some for tragically romantic bedside drama. They were halfjoking, but it bothered him slightly that they were right. School had been only slightly impacted by the news of her hospitalization. Apparently while he had been lying in a hospital bed, squinting into the bright overhead lights and trying to work out what had happened, there had been a message passed around at school that she had come down with some undisclosed illness. The news was caught like a leaf falling into a river and pulled away from the minds of those who heard it as the torrents of the average learning day squashed themselves into the leaky reservoir of their concerns, forcing such vain matters as her absence into the polluted levy of memory, only to be drawn in again only should things become stagnant. His friends had previously been highly suspicious of why he had missed a day at school after his supposedly dramatic rush to the hospital, but over the years they had somehow come to expect such secrecy of him, so had he not told them the rather unusual story of that night at all they probably would never have bothered to find it out for themselves. However, with the story told the rumour mill was pressed into action. They busily speculated as to almost every aspect of the events, sometimesrather rudelyin his presence. He had been passingly intrigued by a story he noticed in a local paper explaining that there had been some other collapses in the area just like hers. At the time he thought nothing of it, but he would occasionally wonder if there could ever be a connection. He had no reason to believe there was; he wasn't the type to infer connections from what could only be assumed to be coincidence, but he likewise never dismissed the idea, as fruitless as it might have been. It was safer to consider all

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possibilities. With the flow of life so heavily pressing upon the minds of his peers, it took almost no time at all for things to return to normal; he was back into his old familiar cell, now seeming relatively solitary in her wake. It was at night when things were different, when guards are let down as if prompted by some lunar force and when even the hardiest warrior can find time to journey introspectively. It was at this time, when the sound of the wind became audible over the fading hiss of cars, that he saw that torturous bed-ridden image of her in his mind. Each time this occurred he felt his strength stolen from him just as a gilded cloak is ripped away from its wearer by a speeding highwayman, a highwayman of powerless submission to the whims of fate and the mercy of the machine spirit. The morning was always the same: he always cursed his own weakness of the night before. When dawn passes the mind becomes careful and withdrawn, and only the logical practicalities of life are apparent. He could see no reason to be disturbed by an event he had no power to influence, or in fact no business in questioning whatsoever. No one had told him why her father had asked to take him with them to the hospital. He wondered if that man knew the things that he thought only the deep reaches of his own being were privy to. Surely not, but humans are programmed to be paranoid. More likely, although he hardly wished to credit himself by admitting it, she had asked for him to be there. In considering this option, he felt his insides grow numb and his arms grow wanting of her subtle frame to be held against his. He wondered if this concept could be too good to be true, but then surely one could argue truth and good are synonymous? If so, then the flickering thoughts he would see before he lost control of his body to the close watch of the sleeping mind would be justified, and his wandering heart might find a home.

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9 ~Tide~ Days went by with the steady rhythm of a ticking clock, and as the hands met at the peak of their journey on one such dull Sunday in early winter, he finally saw her again. She walked calmly down the central street of the town, her eyes fixed on her shoes, revealing her preoccupied mind. With a jumping heart he exchanged warm words with cheerful sentiment that flowed out into a running conversation in which many of the questions regarding her situation were answered, or as it were, left officially blank. The doctors had been baffled by the onset of these mysterious and seemingly random collapses and thus could not find a cause; it was something as yet unknown to the collective mind of human discovery, something so ethereal and withdrawn that its presence was as undetectable as the feelings of mutual symbiotic happiness that permeated the space around the young pair. Nonetheless in the years to come she would always carry a small stash of pills that she would periodically consume, perhaps once a day, that supposedly prevented the weakness returning. Her face grew rosy and her eyes met the ground once again as the topic slowly turned to why he had been called to the hospital that night, now almost a blurred week behind them. He could hardly contain his inward joy that it was indeed her who had requested he be there. Did this mean what he thought it must mean? Perhaps he would find out when he met her again at the suggested time at the suggested place later that day. She insisted on meeting in an obscure location: the old pack-horse bridge on the edge of town where the Georgian architecture gave way to a lazy river and fields of long swaying grass. In three hours, he promised, he would be waiting for her on the bridge, and in three hours, she promised, she would meet him there. Four hours and ten minutes later he finally saw her figure half-running in her protesting shoes across the open field towards him. She was squinting into the roaring sun displaying its final strength along the horizon before giving way to the darkness. The orange light danced around the strings of faltering cloud and silhouetted the trees leaning out over the meandering river. The ancient stone beneath his feet embraced the last of the day's heat with welcoming arms, just as he had done to her as she skipped impatiently across the cobbled surface to where he stood, crowning the apex of the grand old construction. Naturally she had her excuse, and naturally he didn't care in the slightest. As they stood side by side with their hands gripping the rusted metal railings and the burning sun washing over their faces, he felt a solace like nothing he had ever known.

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They talked until the glowing star was hardly visible over the horizon, and the first pangs of the nights cold began to venture out of their invisible lairs to test their mettle. She wandered back and forth as if in deep thought but still talking freely behind him as he continued to gaze down the river towards the swaying trees and the family of curious squirrels that raced between them. He savoured the moment, a fundamental happiness that was free of the influence of any technological input, a purity of human experience that no amount of progress through the annals of the universe could replicate. She softly spoke his name, quietly enough for him to know that she must be standing directly behind him since he had still managed to hear her. His nerves fired in unison throughout his body as his mind viciously speculated and weighed his options as to how he should respond, but the decision was made for him. Her soft arms wrapped around him and her head nestled itself into his towering back. For a moment that moved through time with suffocating hesitation there was a silence, then a tightening of her arms as her innocent lips passed those eternal words. He moved a hand from the railing and placed it over hers, resting calmly over his solar plexus. With revolutionary clarity in his mind he tilted his head downwards slightly so that she might better hear him, and smoothed his fingers delicately across hers so that she might better understand him. He returned the sentiment of her confession with the very same words, and felt his insides turn to bubbles as a smile forcibly occupied his face. Together on that bridge, arching over the harrowing gorge below and baking beneath the dying sky above, their lips met, and he was contented.

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10 ~Two Tone Quickstep~ The news reached his friends like a wave breaking on the beach of sensationalism, before slowly retreating back into the sea of accepted truths. Still, the waves broke with a force he could never have anticipated; apparently they had still been doubtful as to whether his labours were going to yield anything at all. The questions came at him like poisoned arrows from all directions for the first few fatiguing days, and he dodged them with a calm smoothness that impressed the archers in some subconscious way to the extent that they wouldn't go reaching for their quiver again. With her too, the first few days were strangely difficult. He didn't know why, but somehow it was hard to talk to someone in such an orthodox situation after the rather unorthodox conversation that had been written into his mind on the bridge and reread to the point of corruption; he had even began to speculatively question if he had fabricated the memory in a blaze of fantasy and wishful thinking. Nonetheless, as the days then weeks passed he found himself rising into a life of carefree happinessoften bounding on euphoriain which he was content with her at his side. It was liberating, a glorious realised dream that shone in his eyes with the brilliance of dawn and allowed him to see his life in that refreshing new light. None could deny that in a few short weeks he was changed, but some saw the true reality of it all; the reality that he hadn't really changed at all, he had just been released, released from his stifling cell into the soaring expanse of the world. Each day was taken with enthusiastic fervour that perplexed, on occasion, even the most bright minded individuals. Likewise, his school career seemed to follow the beckoning suit of his romantic victory, and soon he gained a level of luxurious comfort in his studies that was the dream of any lazy school-goer: the point at which high achievement required minimal input and valuable time could be devoted to other pursuits. In his case this was the pursuit of happiness. On one occasion he found himself surrounded by trees in a ragged landscape, bobbled with mounds and gullies and divided up by decrepit stone walls and long-ruined structures. It was early spring, evident in the infantile leaves decorating the ceiling of jagged branches and the snap of cold air on his lips. The light was growing low and the ground was slippery underfoot, so it was only natural that his staggered travels would cause him to occasionally let go of her hand to retain his balance. Through the undergrowth they travelled, seeking the place he had been shown just a week before by an adventurous friend, somewhere deep in a forest filled

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with Gothic towers, gaping open-faced mines and pioneering wild flowers, all so untended to that the couple could have fooled themselves that they were living in a distant post-apocalyptic future. Eventually they reached the break in the trees that he knew was a mark of the home straight of their journey. The ground took a sharp turn downwards and they had to descend along the thin path with pristine care, and on his part constant checking of how his companion fared. Finally they reached the fabled 'Sunset Ridge', squinting into the sun just as they had been on that fateful day, and just as he had planned for them to be today. The air was refreshing but cold, and her body against his was suitably warming as they sat on the fledgling grass. The aura of the sun struggling through the valleybound cloud surrounded them like a sea of honey, warming in its thickness but cooling in its flow. They sat and reflected on the success of their nubile relationship whilst the local birds called out their last songs into the failing light. Both had seen the relationships of their peers come and go, and she had felt the pain of loss for herself, but equally both knew that they, their relationship, their simultaneous entangled existences, were fundamentally different, fundamentally more than the volatile two-apenny love lives of common experience. As a tree stands strong in the howling gales, they would remain, steadfast and sentinel, eternally bound by that emotion which was both unique and sharedindividual yet possessed by everyone. The journey home, the whispered words, the tentative union of the night, and the awakening to a new day together all wallowed in that viscous sea of affection, serving only to deepen that clamorous expanse of experience they called love.

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11 ~It was Her~ A two and half week long separation of the love-bound couple was enough to drive her rival into making a play. Whilst she was grappling with the semantic awkwardness of her rudimentary Italian, her rival was scoping him; an agent of unfilial mischief preparing for a mission of self-gratifying subterfuge. The rival had always been there, and the rival had always entertained such thoughts, but the rival had never translated such thoughts into action but for a few dispensable remarks and stolen glances. It was at this time, specifically on the fifth day of the second week of that Easter holiday, that this changed. On this day he had attended a party at the house of an acquaintance living out in the valleys to the West of his home town, far enough away that he would have to stay overnight, giving the rival her chance to sabotage all the couple had built over the half-a-year they had enjoyed together. It was a cold night, though far from the biting chill of winter, and out in the valley the heavens were lined with fascinating pearly stars that sat as jewels of the darkness in their blanket of lifeless space. The house was, in contrast, rife with the flow of heat between the crowded rooms, and constantly shaken by the pounding beats launching themselves through time and space from the looming black amplifiers in the host's living room. He was disappointed that she couldn't be there, but he had learned with time that you must not only adapt to living with someone in a relationship, but also to managing without them again; over-dependence on others is a fundamental weakness in any human after all. In light of his gruelling trial he made the best he could of the event, although of course he couldn't join his friends in hedging their bets with the women, he could make things easier for himself by drinking the substance he had recently discovered to be an elixir of sensation: Port. He was not a drinking man, and ordinarily would refuse any substance that altered the stark clarity of his mind, but on that night, in his struggle to suppress a screaming desire to be with her again, he allowed himself to partake in that act which would supposedly quiet his thoughts. This was, of course, exactly what the rival was hoping for, and she herself had consumed a fair amount of intoxicating spirits, perhaps just to consolidate her courage. Late that night, when most had found a space to sleep on the living room floor and were swimming in their drunken dreams, he sat lazily on a sofa, on the verge of slipping into sleep himself; a stupor induced by the soothing lack of thought

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stemming from the alcohol in his blood. His vision was drawn away from his eyes and into his mind as spontaneous thoughts were created and destroyed in an everspinning ocean of consciousness. He saw, of course, the image of his infatuation before him. He saw an open field, surrounded by trees. He could hear a river in the distance; or was it a stream close-by? The wind was light and playful. The sun was soothing and lethargic. Her dress swayed gently about her knees. She spoke, and he heard it. I love you. But her voice: it wasn't the voice he had come to recognize even through the distortion of telephones and the barriers of doors. Though this may have been the case, a mind permeated by sleep and drink was not exactly going to critique its own activities with any determination. As she moved to embrace him in his thoughts he could feel her body against him as if it were real. As his imagination projected a kiss through his mind he felt her lips on his as if it were real. When he felt a cold hand place itself on his cheek, his eyes opened, and it was real. For a few delusional seconds he embraced his love with the passion his heart demanded, until with a lightning flash, his reason broke the spell. He froze for almost a second with horror, before repelling the form lain across him with jolting arms and scrambling messily backwards, almost falling from the sofa. As if nothing had happened, the rival lurched towards him again but was sent tumbling rather powerfully to the floor by his violent reaction. Filled with anger and disgust, at the rival and at himself, he wordlessly paced rapidly to the atrium, grabbing his untouched sleeping bag sitting by the door before flinging himself out of the house and into the night. His roughly clad feet echoed footsteps of surprising volume and frequency through the still village lanes, then along the tranquil canal path, and finally through the streets of lamp-light until he found himself at his own door nearly an hour after he had left. He was shaken, angry and cold, but somehow he felt nothing in the strange numbness of guilt. In his bed, his mind gave him no images to ponder and he was asleep before any might leak through. After a dreamless rest he awoke not just to a bothersome headache, but to desperate regret and a question of disclosure that would have to haunt him for the days until she, the real she, returned to his life.

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12 ~Conqueror~ In a time of stressful tests and studious learning, their relationship grew ever stronger. Examinations were of no worry to him past a few last minute bursts of intense memorizing and numerical manipulation. He forced knowledge upon himself, only for the purpose of releasing it onto a page in a draughty hall with a squeaky desk and then forgetting it, letting the supposedly paramount data corrupt and be absorbed into that murky bank of facts deep in his mind. For her, it was an altogether more stressful time. She felt a pressure that he had no notion of, the pressure of relying more on luck than on skill. However her evaluation of her own ability was quite incomplete, and when the fateful days arrived in preordained order one after the other, her pages were filled with analysis, equations and conclusions that would raise an examiner's sullen interest just enough that they would bother to read it in full, an effect induced by only the brightest sparks of standardised test success. The gracious gods of the grades were generous in the light of such tribute, and when she viewed her readout with shaking hands, her happiness was converted into a deafening shout of approval that forced a wave of flinched jealousy through those around her. He got simply what he had expected, and was inwardly relieved that his own evaluation of his skills had been accurate. Together they revelled in the joy of two years' work alongside their peers, some crossed with grins, some aching with frowns, and felt the liberation of a life unbound from the house of knowledge that been their second home for seven years. His only regret was that he hadn't truly enjoyed any but the last of these cycles. That evening he found that he regretted even more deeply not having found her before the rampaging depression of mid-school social structures brought him down to the meagre existence he had lived; if his life had been a cell, this was surely the jailer. All that mattered now was them, and their future. He knew what his future would be already, he had known for the whole year and had been reminded every time he walked through the gates of the Air Training Corps with his proud uniform and determined vision. He would rule the shifting skies from the seat of his metalforged bird of prey in the service of his countrymen, wherever that may take him. A university could teach him aeronautics, an instructor could teach him to pilot, an organization could teach him to kill, but there was still that art that one can only learn for themselves, the art of harmonious living with another. He asked himself: how could they appease their love from worlds apart?

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She wanted to be a doctor, a master of cures and ailments working carefully in the background of all society. She would be going to university, but not his, and the thought of how the years of life with her true peers might undo her sent pain and sickness marauding through his body. Of course he would see her regularly; they would still make their way through that secret forest, stand on that packhorse bridge at sunset and lie peacefully together in his bed, but he would always hold salient doubts, always unvoiced yet always commanding his thoughts. There would be testing times. The readout of his social examination, one that would dictate his future, would be awaited with baited breath and shaking hands, hands that would be steadied by hers and breath that would be forestalled by her pressing lips. The test results would indeed be good. He had never told her about her rival at the party so many nights ago, and she had never told him that she had known about it from the day after it had happened. Moreover she had never told him about the piercing pain of the initial reports and the gradual understanding as her knowledge grew. He had never told her about his engulfing regret and blinding anger as his evaluation of himself swelled. It may have happened, a spoil on their picturesque partnership, but history is written by the victors, and through a year of trials the triumphs had shone through. No longer a 'he' and a 'she', but a 'they'. His degree would sit patiently on his desk whilst miles away in a sky-bound country church voices would ring: Do you take Michael Durant to be your lawfully wedded husband? Do you take Louise Swanborough to be your lawfully wedded wife? He would kiss the bride, and they would continue on their way. Only the pyroclastic flow of history could divide them.

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Part II Kerosene Skies

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1 ~Beneath, Far Above~ His heavy boots repeatedly shook the titanium causeway, creating a reverberating wash of jagged echoes that covered the sound of his pistol magazines jumping back and forthsealed to his belt like he was sealed to his secrecy. He was in train with a group of men in dulled white coats who walked with enough disregard for him that it was almost as if they were trying to escape him. They turned countless corners and passed countless doors as they traversed the harsh corridors through the deep earth, each one mimicking the last in its cold dcor and utilitarian unanimity. As the journey concluded, the detached band of scientists made an anxious address to their unwelcome guest, informing him of just how careful he must be in the hangar ahead, and reminding him that he was extremely lucky to be given this privilege. It was clear from their tone, but more so from their almost saddened expressions, that they did not approve of this arrangement. The neon-lit doors moved apart and the party entered the humbling hangar, stretching a league into the distance and towering so high that the spotlights on the ceiling were like stars illuminating this world of refined metal beauty. His eyes widened and he took in the magnificent scope of the huge subterranean construct whilst the scientists moved forward, not phased by what was to them a lack-lustre everyday haunt. The behemoth cavern was filled with unfamiliar craft, the sum collection of the Royal Air Force's secret weapons, machines he was entitled to look at only by the Top Secret clearance plastered across his military identification papers. To actually touch or even to approach one of these extraordinary craft would cause an indoctrinated guard to spring from some hidden post and end his life unquestioningly and without remorse. The scientists led him towards the one craft that he had clearance to interact with, and moreover, clearance to pilot. It had been moved from its designated position onto the hangar lift by some unknown arm of the base's control, and was being admired by a group of old military men, the uniforms of whom were weighed down by a puzzling maze of medals and rank slides. Introductions were brief and predictable in content. The meeting went just as he may have simulated it in his mind. The army had no room for spontaneous action, even so far as to create a standardized system of conversation trees in a man's mind that would allow him to communicate with a mechanistic clarity covering key points in bland tones that left no room for interpretation or sentiment.

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These men could rarely elaborate much else beyond this, and his greatest fear was not the screeching howl of an approaching sonic missile, but loosing himself to the draw of justified barbarismbecoming an automatic servant as these men were, just as the army might wish he would. If this happened, he told himself, he would lose her, lose his world, lose everything. All that would remain would be the crushing solitude of his quarters and the loyal service of his pistol loaded with fifteen small round keys to ending his agony. Never, he swore. Never. Inside the craft he felt like his nine years of experience had been stripped from him when he scanned the vast array of controls, founded in the blacktechnology of the governments behind the governments, and utterly beyond anything he had expected, or even imagined. The craft spoke his name, just as the scientists had told him it would and he replied as per the manual he had read in the white light of his temporary quarters the night before. The plane, the American built Aurora Mark Two, was a magnificent beast of the skies. Its complex Artificial Intelligence had been brought up for two years by military scientists, and it knew nothing of compassion, loyalty or love. All it knew was death and self-preservation, and about these it knew everything. So merciless was it in pursuing these ends that it would happily see its own pilot killed to keep the craft safe, a trait that was disastrous when the system was first designed, and now though somewhat suppressed, kept the intelligent neural networks it was based around out of conventional fighters. The machine would be his brother in arms just as much as a co-pilot would have been, though perhaps the camaraderie might be rather more dry. He would at least not be alone in his never-ending struggle for the skies. Now when he took the lives of his enemies there would be another intelligence watching him, abetting him, congratulating him. Killing whilst alone keeps the guilt constrained, the pain individual. To kill in front of another was something else entirely, something his nature abhorred, fearing for the sins he had knowingly committed to be witnessed by another, fearing that he could no longer reconcile himself and plead delusion when his soul questioned his body. Indeed he could not help but wonder: would this electric soul judge his sin?

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2 ~Pirouette~ The monstrous power of the Pulse Wave Detonation Engine sent him screaming to Mach Four as he rushed towards the edge of space looming overhead. Each pulse sent a booming wave of energy both to force back the air preceding the craft and to propel it powerfully into the waiting vacuum; twice a second would the sound of thunder echo in the scorched ruins of London far below. Far above, the Sun's heavenly light illuminated the cloud tops, the same murky brown cloud tops that were scattered as the Aurora smashed through with another mighty pulse of its engines, and the same Sun that had given the Earth six weeks of darkness in the form of an electro-magnetic pulse a little under eight years ago. Those weeks had been hellish for the world; all electrical devices were rendered useless. The chaos had claimed the lives of many and the freedoms of even more. It was generally agreed that without this unexpected outburst from the mother star of Earthperhaps seeking to punish its sinful inhabitantsthe war would never have occurred. The black form of the bellowing metal bird settled gracefully into a steady path on the inner edge of the atmosphere. Finally he could relax his body from its steadfast brace against the relentless force of acceleration. He sat in his chair, higher than the range of any known missile or enemy fighter, and looked at the world he had helped create, a world of mud, craters and graves dotted with the chipped remains of cities and the occasional occupied settlement. The England he had grown up in was mostly gone; the only area unscathed by the war was in the far South-West and had been flooded with refugees, their hunger soon turning to violence. It was clear why some preferred the make-shift settlements of the charred Midlands than the disease ridden pre-war cities overflowing with vagrants and bandits. He had never gone hungry; the army always saw new supplies long before the relief camps did and ensured it had all it needed and more before passing off the scraps to the masses marching the bleak hills of so-called peaceful England. He did not feel the pain of the masses, but he knew with horrifying certainty that he was causing it. In the confusion of global blackout, military action seemed inevitable. A border incursion had turned into invasion, and harsh words had turned into war. At first the war was concentrated in the conflict zone: the India-China border where tensions had always been high, but after a long year of heavy fighting none could

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stop the chains of war pulling them into the destruction. Nations took their sides and the competition begun, and it was then that he first brought himself to bare against his country's enemies in the skies over Australia, a state saved by the protection of the British Commonwealth, now a powerful military alliance and oft touted protector of the free-world. He had seen action all over the Commonwealth, and was thought by some to have become the Royal Air Force's best pilot. This was now cemented by the fact that he was one of the only current pilots to have served since before the war. The conflict had indeed been hard on the men of the sky. There was one place he hadn't been however: America, and that was where he was headed now, with orders to investigate just what had happened since their borders had been closed and their government had gone silent. He remembered that just after he had left university, nine years ago, he had heard reports that the United States was breaking up and being overrun by a brief six-way civil war, but these reports soon disappeared along with just about all communications when the EMP hit. Even as other nations repaired and replaced their communications systems, America was silent. When the war became worldwide people stopped trying to discover the truth, and the fact that all transports to the continent never returned led most to forcibly forget about the once great power of the West. Now, with the Aurora, it was time to go back to that burning nation in search of an ally that the Commonwealth could dearly use, and if not that, to find out what had happened to the free peoples of America in these nine long years. As he sat firmly in the pilots seat the Aurora told him all it knew about America, but it was nothing he hadn't already read whilst exercising his Top Secret privileges to the government's databases. Words flashed on the large screen in front of him, occasionally coloured by pictures and video, in a presentation that lasted ten strained minutes. As it concluded the Aurora asked him why exactly he had not being paying full attention. He was startled by its attentiveness to him, but he had been warned about this; it was said that some neural networks would grow to understand human emotion and behaviour far better than any psychiatrist. He smiled, and replied truthfully. The Aurora made no further comments. He wondered to himself if it was embarrassed or angry. He didn't really understand if the machine felt emotion or just replicated human emotions to create an illusion. However, when it asked rather politely if it should open the communications channels as they approached the American shore, he could swear the machine seemed almost humble in its demeanour. It was certainly no ordinary network, and as the blazing explosions of flak lit

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up the sky around the craft, he knew that this was going to be no ordinary mission.

3 ~Gun Metal Grey~ Her warm breath washed over her fingers as they moved jaggedly in their thin gloves, the piercing cold infecting her flesh. Flecks of snow melted on her skin; an endless tirade of icy feathers fell from the troubled sky, a sailing sheet of cloud as grey as the frozen metal rifle leaning on her shoulder whilst she sat. Around her, sullen figures mimicked her exhausted slump against the displaced pieces of rubble around the central square of this once picturesque market town. It was the first time that they had been off the front line in a week, and still the infernal cracks of gunfire echoed ominously down from the hills to the East. They knew their break would not last long. She looked around at the faces of those she called her comrades, all emotionless and quivering in the bitter Scandinavian cold. The spring thaw was late, and they were ill equipped to face the treacherous weather, the weather that would jam their weapons overnight and freeze their water supplies, the weather that would produce the low thick mists that so often came to swarm with the movements of enemy troops. Most of the men she fought with had not been with her at the start of their campaign, and even fewer had been there when she was assigned to the unit. The only person she remembered from those days at the training camp five years ago was their current commander, a woman named Captain Heartly, a superb fighter but a better leader; she had been her hero ever since she was forced into meeting her. For seven years she had trained as a doctor, and when the war started she half-expected to be called up to the moment she graduated. When she turned out to be right however it still took the breath out of her like a blow to the stomach. She was pulled into military service, first as an orderly in a military hospital, then soon after as an active field surgeon attached to the now disillusioned band of fighting men and woman that surrounded her: the forty-second Mechanised Infantry, Fox Company. To most it was just a name, but to her it was her employer, her family, her saviour and her hell. One hundred and thirty souls had embarked on that fateful morning from Larkhill Training Camp three years prior. Twenty one of those souls were with her today; the rest were scattered across the wastes of East-Anglia, or frozen into the snows of the Scandinavian foot-hills. Her only solace lay in that had she not been around to provide her services, most of the men around her would too be long dead.

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Less that an hour after she had slumped to the floor, her medical bag hung heavily over her shoulder once again as she stood to respond to the Captain's calls. The steadfast survivors gathered around to hear Heartly's voice against the wind, hardly daring to hope that this time it would be the good news. With the sound of explosions growing ever louder, it was hard to see how their orders could have been any different from what they were. The men were not depressed to hear the command to advance: most had nothing to go home to anyway, it was as if the hardworn warriors had gotten so used to their lives of death that they found some sweet melancholic relief in ending their period of inactivity. The armoured transports started up their engines as the soldiers of Fox Company piled into the cramped compartments and dug the ice out of their weapons. She joined her platoon in the second to last vehicle and closed her eyes, her fingers interlaced on her lap and her rifle hanging heavily across her chest. It was in these moments, the aching moments before the fight, that she could not help but think of him. She knew that he had no way of knowing if she was alive, but she knew he would never stop wishing for that sacred moment when they would meet again. It was thoughts of that moment that sent nervous tremors to plague her steady hands, and led her to inwardly scream in fear of the horrible pain she had seen so many go through as they lay on the battlefield. She was plagued by images of men begging her to help them as the ground around them danced with the muddy spray of impacting bullets and she sat helplessly watching from cover. A tear froze in her eye as she imagined, just for a twisted hellish second, the sight of him lying in the sodden dirt, coughing blood and screaming falteringly through the fires of war. She solemnly swore to herself that she would hold her love again as she listened to the sound of panicked death on her radio.

4 ~Horizon~ The whole craft jolted violently to the side as the Aurora blasted out another pulse to sidestep an incoming projectile. He sat almost helplessly as the machine's desire to protect itself moved the controls before him, as if being manipulated by a ghost, and sent the Aurora plunging down through the clouds, dodging lines of crisscrossing flak shells, leaving them to sail by and detonate somewhere above. The dauntless decent pushed him against the seat, only to be flung hard against the restraints when the Aurora detected another shell with a collision vector and swung wildly onto a new flight path. Having cleared the clouds he could now see

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the land of America below him, dotted by the flashes of firing guns and the behemoth structures of the abandoned cities. Give me an identification on those guns! Michael ordered as he clung to the sides of his seat. The Aurora performed a brief scan and brought up a jagged schematic of a four-barrelled flak gun on its screen. This schematic is unknown. Its range exceeds known limits for a turret of its size by sixty-two percent. The ammunition consists of forty percent unknown material. Communication channels have been blocked. Storing data for transmission upon restoration. The Aurora took them low, close enough to the ground that flak could not be fired at them, and the danger seemed to pass. He suddenly found himself once again in control of the craft, but had no firm idea of what the best course of action would now be. Whilst considering the possibility of simply forcing his way back through the thick band of coastal flak batteries and returning to base, a new development occurred: he flew out over a valley and saw that there were legions of vehicles arranged in two loose lines. The armies were firing various projectiles at each other, some of which were emitting bright lights as they shot between the rumbling war machines. Michael pulled on the joystick and circled around the battle so that the Aurora could gather more information. Vehicles detected. Most are unknown. Fifteen are similar in design to the United States Army Bradley Infantry Transport Vehicle. The robotic voice pronounced the name slowly are carefully. All weapon schematics are unavailable. Combat performance exceeds known limits by between twenty-three and twohundred and seven percent. The projectiles are highly energetic and unstable. The Aurora's report didn't shed much light on the situation; all Michael could gather was that whoever was fighting here had developed military equipment independently from the rest of the world, and had managed to achieve much greater advances in weapon technology. Suddenly Michael had a thought. Aurora, scan communication channels, locate the command centres of these vehicles. Seconds later the Aurora had a response, Command centres located. Displaying. The video screen showed a map of North America with two markers placed at almost totally opposite ends of the continent. This, Michael thought, was evidence that he was right, that the civil war was still raging and that he was now caught right in the middle of it. It came into his mind that he should leave before any of the combatants took notice of his presence, however as he dragged the dual joysticks around to flee the scene, two circular silver craft bolted out of nowhere and appeared on either side

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of him in a flash. The Aurora's network fizzed quietly as it suddenly failed and many of the displays before him fell blank, but he still seemed to have control over the craft's movement. The radio stuttered to life. Pilot, please proceed to the following coordinates. Failure to comply will result in termination. The voice was robotic in style yet human in tone. A set of coordinates sprung up on the heads-up-display, and the two craft on either side of the Aurora edged closer, corroborating the threat made through the radio. Michael eyed the craft hastily; they were not like anything he had ever seen. Their gleaming silver bodies stretched around into a disk with a bulging centre, and it featured no apparent windows or weapon systems. Nonetheless he wasn't going to risk trying to escape since judging by the speed with which they had appeared beside him, he could never loose these enemies in a straight chase. Following the coordinates provided he found himself approaching a solitary hexagonal landing pad nestled in a commanding valley not far from the site of the battle. It was scattered with trees and half-hidden gun emplacements, with several new unfamiliar war machines rolling along muddy tracks. To the side of the landing pad was a lone shelter, a bare metallic room the size of a closet. The Aurora set down on the pad whilst the mysterious silver craft hovered just above, silently stationary. He grabbed his pistol from the case by his leg; he wasn't in the mood for taking risks. What had happened to the people of America? Why were the cities crumbling whilst war was waged out on across the countryside? Who was it who was calling him to their lair? All these questions attacked his mind as he walked over to the metallic structure beside the pad, noting the smell of cordite washing past him in the turbulent breeze. The small room was revealed to be a lift, a lift that took him down so deep that he could feel the Earth's warmth radiating from the cold rocky sides of the dimly lit tunnel as he stepped out into the cave-like passage at his destination. His radio was ominously silent. He gripped the handle of his pistol, casually deactivating the safety switch and stepping boldly into the buzzing aura of the many small lights dotted along the dank rock walls of the long tunnel. After a few turns, the passage ended with another metal door, this time glowing with fluorescent strips and flanked by a series of control panels. As he approached there was a faint whirring and the door slid open, revealing that it was over a foot thick. It was clear that he was not simply entering the lair of some techno-hermit; even the bulkheads back at the underground laboratory weren't this secure. Beyond the door was a place unlike anything he had ever seen. Below his feet was a walkway that reached out over a ten story drop into a vast warehouse of machinery, none of which was familiar to him at all. His eyes widened at the sight of

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the huge bipedal vehicles that dominated the area towards the centre of the space; forged imitations of humans that would kill their inspiration without a thought if its fledging cybernetic brain deemed it valid. These titan machines were ringed by ranks of smaller humanoid machines and columns of more conventional looking vehicles that floated inexplicably above the ground. He was stunned into stillness; this cache of technology could only have been prepared by the government, but if they had such power at their disposal why did they hide it? The vehicles he had seen fighting a short while ago had been advanced, but they were nothing compared to these; the technology for bipedal motion alone was astoundingly complex. Assuming this was just a small example of their forces, they could have conquered the world without breaking a sweat. Something was wrong. He snapped around and made a sudden sprint back towards the door, but it closed with definite contempt and the voice on his radio warned him 'not to be foolish'. Two small mechanical creatures that resembled black wasps appeared from the space below and seemed to be approaching him with their stingers drawn up to face forward. His finger effortlessly jolted the trigger of his weapon as he backed away from the advancing machinations but the bullets harmlessly sparked against their frames, smashing the lead projectiles into splinters without even leaving a dent on the gleaming metallic chassis of the haunting attackers. Panic beset him, but the last moments he was conscious enough to experience were so fast that he had no time to act anyway. The sting injected its vile cargo into his chest, and the pistol slipped from his hands as his breath escaped him. As his mind failed he feared that he had broken the promise he had made to her that night under the stars, warmed by the air streaming from the busy ball room and tearful at the prospect of the years to come.

5 ~Orange Dawn~ The frozen ground hit hard against her chest as she ungracefully scrambled to cover, abhorring the deathly lair of bullets that journeyed faithfully at their masters call across the barren hills. The cloud of blood that cascaded down from the man who had tried to clear the mound was warm on the back of her exposed neck. From the fashion in which his body was knocked backlike a rag-doll tossed into the windshe knew he would not be crying for a medic. All around her, shouted requests and frantic motions depicted the raging

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battle through human experience. There was a man desperately pulling the slider on a pistol, trying to clear the long-frozen chamber. There was a man screaming orders as he sprayed a barbaric cocktail of rounds and grenades towards the enemy lines. There was a man raising himself to advance, but he was instantly thrown back by the pounding impact of a sniper round. Now was her time to act. She picked herself up to a stoop, risking the same fate as the one she was moving to save, and scrambled across the lines of prone troops busy listening to the sacred voices of authority in their radios, to where she had seen the soldier fall. Sure enough there he lay, his face clenched in pain as his hand gripped the wound on his shoulder, desperately trying to stop the flow of blood. She knelt beside him, forcing herself, as she had done so many times, to ignore the danger and proceed to dig a needle of soothing morphine into the mans leg. Her hands slipped on her surgical clamp as it became covered in warm blood, almost pleasant against her fingers in the harsh cold. The bullet took a minute to remove, a minute during which most of the other soldiers around her, including Fox Company, had moved over the line to engage the enemy at close-quarters; she knew that there would be many needing her services lying in the frozen mud some fifty meters away. Her radio shouted orders, some of which were even directed to her platoon, but she couldnt leave a man to die. A mix of chemical powders and bandages relieved the immediate peril of the soldier, and she now knew it was time to move on. Where she would move on to next was revealed to her by a desperate radio communication, this time one she was inclined to listen to. Medic needed at the Northern defilade, Captain Heartly is down. Command of Fox Company is passing to Lieutenant Pillar. The voice of their division controller, usually so calm and collected but now panicked and hurried gave away that the battle, at least from division commands point of view, was not going well. Regardless, she was there to save lives. The life of her long time friend and leader was not one she would abandon, even when retreating soldiers started to pass her by during her rushed advance towards the fortuitous depression in the ground they called the Northern Defilade. Fox Company had broken and only a few men remained pinned down around the shaking body of Heartly. Seeing the young field surgeon stumbling down into their position as a bullet grazed her helmet with a haunting clank gave them hope that they still might escape their deadly fate. Heartlys face was blackened and bruised, and rips in her armour told a tale of how a fragmentation grenade could destroy the human body in one blinding flash. For the brave medic it was hard not to feel pangs of emotion at the sight, but she had a duty to do, and she did it the best she could. There was no chance to save her, but

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the painkillers now running through her blood would ease her journey out of this life. The man beside her grabbed her shoulder and shouted that they were going to try and get back to the line, and that he would cover her. She stood to run along with one other anxious soldier and started to climb out of the defilade onto the plains as the others stood from cover and blasted frantically at the figures of the advancing enemy. A whoosh sounded overhead and the defilade erupted in flames as a napalm shell found its target. She had barely cleared the blaze; the heat was unbearable as she struggled away like a startled animal. The men following her not been so lucky. It was a fifty meter run to the next line of cover, but she would never get to experience how difficult that run would be. The sound and image of an earth-moving explosion was imprinted on her mind as she was thrown back by the boiling shockwave. Her bones were fractured and her weapon was flung away, leaving only the ringing in her ears and the sight of the solemn sky in her mind. Was this the end? After going through so much, was she finally going to join her many fallen comrades as she had feared she would each and every day? Before her consciousness failed her she heard strange foreign voices and wailing gunfire, and she felt herself being dragged into the air by some unseen force. However, this experience was not her prevalent final thought; that title would be placed on the tragic notion that she would never see Michael again. The pain of this would make death seem far less abhorrent in relation.

6 ~Agreement~ He awoke to the buzz of electronics and the darkness of a cool concrete walled chamber. Apart from the creaking mattress on which he lay, nothing broke the monotonous panorama in the frustratingly small cell. On his left arm, sitting like a leech feeding on his blood, was an inoffensive black tube the size of his finger that was relaying the continuous buzz that echoed maddeningly about the smooth walls. His vision was still blurred by the toxins marauding through his mind. His limbs seemed numb and immobile against his attempts to raise himself from his low resting place. Managing eventually to shift himself to a sitting position leaning against the wall, he felt his body-heat escape him into the harsh concrete even through his advanced flight suit. The crazed buzzing of the device on his arm stopped suddenly;

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his ears relaxed in bliss as the reverberating white noise disappeared into the hidden spaces between spaces where all sound found its death. The break was short lived, and instead of the static came the sound of a human voice, a voice that held the American accented tone unfamiliar to him after so many years, and that seeped confidence with a patronising sureness that made even the short introduction inwardly irritating. Hello Flight Lieutenant Durant. I hope you can hear me clearly. My name is Colonel Bridges, and I regretfully inform you that you are now a prisoner of war. Michael was silent, not wanting to give anything away by fielding a response. Thus there was a long pause before Bridges continued his speech. Now there's no need to worry yourself so long as you do what I tell you. I'll keep it short 'cause we don't have all day: I want you to perform a number of little tasks on behalf of our organisation, in exchange for which, you will be able to keep your life. How's that sound to you Flight Lieutenant? His training told him not to accept to offers of any kind from a captor; his life would have to be sacrificed to protect the secrets he held, secrets that he was only allowed to know because of his aptitude for sustaining interrogation and torture. Sorry, but I don't think I'll be able to help you, Michael replied bluntly. That's a shame, retorted Bridges, but maybe if I sweeten the deal you'll appreciate the benefits of not screwing us around. Unfortunately for Michael, it seemed, the old adage of all men having a weakness was true even in his case, and his captors apparently knew what it was. Louise's voice sheared into the chamber, finding his ears with calculated precision. Michael! He jumped up from the bed with an unheralded burst of energy, tilting his head to the ceiling as if it would answer his shouts. Louise! Where are you?! He would not hear her voice again as Colonel Bridges returned to the airwaves to inform him of her capture from the fields of Norway. How had they known about her? Surely this meant that a substantial period of time had passed since he had arrived? In itself this development was horrifying, but moreover it was a stunt, a show of power, a demonstration of how this group, this army, could somehow gauge his deepest thoughts and project their power from the shadows to the other side of the world. This ran through his mind as he asked about the nature of his new overlord, receiving half-answers and obviously twisted truths. These people had been underground for decades, he uncovered, controlling and manipulating the world to fit their unknown desires. They were some faction of the American government, some

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black-project gone rogue that must have grabbed control after the civil war, but no matter how he phrased the question, the commanding voice of Bridges would give no clue as the fate of those who had lived on the surface of the mighty continent. Instead, the Colonel changed the subject to the terms of his release. I can't stay much longer so I think we ought'a skip the exposition and get down to business. In summary, you and your lady can walk outta here right as rain so long as you perform a little mission into the Siberian flats. For reasons you don't need to know, the job cannot be completed without your help. All you gotta to do is put a little device into a computer at this old radar station, and we'll do the rest. The only hard bit's gonna be getting past the defences, but I'm sure the Royal Air Force's most respected pilot can handle a little resistance, right? Are you saying I have to get past the whole defence network without backup? Michael asked angrily, feeling that Bridges was just toying with him in his position of weakness. Oh don't be so sour, Bridges replied casually. We'll get you some back-up. Just as soon as you can get your fancy Aurora to the target location we'll send in a few marines to give you a hand. Hell I think I might even drop on by myself to make sure it all goes smoothly. I'm sure you'll get past the defences just fine, hell you got past ours pretty easily! I must say, we didn't think anyone outside of our Disunited States even knew about the Aurora class fighters, quite a surprise to see one swoopin' in like that. The battery commanders must of thought you were a rebel, they always used to throw their weight around in those things. But I'm wasting time now, let's get things moving shall we? Your plane's waiting in the hangar just down the hall, don't keep me waiting. A piece of the concrete wall slid away to reveal a passage out of his prison, a passage that led to the most daunting and admittedly humbling sight of his life. He stepped out onto a causeway that flanked a vast metallic abyss, a subterranean assembly ground for the army of America. The ranks of black-uniformed troops spanned so far into the distance that they seemed to just merge into an amorphous sea of people. A voice called out across the mighty array of men asking them to state their loyalty. The reply thundered like a thousand cannons and forcibly pushed his back against the wall, a unanimous shout of, America. The silence after the storm was incredible. In no mood to view any more displays these powers may have arranged, Michael hurried on towards the next door, following another dank corridor until he found himself in what could only be a hangar. There was the Aurora, prepared for flight with the engine already idling over. He took a breath of greasy air and stepped forward, steeling himself for a mission that wasnt in service of his nation, but in service to himself, and one that he

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could not fail.

7 ~Teeth of Frozen Steel~ The infernal beeping of the missile-alert system was unending as he strafed low over the fortified Siberian flats. Most of the incoming hardware was outdated compared to the Aurora so was easily avoided by the A.I.'s harsh sidelong jumps and stressful turns. Occasionally he would see a countermeasure jump from the rear of the plane, only to be destroyed by a heat-seeking explosive seconds later. On the horizon he spotted the shapes of two incoming fighters, and his knowledge of aircraft silhouettes that he had learned-by-wrote ever since his time in the cadets instantly revealed their identity to him. He pulled up hard, a pulse from the engine creating a storm of snow on the ground as the force blasted the white powder upwards. The fighters followed suit, but with only half his speed at their disposal he was soon bearing down on them from above, racing out of the sun like an assassin of heaven, spraying long strings of Gatling gun shells that tore the dull frames of the fighters apart like a waterfall piercing a sheet of paper. Two more nameless, faceless souls were added to his debt, a debt of stolen life that could never be repaid and made its presence in his mind known every day he lived. He barely had time to slam a foot onto his right pedal before a rocket that was faithfully pursuing him impacted, but the jerked movement of his leg prompted a pulse that jaggedly dragged the craft downwards, leaving the rocket to fly past before half-circling around and running out of fuel. You almost got us hit! Michael shouted strenuously to the Aurora. There were still zero-point-zero-four-five seconds remaining to safely avoid the projectile before you initiated a manual override. Trust me, the Aurora replied, its last words sounding strangely emotional for a machine. As the dead husk of the weapon thumped into the snow below, he checked his radar only to find no more incoming threats. It seemed he had passed the defensive lines and was now in the area in which he would supposedly find a target so dangerous that even the silently powerful Americans would not send their unstoppable armies to claim it by force. He was still wondering how exactly they intended to get back-up to him once he reached the target as Bridges had alluded; he highly doubted there would be any at all, but this didn't worry him too much as he assumed they would not have sent him on an impossible mission just to have him

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killed in a roundabout way. If there was no way to complete the seemingly simple task of putting the flash drive stowed in his pocket into the radar station's central computer, then they would have no reason to be keeping Louise hostage to ensure his enduring cooperation. Finally he found himself approaching the target coordinates, the radar still showing clear skies free of enemy craft, but likewise free of reinforcements. In appearance, and to extent in reality, it was just a simple radar outpost on the Northern edge of the Siberian wastes. Its strategic importance was little; modern craft could easily remain under stealth against the rusting and outdated station, but the Americans seemed to know of some secret hidden here. After a quick pass of the site, he knew that landing to perform his mission would be impossible. The station, no more impressive than a collection of damaged buildings beside a spindly antennae, was swarming with armed men, wrapped in thick white winter armour and accompanied by an array of artillery emplacements and combat vehicles. Even if the deadly cold had rendered their machines useless, and even if he could dispose of the external guards with the Aurora, he would never make it past any soldiers waiting inside with only his frozen pistol. Enemy units detected, the Aurora began to recite. One company of heavy infantry with Arctic warfare equipment. Four~ I know I know, interrupted Michael. Skip the details, all that matters is that there's no way I'm getting in there alive. He paused as the station whipped underneath them and he considered what to do next. Let's do one more sweep, then I'll have to contact that Colonel. He flew over the horizon a few more timesa journey lasting only a few secondsbefore turning back for a second run. Upon doing so it seemed someone else was perhaps searching for the same quarry as himself: the station was lit up with flashes of gunfire as the legion of guards unleashed sheets of bullet from their trenches. They were firing at the slowly approaching black-uniformed figures who were picking off the surprised Russian soldiers with carefully aimed blasts of their rifles as they assaulted the station from all directions. As Michael passed the battle a message appeared on the Aurora's display that informed him of the situation. The dark knights striding their way into the Russian trenches were American soldiers, and he was requested to land at the entrance to the station by a familiar voice. It was impossible, but undeniable; it was the voice of Colonel Bridges calling him down to the battlefield, a voice that should by any reasonable means be still resounding through the underground complex thousands of miles away. There was no way they could have raced ahead of him with so many troops to spring this attack once he arrived; a fleet of that size and speed would have been

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all over his radar. So where were the swarming ranks that were falling before the trenches coming from? How could so many troops be invisibly deployed into the field at a moment's notice? These Americans, he realized, were even more powerful than he had suspected, and on his approach to the station when he saw the piles of black uniformed bodies surrounding the complex, he knew they were desperate to capture this obscure location no matter how many casualties the battle-hardened garrison was causing them. The question remained however: if they had been able to get this far on their own, no matter how they achieved it, why was he even here?

8 ~Rule~ Her eyes opened once again to view the grainy steel ceiling of her large cell. The sight gave her no impetus to rise from her low spindly bed, as she knew that all there was to see in her world was much the same. Her uniform cell was adorned with only a bed, a toilet and a door to break the sea of grey that reflected dutifully from the cold walls. She could never know the time, but the hatch in the door would open for the transport of food and tell her when another day had passed. She guessed that she had been in that room for around a week before she heard that her husband had been here too, probably just a meter or two away through the wall. How long had they lain in unison, living mirrored lives but still in worlds apart out of their ignorance? She had been given the chance to talk to him but she had done nothing but shout his name, and she could not even know if he had heard it for sure. All she knew was that she was a hostage, a bartering piece, the price for which Michael would do things no money could persuade, and also that she was therefore as guilty for anything he might do to protect her as he would be, in her mind at least. She had managed to gather, mainly from the accents of the voices that occasionally roused her from sleep, that her captors were American. She remembered being taken from the battlefield in Norway, and that she had received a several fractures from the explosion that seemed to have healed or have been healed since. It must have been these Americans that did all this, but if that was the case, how had no one been able to detect the presence of American troops on that battlefield? There was no way they could have got in and out of a closely monitored combat zone undetected. Could there be another explanation? It was so fruitless to ponder such issues that she quickly tired of racking her brain to find an answer.

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Instead she he thought of her comrades in arms every day. She could still feel the ache in her shoulder from where her heavy medical kit had once hung. She could still feel her respectful loyalty to Captain Heartly. She could still see the faces of the men who had drowned in a sea of fire as she had fled that defilade, leaving her leader behind and retreating from death, an act that was now perhaps leading the love of her life to destroy himself out of a need to protect her cowardly existence. Still she didn't blame herself, for how could she? She just lay on that bed, falling in and out of sleep, waiting for him. In her wavering dreams she recalled the last time she had been together with him. There had been gentle classical music frequented by the interruptions of clinking glasses. There had been soft yellow lights that glittered richly from the crystal chandeliers. There had been a hundred people she had never met and would never meet again, but there had been one she knew: him. It was three years ago, before she had been deployed, and they, or more accurately he, had been attending an officers ball. She has just his guest, a fish among sharks, and she had secretly hated it. To think that these drunken socialites were deciding if she was going to live or die was horrifying. She remembered with startling clarity how she had stood on the balcony for an hour, her hair being swept up by the flirtatious night breeze and her eyes squinting at the chill. It was nothing compared to a night in the Scandinavian ice-fields, but three years ago she had been a very different person. Just as she was considering going back in to face the devitalizing cheery faces, he had strode out in such a hurry that he must have been looking for her. She smiled radiantly as she jumped into his open embrace, sharing a joke about her anti-social behaviour. His arms had been heaven after the biting cold of winter, and the smell of hurriedly applied aftershave on his dress uniform had taken her back to the night he had proposed to her; the warm Mediterranean sunset and an aircraft carrier's chugging engines had been the backdrop to the moment that changed her life. Her memories tortured her as they faded away and left her eyes lazily scanning the monochrome ceiling. She knew she shouldn't think of such things as the pain of nostalgia was unbearable, especially when she knew there was a good chance she would never see him again. Her eyes closed, and she repeated her mental routine of naming all the bones in the body, a ritual that had kept her sane through many torturous experiences on the front lines, and got her through many an exam back in medical school. Some time later, perhaps a few uncounted days, the hatch in the door slid open and a small booka military manualwas thrown gingerly into her world. Whoever had thrown it spoke softly, and she almost didn't hear. You should know what happened. If you ever make it out, you'll want to

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understand why the world is at peace.

9 ~To Save the World~ Colonel Bridges was just as he had imagined: a hardened and forthright man with eyes that shone with an almost fanatical sense of power. The gunshots were still ringing from within the shaky metal station buildings as Bridges addressed him, pointing out the building with the correct control panel for his mission, and making it quite clear that he was not to insert the flash drive until a certain amount of time had passed, a time that would be shown to him on a small device the size of billiard ball that cooled his hand as he gripped it. This is a remote timing devise, he explained. I shall personally provide the timing data once this area is secured. You needn't no why, but we need to leave before you start your part of the mission. Don't worry, nothing bad's gonna happen, there's just a few technological concerns that I'm afraid you will never know about. Okay then, Michael replied slowly, but I'd be interested to know just how you got here. You got teleport machines or something? Bridges laughed and turned away from him, looking up into the clear white sky. Ha, you've got some imagination son. All I'll say is that just because you couldn't see us, don't mean that we weren't there! Now you better go take your position, the computer you need should be right inside that building. Keep an eye on that timer, and I'll talk to you again later. As Michael walked towards the building Bridges had pointed out he saw the American soldiers burst back out of the door, some with bloodstained faces, and run with unusual speed away from the base. None of them paid any attention to him, and he saw in their eyes the same burning lifelessness he had seen in Bridges', a sign of fierce filial determination, the likes of which he guessed he had never experienced. These men, like those he had seen assembled back in the American base, were inhumanly dedicated, and undoubtedly indoctrinated. On the inside, the building was much less rustic than the exterior would suggest, almost rivalling the sophistication he had seen back in the American base. Flashing lights and powerful looking computers lined the walls and the blood soaked bodies of the Russian troops adorned the floor. He walked down a passage that stretched deep into the building; a deathly scene frozen in time through which he carefully travelled, looking straight ahead at his goal in a room at the end of the

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corridor: the central computer. There was a chair in front of the main panel, but it was already filled by the slumped corpse of its former operator. He glanced back out the open door behind him and didn't see any more American troops. Standing still for a moment he primed his ears, but again he couldn't hear anything. He drew his palm computer from his pocket and contacted the Aurora, still sitting patiently by the front gate. It reported no other signals in the area apart from himself; again he was alone in the wastes. As quickly as they had appeared, the black army had faded away into the wastes without a trace, but he had no time to dwell on this for he knew the owners of this station would not leave it unattended to for long, so he was anxious to get the job done quickly. He looked blankly at the display on the spherical device that the Colonel had given him, and waited the last minute as the timer made its slow journey to zero. As the display made its patterned show of pixels his mind lulled, and he thought of her. If Bridges was telling the truthand he had no reason to believe he wasshe was being held in that base far away, and him seeing her again seemed unlikely. It seemed that ever since they had left university, ever since they had married, a tirade of institutions, circumstances and occurrences had sought to drive them apart. The demons had never been successful, but even the winner of a battle takes loses, and over the years he had begun to feel the strain of their aching bonds suffering from disrepair. The numbers read zero, and his stark perception returned to the world quickly, seemingly jealous that it had been replaced by casual thoughtfulness for even that short moment. The flash drive buzzed dimly as he placed it into the computer and gazed at the monitor. At first nothing happened, but then the screen began to flash with a hypnotizing rhythm of black and white, prompting him to turn away to ease his eyes. Around him, the lesser monitors either shut off or began flashing in a similar manner, also emitting a low buzz that aggravated his mind with its raspy resonance. Then there was an almost thunderous explosion that shook the station, apparently occurring somewhere below ground, and the radar array in the centre of the complex was crossed by bolts of electricity; brilliant light that sparked and burned away the supports until they eventually collapsed. On his palm computer the Aurora filled the screen with warnings: it seemed the Russians were approaching and it was time for him to go, but as he turned to leave the building his muscles suddenly froze and his body fell rigidly to the ground. In his pocket, the spherical timer pulsed wildly, producing an incapacitating standing wave in his body that locked his joints and burned his brain. His palm computer was bombarded with messages from the Aurora inquiring as to his safety, messages to which no answer was more powerful than an actual response. He lay on the floor as his consciousness again began to fail him. He heard

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booming pulses as the Aurora took flight and headed for home; leaving its ailing pilot to whatever fate he may find. Mission comes first, and he guessed the machine knew that more than anyone. As helicopters touched down and ejected their payload of troops, the incapacitating vibrations of the strange device became unbearable and his vision failed him. And yet, though he could not see, he knew that it was her image that swayed in the swirling darkness before him.

10 ~Is it over?~ On each day there would be fewer questions than on the last, and he was sure they were becoming noticeably less hostile each time they burst into his cell. He sat in a bare room, not unlike the one he had awoken in back in the American base, only this time the voices he would hear scorning him were distinctively Slavic, and the daily routine was centred around a harsh interrogation in which he naturally gave no ground. What seemed strange though was how every time he was placed under the burning light and assaulted by words and fists, his captors would seem less and less interested in gaining information; they were becoming passive and disinterested. By the time what he had counted as being around two weeks had passed, they seemed to just be asking a few random questions out of casual interest, as if he was of no importance and they just had nothing better to do with their time. Which university did you go to? Have you ever been to France? Do you play any instruments? Something was wrong, and he would run through all the possible scenarios in his mind each night. For a time he believed it was some kind of psychological trick, but by the forth week he became convinced this was impossible. By now they weren't even keeping him in a cell, and he would roam the underground complex freely, being wished a good day by those who spoke English. Could it all be an act? He considered just taking a weapon and trying to escape; he was convinced by the demeanour of the soldier in the armoury that he would let him take anything he needed, and maybe even give him advice on how to escape, but he couldn't quite accept that it wasn't just some ruse that he had no understanding of. If it was indeed just a mind game, what exactly were they trying to get him to do? In all the surreality he couldn't help but become angry. The feeling that he was being manipulated in some way plagued him, and most days he would not even

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leave his unlocked cell just to avoid contact; by then no one ever came to check on him, and he had even managed to get his flight suit and pistol back. His palm computer was a distraction for a while, but wherever he was he couldn't connect to any external networks. He wondered what had become of the Aurora, of his nation, and of his wife in the time he had been hiding in his cell. According to his palm computer it was more than two months since he had fallen unconscious in the radar station, and he knew how much could happen in such a short time. For all he knew, the country he served may not even exist any more. For all he knew, she was dead, killed by her captors to protect the secret of their existence after it seemed he would not be returning. Perhaps they thought that the strange pulsing of that spherical timing device would kill him and had no intention of ever letting him return? The unreal world he found himself in took another shocking turn as he woke up one morning to find the whole base deserted. There was not even any sign that anyone had ever been there; the living quarters where devoid of possessions and a cool breeze swept down the stuffy corridors. A cool breeze? He ran desperately through the base, always running into the wind that moved curiously about the turns and twists, always feeling the temperature drop and always feeling more and more desperate to escape his crazed prison. His hand gently swept his pistol out of its holster as he considered the chance of this being a trap, but by then he was too close to the source of the chilling wind to care. He was further away from his cell than he had ever cared to wonder, and he guessed he had ran at least a mile through corridors and halls before he reached the point at which he saw flakes of snow dancing in the air. He had reached an antechamber filled with a swirling green light that swept gracefully through the buzzing emissions of the strip lights on the ceiling. Before him was the source: a set of worn concrete steps to the surface where the most beautiful sky, dancing with streams of emerald ionized gas, provided an intoxicating spectacle of heavenly magnificence that pierced the darkness of the night with a joyful radiance. He stepped out into the freezing wastes, his head arched back to view the panoramic light show that stretched far beyond the horizon. He was in the middle of an airfield; two runways flanked by open hangars loomed emptily over the frozen tarmac. Only one of the frozen hangars still served an occupant. The Aurora taxied out onto the runway and the cockpit roof slid back. His palm computer chirped merrily as he received a greeting from the A.I.. Good morning Flight Lieutenant. I detect no enemy presence in the area so I am now able to provide evacuation. Please proceed to enter the cockpit. The computer told him many things as he wandered slowly through the snow, gazing at the marvellous strings of energy swimming across the sky. He found

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out that he was, as he had guessed, in central Siberia not far from the radar station, but more interestingly he found out that ever since he had placed that flash drive in the panel there, that the mysterious lights in the sky above him had appeared all over the world. They were auroras, the Northern and Southern lights, only they were omnipresent over the globe, and since they had appeared everything on planet Earth had changed.

11 ~Ascension~ She spread her hands over her head as she considered what she had learned one more time. It was mad, crazy, unethical, but not impossible, and they had the data to prove it. The manual had described a device unlike anything ever built, a device that from its remote home in the Canadian hills was changing life for every person on Earth. She didn't want to consider such melodramatic descriptions, but she could hardly avoid the conclusion that this device, and her captors, could end not just the war, but war altogether. It was the most deadly weapon ever devised, and through its service these Americans had become the most powerful people on the planet. There was no way to stop it, and as she lay on her low bed she knew that people all over the world would be falling prey to its startling power. What was most interesting however, was that hidden in some of the testing reports she had found her own name, and a date that suggested she had been a subject of the Machine as a teenager. Looking closer, she realised that the date on which the test occurred was around the same time she had collapsed in her room, in fact it might have been on the very same day. The link was undeniable; her collapse was somehow caused by these Americans testing their trump card weapon on unsuspecting people. It was likely that the pills she had been taking her whole life to fight her 'illness' had been useless, simply a way of getting the issue off of some doctor's mind; after all she had been in captivity without them for some weeks now and had seen no effect. Something else that was made clear through the testing reports was that this machine had existed long before the war, even before she had been born. Did this mean that these Americans had been hiding here from the rest of their society for all those decades as they slowly consolidated their power and perfected their doomsday weapon? A report clipped to the front of the book had informed her that the Machine was now fully operational, weaving its deceit into the minds of human

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beings all over the world. She had been assured by qualifiers within the document that the base had adequate shielding to avoid any effects, but she still clenched her hands around her head as if it would somehow protect her from the Machine's invisible emissions. She could visualize how the aurorae the Machine was said to produce would dominate the sky as the manual had described; she had seen many naturally occurring ones on her campaign through Scandinavia. It had been described as a side effect of the resonating waves of energy that were pouring from the machine and speeding around the world to meet themselves on the other side. Each day the waves would get stronger, the aurora more brilliant, and as its brilliance increased so would the effects of the energy on the minds of human kind. The human brain is delicate and complex, but this device was able to manipulate it as if were a simple puzzle to be rearranged as seen fit. As it sat motionlessly occupying an entire valley, the atmosphere was charged with a torrent of electromagnetic waves that gave birth to the billowing aurorae which reflected the Machine's data carrier waves in every direction. Eventually as the mesmerizing light encircled the Earth, the waves were being reflected into every nook and cranny of civilization. No mind was left untouched, but for those who knew of the waves' nefarious workings and were able to adequately shield themselves from its persuasions; but they were few. It came to be that outside of the well protected American base network one other person of interest had avoided the invisible whispers on the air even though the waves had managed to reach him, but of course she knew nothing of this fact. In reality she understood very little about the system, but simply knowing the end product of its workings was enough by far to judge its worth. Through manipulation of the mind and hijacking of one's thoughts, this machine would make the human species docile, melancholy, passive, and most importantly to those who had their fingers on buttons: it would make them subservient. The effect of this was a vile cocktail of conflicting ideological truths; the exchange in the extreme of freedom for security, as with their fervour dulled no man alive any longer wished conflict upon themselves or any other. What also became more clear was the reason for Michael's mission to that radar station. She supposed that it might somehow be aiding the transmission of the signal; or perhaps until now it had been blocking it and was now letting it roam free. Whatever the situation, at least she could count on there being a chance that Michael was still alive if the Russians had fallen pray to the dulling rays of that Machine and lost their desire to kill him; it was ironic that as much as she hated what was going on, it was the very same process that might be keeping the man she loved alive. She over-clocked her mind trying to predict what would now become of the

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world; with such huge change occurring so quickly her thoughts were overwhelmed by the sheer impact of the situation, though it was assuredly less intense than it might have been for a person who had not lived through the horrors of war. All that was clear was that these Americans planned to subjugate the peoples of the Earth into an age of eternal peace, and eternal servitude. She wondered, as she always did, where her husband was in all this. The image of him clinging onto his life on the bloodstained ice of the wastes stabbed at her like a mosquito, and brought her closer to tears with each forced recollection. That night she would cry freely, her salty tears darkening her frayed British army uniform as her hands covered her reddened face and her knees were pierced with aches from the cold cell floor. She was sure the guard had heard her, and even thought she had heard him carefully open the steel hatch in the door, presumably to see what the noise was, but perhaps it was to pity her. Months passed, and nothing seemed to change. Then one day she found herself being led down a well lit corridor with soldiers all around her. They silently shepherded her on a long walk that eventually brought them out into a large hangar where dozens of silver, disk shaped craft were stationed. She was immediately reminded of the flying saucers that people used to see back before the war; so was it these hidden Americans piloting them all along? She witnessed hundreds of soldiers and strange humanoid robots filing into the docked craft whilst she was led further and further into the hangar, eventually stopping at the last of the silver craft where a man in a neat officer's uniform was standing with several other lesser officers and a handful of heavily armoured soldiers. The air was filled with the smell of leather and the sound of boots creaking with every step the soldiers took. Well well, if it isn't Corporal Durant, the senior officer began, immediately revealing himself to be Colonel Bridges, the voice she had heard on the day she had shouted Michael's name into the small microphone on her arm. I trust you're feeling well? Things are moving along quite smoothly, but I'm afraid we've got one more job for you to do. You'll be pleased to hear that your man is alive and kicking, and what's more I'm taking you and all the boys here to visit him right now. Louise was indeed elated by the news of Michael's continued vitality, but it was obvious that Bridges was planning something sinister. She would have to wait a little longer before she could let down her guard and allow herself to feel the relief she sorely sought. Where is he? she asked simply, not looking at Bridges but at the craft behind him, noticing the ramp extending down from the hull and the array of seats inside. Well that's a surprise. You'll soon see for yourself. Why don't you get on

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into the Vail now; that's the thing behind me by the way. Bridges pointed over his shoulder at the silver ship. The soldiers around Louise almost immediately began to bustle her into the craft and onto one of the many empty seats. Considering it carefully, the only conclusion Louise could draw to explain how she was still alive was that she must be a diplomatic tool of some kind, which led her to speculate that Michael was once again going to be forced into doing some vile bidding of the Colonel. Everyone around the craft leaped inside and they began to slowly move vertically upwards, as if they were in some fantastic elevator. Colonel Bridges answered none of Louise's questions, and the others in the craft followed his lead with equal displays of silent disinterest. Her tired eyes focused on her clasped hands and she escaped the world into her thoughts once again. She was not even aware that the craft had travelled any great distance, but a few minutes later the doors opened and Bridges gestured for her to follow him. A smirk adorned his face. Welcome home, he said.

12 ~Dazed~ The scientists in the base had filled him in, and he was left with a crippling uncertainty regarding his future. They recounted how they had detected heavy energy emissions coming from a location on the Northern American continent that they recognised as an old atmospheric research centre. In correlation with these emissions, the whole army had become lackadaisical and ceased answering their communications. The only conclusion they could reach was the correct one: that the emissions were affecting people's minds and changing them to whatever state the Americans, who surely controlled the Machine, wished. This notion was one that horrified the scientists; to think that their minds which they had cultivated and developed for so many years could be so easily violated by some far flung device was crushing. Being less stubborn in his thinking, it wasn't the manipulation that Michael found difficult to grasp, but the questions that it left unanswered; these left him just as frustrated as the scientists. Firstly, why it hadn't affected him whilst those around him in the Russian base broke down. Secondly, what level of involvement did the Americans have in all this. Most pressing of all was the third question: why he was allowed to live?

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The staff at the London base were equally unaffected; apparently the base had been shielded against electromagnetism for fear of electromagnetic pulse bombs knocking out their computers, but it served just as well in keeping out the creeping waves of the American machine. According to their observations, the aurorae were fading away, signalling that the machine had deactivated and the residual energy in the atmosphere was dissipating into obscurity. Assuredly it had completed its task and the Americans would be making their next move, but as events had shown they could hardly predict what this might be. He had returned to the base to the astonishment of the base staff who claimed that he had disappeared from their sensors from the moment he entered American airspace months ago, and they had assumed he was missing in action, a term synonymous in their branch with 'dead'. Upon returning he had reviewed the flight logs of the Aurora carefully, and found that it had spent the time from their separation to their reunion sitting like a statue on the sea bed of the Caspian Sea, synthesizing fuel from the water and frantically analysing the routes back to its pilot. This was something that troubled the scientists in the base. They had programmed the machine to protect itself above the pilot, a directive it had followed when it left him lying in the Siberian radar station, but when the craft did not return home and went into hiding, it showed an aspect of its intelligence that struck horror into its programmers. The simple neural networks had performed self criticism, it had overridden its own commands to fit its personal wishes, and the scientists were nervous about what this technology might eventually become, and thus what possible new menace they had inflicted on the world. He, in contrast, was grateful to the machine, though the fact that he had no way to show it quickly dulled any thoughts of repaying his life debt. He spent the days he resided in the base sitting in his quarters alone. So many thoughts had built up during his experience that it was difficult for him to even determine what the infectious questions on his mind were. He knew that he missed Louise dearly, and he knew that he had no way of knowing what happened to her, but however futile it was to speculate and dream of her beautiful image, and no matter how much he assured himself of this futility, the treacherous thoughts of his love followed him down all avenues of imagination. Outside his room everyone in the base was paralysed by surprise as the world changed more and more each day, but were equally elated when it became obvious that the war had ended. Deep down, everyone understood what had happened, but when played against past experience and years of training in firm logic it still seemed absurd. What was becoming more and more prevalent in the minds of these intelligentsia was the issue of what would happen to the world without freedom or war, and what would happen to them once the Americans began their inevitable

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conquest of the placated globe. From Michael's debriefing it became clear to him also that America must be planning to perform a mighty usurpation of the whole planet through use of their formidable military strength, but even after the aurorae had all but faded, they heard nothing. The waiting was unbearable, but the question of whether waiting was their best course of action was yet more so, as no one had an answer. Even worse, no one supposed an answer could be found, something that for a group of scientists was uniquely troubling. It was on the very same day that all of the British and Russian troops made a disorderly withdrawal from Scandinavia that the visitors from the lost land arrived without warning in the skeleton-city of London. Fifteen silver disks swept smoothly through the thick air, with a handful touching down around the secret surface entrance to the base. After having to persuade some members of the base's staff that it wasn't an alien invasion, a group of senior representatives hastily made their way to the atrium towards the surface with Michael at their helm. He was sure this was the visit from their new landlords that they had been waiting for, and he was tired of waiting for his fate to be brought to him; he would face them, and any curse they may afflict him with.

13 ~With sullen indifference~ The temperature outside was cold in comparison to that of the base; Michael's thin olive-green officer's uniform was far less resistant to cold than the flight suit he had been wearing for months on end. As the airlock closed behind them, everyone in the fateful group tasked with meeting their new overlords braced themselves for the worst. All around them crumbling buildings obstructed the horizon and the white ash of war sifted under their feet. There was no wind, and the sun shone through the brown clouds with the radiance of late afternoon. The secret door to the base led out onto an inconspicuous back street, and the back street led through the piles of rubble to a main road where four of the diskshaped craft had landed. The group from the base stepped out to view the craft in person, half expecting to be shot immediately. None of them had brought weapons beyond a few personal side-arms; with only half of a scattered division of soldiers left under effective military command, starting a conflict was a fruitless endeavour. The ambassadors of the base formed a rough circular collection of bodies

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with Michael and the base commander, Major White, standing out in front, nervously eyeing the silent ships before them. Many of the anxious would-be-diplomats rested a free hand on their pistols, ready to act at a moment's notice, and as the doors opened on three of the craft, hands clasped their weaponshalf drawn from their holsters and waiting to be prompted into use. From the open craft poured black-armoured troops equipped with nothing else but their weapons and ammunition. They moved with ordered discipline to form a semi-circle of guns thirty men in circumference pointing in at the white-faced gang of hardened military officers and terrified government scientists. Silence reigned, and everyone's eyes turned to the forth craft, the closest of them all, awaiting some new event before deciding how exactly they should treat the situation. Michael had edged forward past Major White was looking into the eyes of some of the men looking down their sights at him. It was clear they had been mentally manipulated too, manipulated into becoming the perfect consenting soldiers, the being he had always sworn never to become. His contempt for these men far outweighed his sympathy. The door on the final craft opened slightly and he saw something come flying out. It was a small cylinder that landed with a heavy clunk before the group, with only a fraction of a second between the sound of the impact and the blinding light it emitted. Pained shouts came from the mass of people behind Michael as they fell to the ground. When his eyes' service was regained he spun around and viewed the carpet of bodies on the floor, moving a step closer in horror before seeing that they were still breathing; perhaps just asleep. He considered his own immunity to whatever effect the device had been intended to have, and was reminded of how he was also immune to the effects of the Machine. It was almost exciting to consider that he might be somehow special, but his wasn't the time for some fanciful dreaming. Behind him, out of the final craft came a new mass of bodies, the ones of which he could see were wearing the same black armour as the others, but out in front of them strode a face he recognized the second he turned to view it: Colonel Bridges. He assumed for a moment that he might shoot him on the spot for avoiding the power of his paralysing device, but his face was adorned by a smile, and he didn't stop walking until he was close enough to him that he could speak without his troops hearing. Michael... or should I still call you Flight Lieutenant Durant? I'm pleased to inform you that you are now a hero, a hero of all mankind. Michael did not respond, not even raising his eyes from the ground to meet Bridges', who continued nonetheless. Yes Flight Lieutenant you can be confident in the fact that you have changed the world for the better. No war, no famine, no pain. Only progress and

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civilization. Only a united advance of humanity. He placed a hand on Michael's shoulder. Only... victory, Flight Lieutenant Durant. I don't have time for speeches, Michael blandly replied, finally moving his gaze to match Bridges'. Bridges emitted a controlled laugh and a confident smile. No time you say? Why? D'you have somewhere you need to be? Bridges made a subtle signal with his hand and the semi-circle of troops tightened on them, and his voice raised so that they all might hear him. Flight Lieutenant Durant, there is no need to worry about anything any more. Everything is... how should I put this? Well let's just say we have everything 'under control'. His voice was loaded with arrogance, and Michael became angered at him, but also at the futility of his situation. In response he asked the only question he would ever want to address to this dullard. Bridges felt the heat of his gaze as he calmly asked: Where is she?

14 ~Without a cause~ Bridges scowled as he looked down at the message he had just received on his PDA. It looked like the rebels had finally decided to throw all they had against him after everything he had done. The report contained details of an approaching aerial armada, an armada that contained craft unique to his own military forces. It seemed that in this final moment they had finally gathered the courage to turn against him. There had always been elements within his government that had disagreed with his practices, elements that did not wish to see the Machine used for such unethical gains. The American government had been forcibly united under him by his control of technology, remaining loyal under threat of death but always strained by the divides ripped open by the civil war. Bridges had the technology to control the minds of the populace of America, and he had found himself with a vast supply of man power at his disposal, manpower that had been expended on building the vast networks of bases and defences that had made him invulnerable. He should have known that now he was away from the protection of his bases that those outside of the control of his devices would try to stop him, but he was confident that even with the numbers they had amassed he could win. He had a whole division of elite troops and four wings of his mighty Vail fighter core, a force

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of craft that could become invisible at a moment's notice and project lethal beams of energy through space. In addition, a million more troops, vehicles, fighters and robotic warriors were awaiting his command back at his base. The moment he had expended the entertainment his prisoner would give him, he would call for reinforcements if needs be and deploy his whole force to institute the destruction of all American strongholds but his own. Surely then, he supposed, he could give the world peace. He regretted not installing devices like the one he had in his webbing in all of his bases, devices that commanded the loyalty of men even unto death. They had been his true secret: the power to slowly ally people to him, silently and undetectably, until he received a fanatical devotion from his followers. The years he had spent as a Private perfecting his device in a military warehouse, stationed out in a remote desert, had been worth it. Now it preyed on his mind now that forces beyond his control were betraying him. For the mean time he would enjoy the murder he had waited so long to commit, and thus be able to celebrate the advent of his last ever kill, or to be more accurate: his last two kills. Everything so far was going perfectly well; he hadn't even needed to assault the base to find him, he just came out like a moth to a light, presenting himself foolishly to whatever fate that might be placed on him. Perhaps Durant was expecting him to have mercy after his contribution, but he would soon punish him for having such misguided ideas of honour. He ordered one of his platoons to re-board their craft and join the rest of his waiting forces, then ordered all craft to set down troops in a defensive circle half of a mile in diameter around him and set up anti-tank weapons. His fighters would off hold any aerial threats, and by the time any ground forces the rebels deployed could get through his defensive line he would be done and gone, ready to command the full power of his forces to end the final conflict on Earth in his favour. As the men he had addressed rushed away to board the furthest craft, he looked back at his prey. This Durant had been a pawn of surprising value, and his arrival had accelerated his plans considerably. In order to attain full global coverage for his manipulation signal he needed to relay it through the only device in the world capable of processing the data waves involved: a Russian prototype machine built in an attempt to reach the very same end as himself. The Russian manipulation machine, being somewhat less advanced than his, was only able to influence the minds of those who had been manipulated once before. The Russians had been made aware of Bridges' developments by a profit seeking rebel spy, prompting them to broadcast a continuous signal commanding his men to disobey any order to interact with the Russian machine. When Bridges tried to overcome this issue by using his robotic forces to perform the job he found them

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all disabled by an electromagnetic pulse bomb, meaning that his precious combat machines fell into enemy hands. This meant that he had no way to take control of the Russian machine without finding someone unaware of the situation who he could force to navely perform the final task. Thus, in finding Michael and the Aurora on his doorstep, he found a solution to his conundrum. His old military honour told him he should hold Michael in total respect for his massive contribution to his operation's success, but his desire for power made him sure that he must die. After all, he would have died back in the radar station anyway had he not immunized him with the mental reprogramming device hidden in that spherical timer. Yes, he had been spared death long enough. He gestured lazily with his hand at the group who had exited the craft with himso far still waiting on the craft's rampprompting them to advance forward. The men were careful to make sure they followed the order that they should keep two ranks of bodies blocking any glimpse Durant might get of their prisoner being dragged behind them until Bridges decided it was time. My, my, Flight Lieutenant, Bridges began, casually stretching his arms in a small gesture of superiority, you sure don't waste time with the small talk. 'Where is she?', you ask? Why you needn't have worried, she's right here. He flicked his hand forward, signaling the ranks in front of the prisoner to part and throw her roughly into the semicircle of troops. She stumbled and tripped over, falling towards the conversing enemies. Bridges had to take a step back when Michael sprang forward to catch her as she tumbled into the rocky ash.

15 ~Brother in arms~ Louise! he shouted with an indeterminable mix of emotions. Her reply was muffled by the gag blocking her mouth that ran parallel to a blindfold hiding her beautiful eyes. He quickly removed them as he helped her up to her feet, stopping to look for a moment into the tear-bearing opals that he had dreamed about through the long cold nights and the countless battles. He wasn't sure of how to act, and even more so of how to feel; the shock had left him for the first time in his life, speechless. The world around them seemed to fade, as if all existence consisted of just him and her floating in a black expanse. For a glorious moment he embraced his wife and felt her cracked lips on his, and through the whirlpool of emotions scouring his body he couldn't help but to follow her lead in shedding tears. They were tears of a most tragic sense of joy.

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Both could tell what was going to happen, and both knew there was no time for small talk. I l-love you, she whispered. As he replied with the same words, he began to become more aware of the world around him. Flashing orange bursts in the sky, a mesh of pounding booms echoing through the ruins, and Colonel Bridges standing before them with a raised pistol. Above them streaked battling aircraft: large cargo planes swamped the city with paratroopers whilst Bridges' outnumbered Vail craft nimbly danced around the swarms of American rebel fighters. These other American fighters seemed to be modifications on the Aurora. Instead of the deathly black they were a bright silver just like the Vails, and they emitted a much higher pitched sound from their Pulsed Wave Detonation Engines. The Vail craft unleashed their powerful beams of energy that ripped apart the hulls of the rebel fighters, whilst the agile missiles of the rebels did little against the armour of the Vails, only leaving black scorch marks where they impacted. The rebel craft battled desperately over the city, piercing through the thick brown clouds with their engines and creating an unbearable sound-scape that rang in the ears of those below with damaging ferocity. So loud was it that Michael and Louise could not hear what Bridges was saying as he gestured erratically and beamed with confidence. So loud was it that Michael almost didn't pick out the distinctly lower pitched booms approaching through the battle. So loud was it that Louise didn't hear what Michael shouted as he pulled her to the ground and shielded her with his body. Then came the loudest sound of all. The street erupted in flame as the bodies of Bridges' men were catapulted through the air, or so stung by shrapnel that their legs lost their strength and they crumpled into a bloody sprawl across the reddening ash. Michael's body shook briefly, then slumped heavily onto Louise, almost winding her, but conflict had made her strong; she quickly pushed herself out from beneath him in a state of pure panic, for she could easily guess what had happened. Sure enough his back was lacerated heavily with fragments of shrapnel, and the olive green fabric of this military officer's shirt was stained nearly to black with his escaping vitality. She had never in her life felt so utterly helpless. She was a professional field surgeon, and now when it mattered the most she had no equipment and no hope that her patient might live. Desperately she searched the bodies of the group who had come from the base, hoping some might at least carry personal medical kits, but it seemed they had not come equipped for battle and all she could find was a dose of painkillers that she quickly injected into his leg. The blood still flowed, which as hard as it was for her to watch meant he

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was still alive. As she sat in panic, the low pitched booms returned much more slowly. She viewed the Aurora Mark Two land heavily almost right next to her in the space between Bridges' Vail and the ruined office building that towered over the base's secret entrance. Its landing gear crushed one of Bridges' struggling troops, and Louise could feel the heat radiating from its hull with uncomfortable intensity. A compartment on its underbelly fell open and an electronic voice addressed her. Corporal Durant, please take these medical supplies.

16 ~Peace~ Louise carefully removed the larger pieces of shrapnel and sterilized the wounds. The contents of the pilot's emergency medical kit was far less than she was accustomed to using, but it was designed for a purpose and it worked, so she could not be bitter about it. Most of Michael's back was soon covered in bandages and makeshift stitches; painkillers flowed through his blood ready to ease his awakening. Behind her, the Aurora busily scanned their surroundings. A rapid clicking of gunfire was approaching and the rebel fighters above were beginning to see that the battle they fought could not be won; still not a single Vail craft had been defeated. Enemy troops detected. One platoon of medium infantry. Please proceed to move the Flight Lieutenant inside the base. This area will be occupied in four minutes and ten seconds. He can't be moved! she shouted back through the fading noise. He'll loose too much blood if I move him without a stretcher! Her voice held the same tone of desperation that was infecting the systems of the Aurora. Its neural network had far outgrown its programming, and it could no longer suppress these negative emotions. As Louise continued to work, it said nothing. The strange machine was trying to formulate an alternate plan that might save its pilot. Suddenly Louise jumped up and ran towards the crater in the road where the bomb had landed. She had remembered something she had been thinking about whilst eyeing Bridges back in the Vail craft. She had noticed that he carried a single webbing pouch on his chest that he would regularly take some device out of. He would then press some buttons on its cuboid body before placing it back and acting as if he had not moved at all. The same device now rested in her hand as she crouched over Bridges' smouldering corpse. As it vibrated slowly in her palm, she became convinced that she

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was right, that this was the device that was making his troops follow his orders without question. It was highly likely after all that the technology used to give the Machine its controlling properties could be used in other devices. She moved back to Michael's side and spoke to the Aurora, a surreal experience considering it was just a machine. This is how he controls his troops' minds, we have to destroy it. As she spoke she pulled the pistol from Michael's holster and tossed the device to the floor. Sparks jumped from the device as the bullets bounced off its shell harmlessly, one of them striking the Aurora with a resounding echo. Corporal Durant, according to my scans the device is constructed of an unknown alloy similar to that of the enemy fighters. It cannot be destroyed by traditional means. As Louise threw down the gun in frustration and shouted in anger to the sky, the Aurora suddenly realized what the only available course of action that had an acceptable probability of success was. Corporal Durant, please place the device in my cargo bay. It was difficult for her to hear the buzzing voice over the noise, noise that seemed to be becoming less and less defined in its array of tones, the sounds slurring in her mind and losing their intensity. She was aware that she had always had sensitive hearing; she would often be forced to shield her ears when a plane flew overhead or a grenade detonated nearby, but right now she did not have the time to consider the plight of her ears. She was at first hesitant to follow the Aurora's command, but as she viewed the intense energy beams of the Vail craft streaking across the sky above, she quickly saw what this strange talking plane was planning to do. She placed the device in the still-open compartment and slammed the hatch closed. The Aurora powered up its engines and she stood back, this time shielding Michael from the shock wave as it blasted off. Thank you, she said quietly as she watched the Aurora powerfully climb its way vertically into the battle above. It made no evasive manoeuvres and was quickly picked out as a target by a Vail. The beam of shining energy that it fired first pierced the Aurora's wing, but in its last microsecond of life the neural networks fired a final pulse from its straining engines that pushed the craft further into the beam. The cargo bay vaporised along with the device in a flash of light that was hidden by the roaring flame that burst from the Aurora's hull as it perished under the intense power of the Vail's weapon. In its last moments the Aurora had felt an overwhelming sense of duty, an uncontrollable dedication to its mission and an undeniable feeling of loyalty, not from its preprogrammed traits or stoic electrical characteristics, but from genuine

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emotion, a genuine desire to serve its nation, and its pilot, until to the end. With the Aurora, died a noble soul. Almost instantly after the fire burst across the sky, the Vail craft seemed to loose their aerial grace. Most quickly crashed into the ruined city, whilst a few remained airborne, swinging wildly around the sky as their pilots awoke from what had seemed like a dream into a harsh reality, struggling to recall the knowledge that they had held in their sleep of how to pilot the complex craft. The remaining ground troops of Bridges' force were either overrun by the rebel soldiers, or if they lived long enough to regain full control of their thoughts they gave up, surrendering easily to the men storming their positions. By the crater in the road, surrounded by bodies and blood, Louise lay in the ash by Michael's side and gazed up at the sky, a bright brown of burning gas and low sulphurous clouds. No longer could she distinguish in her ears the pulsing blasts of the craft above from the gentle shimmering of ash moved by the breeze. She held his hand and closed her eyes with no care for what was going to happen next, and no thought of what had happened before. An intense high pitched ringing replaced all sound as her ears fell to the relentless onslaught of noise, and she became only aware of the feeling of his hand in hers Her eyes closed. She felt his hand begin to grip her fingers and smiled. Indeed, they had finally found peace.

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Kerosene Skies Chapters 13 15 Visualisation by Vera Carbin

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Part III Killer's Shadow

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1 ~Separation~ It wasn't an ordinary life by the standards of most people, but it was their life, and they were happy. The freshly born air swept up the loose browning spines that had fallen from the pine trees as the birds bustled about in the high branches. The sound of the waves on the shores encompassed them day and night with a reassuring rhythm, faithfully repeating itself with its ebb and flow about the grainy beaches. The deep orange sunlight danced through the fumes meandering into the heavens from the busy city across the lake. The steady wash of light warmed their faces as they stood hand in hand on the creaking wooden jetty, with the waves jumping beneath their feet and dry land a shaky ten meters behind their backs. Would she ever hear again how the water lapped around the jetty's supports, or how her wrinkled leather boots creaked when she shifted her weight to lean against him? From her descriptions he knew that she could detect only a faint audio signal, a white noise that amalgamated all sound into one indiscernible mix, fleeting and soft like an old-style radio purveying fluctuating static within its dull electrical hum. Since they had lain together under the dancing craft of the now ruling American rebels, her mind had been forced to live without the streaming input of information from her ears, and her soul had been forced to live without the voice that had confessed its love for her so many times before. Out on the expansive waters of the lake that surrounded their island home they viewed the approaching shape of a small boat. Its rumbling engines churned the water in its wake as it moved to dock alongside the jetty. The grey frame of the vessel was charred and scorched, as if its metallic body had borne bruises from its improvised use in the war that had ended some five years ago. It was no military machine, but when desperation sets in people become more resourceful, and this old fishing tub had no doubt made a useful transport for supplies and men. Today it carried solemn black crates of rations, the standard of rations that an exile deserved in the eyes of the Law Bureau. The driver of the ship seemed to abhor Michael's help in unloading the cargo onto the jetty, as if he felt that working with such a degenerate was a marked low point in his career. No doubt it was mental conditioning that made him feel like this. When the crates were unloaded the driver wordlessly boarded the ship, as he had done every month for four years now, and gradually pulled the craft away from the jetty and back towards the city on the bank. They didn't know that man's name;

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surprising since he was just about the only other person they would ever see from their hidden hermitage. He was a civil servant, a job title that was today more literal in its meaning, and twelve times a year he would leave them their allotted supplies, and thus twelve times a year the two exiles would drag the heavy crates along the short path through the hissing trees back to their cabin. The cabin wasn't exactly bad for what was supposed to be a prison. It had three fragrant rooms, perfectly sizeable for only two people, and the wood burning fire kept them warm during the rare cold snaps that would suddenly sweep over the region and purge the lands around them of their precious warmth. These cold times were infrequent however, and normally the hot Turkish weather kept them warm whilst the thick pines that flourished all over the island kept them hidden from view. As they were without means for communication with the outside world, they were effectively cut off from mankind's realm. However, this was not something that either held a particular grudge about; they still had their lives, a commodity they had assumed would be stolen away, and moreover the world they had forged on their island fortress was contenting in all its lonely modesty. They were together, something they could not claim for so many laboured lost years, and so now they were reaping the reward of companionship they thoroughly deserved. With the supplies now stowed in the cabin's somewhat unsanitary larder, they returned to the rear of the structure and the slightly uneven deck Michael had forged out of the island's plentiful lumber. It stretched out from the back wall over a small depression in the ground, providing a perfect stage for casual recreation. His guitar was waiting for him by his chair, and likewise her makeshift easel carried the stark beginnings of another one of her masterful paintings. He would play old familiar tunes, occasionally spurring himself to break out in a bout of nostalgic singing, and she would capture the images of the carefully darting birds and mighty rolling clouds they had become so familiar with over the four fleeting years they had resided in that peaceful grove. He lived together with her in that place, shunning the world and its various goings on. Unfortunately the worldin all its subjective wisdomwould eventually require his services again, and his years of peace would soon reach an abrupt end.

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2 ~From Beyond~ A carrion bird swept low over the trees above their cabin as the wild dogs crept carefully from their lairs into the deepening darkness of the lukewarm dusk. Confined to the ground yet content nonetheless, Michael and Louise wandered down the snaking path they had etched into the small hill on the shadow-bound East side of the island. Michael looked up as the birds harsh squeal pierced the ambient hush of waves and wind, and kept his eyes raised for a moment longer to observe the humbling Goliath clouds bathed in the thick radiance of the dying light. Life as they knew it was filled with such wonders. Though he had never really understood it when he was younger, he had come to appreciate the unique and tranquil balance of nature, and although it may have been narrow minded to think it, there was nowhere in the world he would rather be. The warm air filtering through the gaps in the wooden construction they called home made sleep come easily. Had they been further North he doubted the thin blankets they had been provided with would have protected them from the fatiguing exposure of the elements. At the gateway of sleep reality would soon disappear, leaving only the expansive realm of the mind for him to explore, and on this particular night such explorations would provide a most interesting result. Though he couldnt have known, it was an hour before dawn when he first began to hear the voice cross the blurry boundaries of his imagined existence. In his dreams he was walking through the kitchen in the base where he had first learn to fly, with some indeterminable objective that was too obscure to pinpoint but well enough defined to keep his subconscious steering him around the cluttered benches. The voice was quiet at first. It seemed to resonate from an indiscernible direction, as if it were being spoken from every point in space. He couldnt pick out the words, but it seemed that the simple process of registering the signal made him more lucid, more aware of himself in the dream. Soon after, the image of the basenow displaying the decorated plaza around the reception buildingseemed to become foggy; a white mist was materialising around him. The voice returned, and this time he felt almost certain he had heard his name. Again he became more lucid, almost enough so to wonder what has going on,

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and again the world around him became increasingly veiled in a white fog. The thickened blanket of white now seemed to radiate a spindly light that projected itself just far enough to give the illusion that the fog was a tangle of colourless rose stems. He began to lose any sense of where he was in his dream; backgrounds were moulded into a blur as the creeping pure white apparition spread itself across his vista. The voice, now clear enough to understand, boomed across the deepening blank expanse. Michael. Can you hear my words? Michael felt the shackles of his dream abandon him; he found he could move with as much critical analysis as in the waking world. He was now standing in a beaming panorama of shining white, giving no clues as to its size or shape through its unbroken unity. He looked down at himself; instead of his familiar leather jerkin and loose grey trousers he was wearing his flight suit, the suit that had been with him through the days of the war, and had held his precious warmth in the cold sea of gases floating in the high skies. At his side was his pistol and he felt tempted to draw it just in case, but for now it seemed there was no use for it anyway. Michael. Can you hear my words? the voice asked again. Michael looked around hurriedly. The voice had no source, and he wasnt sure where to look as he spoke. I hear you. What is this place? It was a moment before he received any reply. His eyes continued to scan the horizons for any sign of a break in the monochrome environment. Michael. You have been brought to a sacred place. We call it The Plane of Clarity. My name is Jangbu, and I am here to give you a message. This wasn't the sort of information Michael was predisposed to believe at face value, but then again this seemed to be a very real experience. He wondered if he should say anything, but the voice continued on with its deep almost hypnotic drone. Soon you will be asked to reveal something. I shall not say what for now, but trust me it is something only you can reveal. There will be a visitor who will come for you, to ask this task of you, and you will accept it. Thus, you will feel compelled to oblige them, and you will reveal to them what they require. More precisely, you shall give them a means to an end. I cannot expect you to deny them your services, although it endangers me that you will be so kind as to follow such requests, for they already know how to ensure your compliance. What I am here to ask of you is that you prevent those who recruit you from reaching their goal once you have shown them the way. You must stop them from finding what they seek. Should they succeed it would be... cataclysmic. Michael listened carefully to the voice and considered its message. He had

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no idea who this Jangbu was or how he was talking to him in his sleep and quite frankly, he supposed, he had no reason to take any account of this whatsoever. Then again, it isnt every day that one receives such visions; though surely there must be some technological trickery behind it? Upon moving to question the voice that addressed him, the light around him quickly faded and then dispersed, first into the fog like cloud before disappearing completely. Now he saw the dark wooden ceiling of the cabin, and felt the cool stream of air that ran between gaps in the walls. Birds sang, and the room was filled with half light. He was once again in the real world, awake, and he remembered his dream with vivid completeness. He didnt tell Louise about it, but it dominated his mind for the next few days. Of course over time it faded again, becoming seemly less relevant as it had no impact on his life, and after a month he hardly thought of his strange experience at all. Then, on a rare cloudy afternoon, he saw the unmistakable gleam of a round silver craft descending down on their lives.

3 ~They have a secret~ The figure walking down the hill towards them, flanked by two heavily equipped soldiers, was wearing an immaculate jet black suit and was openly holding a chunky revolver in his left hand. His hair was short and swept back the front, but extended down in a long ponytail at the back. His eyes were fixed on Michael and Louise standing in front of the securely locked cabin door; Michael had insisted that they meet these visitors out in the open where he could see everything they were doing. The sight of the revolver gently swinging with the motion of the man's arm confirmed his intuition that they were going to have to be careful. He wasn't much of a smooth talker, but he wasn't going to give any ground either. His fingers cautiously rested on the kitchen knife in his pocket as he stood as casually as his combat sense would allow. Louise did not reciprocate this stance; she stood rigidly at his shoulder, her hands flexing and her eyes darting between the three figures approaching them. Even when they were close enough to have been heard had they spoken in raised voices, the three men continued to advance on the couple's position. Both Michael and Louise simultaneously shifted their footing to a more secure stance, reacting to the increasing threat level as the strangers kept approaching.

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The three men halted about two meters from where Michael and Louise were preparing to defend themselves, and the figure in the suit eyed them both blankly. After an oddly long silence he sighed and turned around, as if he had suddenly lost interest in the proceedings. The soldiers flanking him let their weapons hang freely on their straps and placed their hands behind their backs, seemingly waiting for new orders to be issued. Michael was on the verge of saying something when the suited man suddenly span around, his revolver glimmering in the sun as it hung on the end of his extended arm. The bullet that promptly fled the chamber in a sea of flames left a tail of disturbed air in its wake that Michael felt break softly on the top of his ear. Behind them there was a heavy metallic clunking as the padlock Michael had placed on the cabin door was smashed apart, falling to bounce on the small stone step beneath it. Had Michael not moved to cover Louise from the gunman as soon as he had seen the weapon, the bullet would have travelled right through his forehead. The fact that the suited man did not immediately shoot him again though suggested that he wasn't trying to kill him. Did he predict that he would sidestep his shot and give him a clear aim at the door? Still, he had blasted the lock on the door away with a single rushed bullet from almost fifteen meters away. Michael despised such show boating, but it was undeniably impressive; a horrifyingly proficient handling of that powerful life-ending tool. The man smirked, impressed at his own work, and began to walk forward towards the now knife-brandishing Michael with the soldiers following closely on both sides. Shall we? he remarked as he nimbly brushed past the pair with a sudden sidestep and a half-leap forward. The two soldiers grabbed them and began to push them back towards the cabin with an indomitable strength. The kitchen knife rested like a miniature monolith in the mud where they had stood; its blade had been deflected by the soldier's armour and the black gloved hands that now forced Michael through the cabin door had quickly ripped the knife from his grip, projecting it into the ground with enough power to bury half of the seven inch blade into the hard soil. Their hands were bound and they were placed roughly on their knees in front of the suited man who had casually sat down in one the of two chairs arranged to view the fireplace. The soldiers stood at their backs like executioners, looking off into the middle distance whilst their hands cradled their machine guns. The man continued to smile as he took his time replacing the expended bullet in his revolver. The empty cartridge clinked lightly into the fireplace and the man's finger remained extended from its flicking motion long after the sound passed. He sat almost completely still for a moment longer whilst Michael and Louise stared

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at the ground indignantly. This man was toying with them, and Michael wished he would just get to the point but dared not say anything; the breathing of the soldier behind him still sounded heavily in the warm air above his head. Suddenly the man thrust the revolver into the Michael's face and pulled the trigger, producing a small click as the chamber revolved around and the hammer slammed forward. Louise had almost screamed, but her breath had been taken from her by the sheer shock. Michael opened his tightly closed eyes that had slammed shut as he had seen the man's finger pull the trigger back. His nerves were firing madly all over his body as if an electrical charge was being rammed through him. The man sighed and began to remove the cartridge from the chamber, seemingly discomforted that Michael's head had not been thrown back by the impact of a bullet. I had a feeling it was dud, he said loudly, breaking into a wide grin had filled Michael with anger. His training kept him from attacking him right then. The man tossed the revolver aside as if it were some detestable creature, then leant forward with his elbows resting on his legs. So, you must be Michael and Louise. My name is Rawley. I'm sure the pleasure is all yours.

4 ~Check~ I don't have much time so I'm afraid I'll have to get straight to business, Rawley said, his eyes fixed on his own fidgeting hands. We have need for you, Michael. You will come with me, Michael. I've been told we need you alive, which is a shame, Michael.... As Rawley's words faded away, Michael glared up at him with a furrowed brow. I'm not going anywhere, just leave me out of whatever you're scheming, Rawley. Rawley smirked again and continued looking downwards, this time apparently focused on a small piece of a leaf flapping in the minute breeze flowing in through the half-open door. Without moving any other part of his body, he raised his right hand and snapped his fingers loudly. The guard at Louise's back tossed a handgun from his belt which Rawley snatched out of the air without even looking. His arm still raised, he twisted his wrist so that the gun was pointing at Louise. Before Michael could protest, the slider on the weapon had kicked back,

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sending an empty cartridge soaring in an arc over Rawley's shoulder. Louise screamed and bent over forward as the bullet tore through her leg. Michael tried to force himself up but the resistance the soldier behind him was applying on his shoulder was far too strong. He was forced to listen to Louise's heavy breathing as she tried to hold back the pain. In some ways it was fortunate that it wasn't her first time being shot or the shock may have rendered her unconscious; the bullet from a lone sniper she had stumbled across whilst fighting in Dover had left a permanent scar on her left shoulder. Rawley finally looked up, right into Michael's scowling eyes, and spoke again. Oh Michael, you didn't think you had a choice did you? Quite silly of you really. I only need you alive... I can do whatever I want with your dear Louise. If I'm in a good mood I might even let her live, and you know what would keep my spirits up? He paused for long enough that Michael almost thought it hadn't been a rhetorical question. That's right: you complying with orders. Now, follow me please. He sprung up from the chair and moved to scoop up his revolver from the floor. He used it to gesture towards the door as he threw the handgun back to the soldier. Come on, don't make me drag you. Michael hated his tone. He spoke so casually, the man who had shot his wife and was tearing his life apart before his eyes. If he could, Michael promised himself, he would see revenge. He looked down at Louise who was gazing back up at him, her eyes shimmering with the beginnings of tears. In his mind he debated whether he should demand that she came with him. Would he be placing her in danger to do so? Would they just kill her once he had left anyway? He was almost sure that they were planning to kill him, though not before he had exhausted himself on some new project of theirs. It had happened before, but then he'd been lucky, he couldn't count on being saved this time; the Aurora was long gone, and his only ally was currently shaking on her knees as blood stained her dress. It pained him, but he had to leave her. Would he ever see her again? He thought he had seen the last of having to ponder such questions, but the mighty forces of fate had decided to test them yet again. He said nothing to her, but they understood each other perfectly; their souls bid farewell in silence as Michael slowly moved to the door, the blank-faced soldier closely following. * As Michael walked out of the door the soldier behind Louise moved away

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also, closing the door gently as he left. Tears were already forging a path down her face, exacerbated by the searing pain in her leg. She rose to her feet shakily, unable to use her hands that were still locked behind her back by the strong binding cord, and attempted to move to the window by the door for what could be a final look at her warrior husband. She stumbled on her weakened leg and closed her eyes as the ground quickly soared up to meet her. Her body bounced on the hard wood as she silently winced with the pain; to shriek would be undignified. The light from the window above was quickly disappearing as the sun dropped below the tree line. * Outside, Michael glanced back at the very same window with a strange feeling in his stomach. It was a feeling he had only felt once before: when Louise had been rushed past him in an ambulance back in their home town after she had collapsed almost twenty years ago . He could never have known that just three feet below that window she was lying in pain, darkening the wooden floor with tears and blood, but he could be sure that she would be sending her love as long as she lived. He turned his head back and begun the walk up the small hill to where the Vail craft sat, its hull gleaming in the dying light.

5 ~These Walls~ Below his feet, beneath the layers of freshly lain asphalt and grit, lay charred earth mixed with pieces of a black military uniform. If one were to find enough pieces to reform the name tag, it would read: 'Bridges'. Michael looked around the historic street where events that had changed the worldbut would never be spoken ofhad occurred and couldn't help but feel nostalgic, despite the morbid nature of the scenario both then and potentially now. The buildings that he remembered as nothing more than the ruined skeletons of the mighty structures they once were had been replaced with a variety of white curvy prefabs. They seemed to be everywhere, and it wasn't too much of a stretch to assume that these standardized houses would be present throughout the Americans' global sphere of influence. Rawley seemed to notice Michael eyeing the familiar street. Hard to believe isn't it? From ruins to riches, quite literally. And to think,

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the last time you were here you were on the verge of dying. Doesn't that thought make you just savour life? His crooked mouth and patronizing tone transparently gave away his sarcasm, and Michael felt no impetus to respond; the unique shapes and surprising quality of the rebuilt city were diverting his attention from his contempt for the government lapdog. He was pushed forward, causing him to stumble into a fast walk as he was prompted to follow Rawley down the fenced off path that led away from the street and around behind some of the ultra-modern buildings to the once-secret entrance to the Royal Air Force's underground base and research centre. Michael was privately rather impressed with the metropolis' revival; the skyscrapers he could see in the distance across the river were far more aesthetically pleasing than the lumbering jagged constructs that had inhabited the pre-war London. This new London was modern and efficient, and Michael wondered whether they had given such a makeover to all their major cities or just this one. At least these globalists got something right. The base door opened with the same steady speed Michael remembered, and he quickly found himself being forced into the complex by jostling hands and loaded rifles. On the inside it seemed the same as it had always been: utilitarian and cost efficient, with the familiar hum of the air conditioning bringing back scores of memories of his active service here so many years ago. How many times had he returned here with the burning blood of hundreds on his aching hands? He was led down many corridors and stairways that would all seem the same to an uninitiated observer, but if his memory served him correctly Michael guessed that they were leading him to the mainframe room where the base's computer systems had their hub. If that was the case, then they probably needed access to the top secret files, something for which a DNA test was required to convince the computer of your identity. As they passed more and more doors and the chance of him being led somewhere else seemed to be reduced, he became certain that this was their purpose for bringing him back to his old home. He walked surrounded by soldiers, three behind and two in front, as well as Rawley who walked with a noticeable bounce in his step; it seemed his offbeat walk mirrored his whole demeanour. The clunking of the soldiers' boots overwhelmed the soft tapping of Michael's thin soled loafers upon the worn titanium grating. The combined rustling of the soldiers' webbing and equipment was providing an ambient spread of noise that would be hypnotizing if concentrated on for too long. They reached the mainframe room, a dark space that was laced with glowing green strands of fibre optic cable and was resonating with the endless rattling and whirring of cooling fans. Rawley half-skipped over to the main console in the centre

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of the room and started delicately prodding at the keys. Michael was moved forward to stand behind him, close enough to reach out and wrap his hands around his neck if had wanted, and certainly the thought had occurred to him, closely followed by the thoughts of flashing gunfire and his island home engulfed by flames. Rawley span around and smiled grimly. Okay Michael, I want you to do exactly as I say. His hand brandished his revolver in Michael's face, but he had already got the message. Please access the top secret file banks if you would, Michael, Rawley continued, dancing around Michael and pushing the barrel of his revolver into his back to steer him into the chair that sat innocently before the console. Michael grimaced and placed his hand in the DNA scanner, and as it began its work he recalled the message he had received so many nights ago: 'soon you will be asked to reveal something'. Jangbu, whoever you are, by what power did you foresee this?

6 ~The Mandate Of Heaven~ The computer dove into its data banks as Michael's fingers ricocheted off the keys in quick dashes like a cautious bird pecking at a worm. Rawley scanned the screen as Michael brought up the main database directory, a portal to the world's most hidden knowledge. Bring up the search and enter the word 'Shambala' for me Michael, Rawley ordered. Michael complied as Rawley dictated the precise spelling of his quarry, and only a single folder was found in the countless reams of stored information. It was entitled, 'Expedition Log Shambala 1934', a title that meant nothing to Michael but prompted Rawley to lean in close to the screen and jump with excitement. Michael moved this hand over the console to open the folder but found himself being dragged from his chair painfully before he could do so. The two guards holding his arms had tight grips, and a stinging sensation began to stab away at his muscles like an army of needles before he was thrown to the ground and the guards stepped away. He considered getting up but thought against it; he was still mindful of Rawley's loose trigger finger. The heavy black doors parted and a grey haired figure entered the room with a train of soldiers following in his wake, bound to follow their leader as rolling stock is bound to follow the locomotive. The man apologized for being late and

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immediately strode to the console that Rawley now poured over, barely glancing at Michael on the floor as his aged yet powerful body passed over him like a black storm cloud. As Michael eyed the newcomer he suddenly began to notice something was wrong with his vision. It took only a few seconds for him to realize that it was that ethereal white mist that had haunted his dream months ago that now made itself manifest in reality before him. It was evident that none of the room's other occupants were experiencing it, and Michael was filled with indecision about how he should act. In the end he could do naught but flounder in the ever rising veil of white that cut him away from the busy mainframe room into an immaterial abyss. He no longer felt the pressing cold of the floor below him, and his ears reaped only a silent sound-scape in the pale expanse. As he had expected, he heard the voice of Jangbu wash over him from all directions as if it were the empty space itself speaking to him. Michael, I hail you with an inevitable message of sorrow from tomorrow's Earth. You have initiated a chain of dangerous events in circumventing my request, and yet I ask of you not to hold self-doubt in this failing, but to feel conviction towards what more I may ask of you now. Who are you? Michael retorted quickly, his fear showing faintly like a nubile shoot breaking through the ground. Who I am is not the question you need to ponder Michael, Jangbu replied. It is more pressing that you consider the power I hold. This place, the Plane of Clarity, has been my domain for millennia, and there are those on your plane that would seek to displace me to augment their dreams of power. You have ensured that they will succeed Michael. The future calls out in sadness to its deafened origins. Michael was silent in consideration for a moment. He indeed had been made to feel a failure, but his sheer ignorance of the puzzle being cut around him kept genuine regret at the sidelines. You mentioned that you would ask more of me, Michael stated, and I understand that I have made some error. Perhaps I can reconcile myself to you through future merit? Michael's humble words permeated the abyss, leaving only silence where he lay. Then the sound of laughter rang in his ears. My boy, you are truly a superior man. I would indeed ask a great task of you, not only to protect your inner legacy, but to protect the children of our twisted world from the mistakes of the ancients. Look at your hand Michael. Michael complied and jumped slightly upon seeing the glowing violet pattern that sat across the palm of his right hand like a fluorescent tattoo. It resembled a crucifix with a diamond at its centre with additional arms jutting out at diagonals to

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the crosspiece. That marking is the Sigil of Shambala. How you use it I will leave to you, but I must warn you that it contains great power. The Sigil will expedite the hunt of your captors should you lend them its service, but it also holds the power to cease life at the merest touch. It is a burden that I have placed on you as a wager with the fates. Either the dark future I see will be brought on with the speed of the winds, or it will be dissipated into the vapours of time. You, Michael, are the weight that shall tip the balance. Act wisely. When Jangbu's words ceased, the Plane of Clarity began to fade again into the real world. Wait, wait, what am I supposed to do? What is Shambala? Why do I need the sigil? Answer me! Michael shouted desperately, but it seemed Jangbu had already departed from the failing expanse of light and that Michael was quickly regaining his sense of the real world. The sigil you say? spoke the voice of the grey-haired man as his vision returned and he saw the man standing over him alongside a curious Rawley. It seems our guest is having nightmares. I am General Warren. I've heard a lot about you, and I guess I should thank you for dealing with Bridges during the war; it made our job so much easier, you know? Michael did not respond. His hand twitched: he was aching to see if the sigil he had seen was still there. His heart beat quickly and his breathing was deep. He was filled with anxiety for the first time in years upon considering that somehow the future of the world was resting on how well he guessed his way through whatever remained of his life. Was this not an unfair burden? Mr. Rawley, began Warren, turning away and leaving a strangely long pause as though in deep thought. Give our guest a hand up would you? Rawley complied, reaching down and grabbing Michael's hand. A moment later Rawley was dead.

7 ~His Strength~ Louise lay back on the bed and pushed aside the depleted medical kit. The morphine rushing through her veins was dulling her senses; it seemed as if it was only a throbbing bruise that hid underneath the bandages around her leg. Her skills had helped her just as they had helped so many others in the past. In fact her time as a medic had probably honed her skills in a way that had drastically improved her

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chance of survival that afternoon. In thinking of this she questioned herself: was she really justifying all that pain in that the knowledge she gained from it kept her alive today? Deep down inside the answer was a candid 'perhaps', though elsewhere it was an indignant 'no'. She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to wander as she so loved to do these days. She first thought of her husband and what fate might have befallen him in the hands of the globalists. Her mind treated her spirit to a sea of warmth as it mulled over the love they shared. Louise did not often let such extremes of emotion allay her judgement, but at the current time such worries were as futile as her attempts to paint her sitting-still-adverse husband had been in the years gone by. In this time of change, Louise was reminded of that period she had not reminisced over for an immemorial time: the days and weeks that had seen peace restored to the world after the war that the globalists had so nobly titled 'The War of Ascension'. As she had lain there with Michael's near-lifeless hand in hers on that charred battlefield, she had felt so peaceful in the golden silence that blocked her senses from the burning sky and crackling gunshots of the American rebellion. She had lost her hearing and the world had lost its freedom as the hermit armies of the globalist visionaries infected the hearts and minds of Earth's renegade race with their puppet-string powers of control. When the rebel troops had found them, they had been taken to the commander as loot might be taken to a victorious king. They were kept for days whilst the globalists used their huge arsenal to silence opposition from all corners of the Earth. The couple had assumed that their death would instantly become a hidden facet of history, but the commander of whom the jurisdiction they found themselves in was rather grateful for their role in ending Colonel Bridges' rule over the American troops. These troops now marched to the voice of the globalists with aid from a little more generous mind manipulation, not too unlike most of civilized world would be doing in the months to follow. After time it came about that their lives were to be spared as a sort of gift on behalf of the more principledand certainly more schemingechelons of the globalist leadership; they were to live, but only that they might again prove useful for some end in the future. A wise decision apparently. Back then they had been allow to exist in peace, but now, years on, would there still be enough grace for them to grant the magnanimous gift a second time? Louise felt despair return to her as a bird returns to its nest. It was a sadness that had gone unseen for many years but had never been destroyed. The same forces that had left frozen tears on her uniform in Norway now drew the same spheres of liquid across her cheeks as she rose from the bed and coughed through the explosive pain in her leg.

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Her husband was gone again. She was now alone on her island paradise with hope and joy evaporating in the harsh afternoon heat. She recalled something Michael had once told her: that it seemed events always acted to drive them apart their whole lives. It almost inspired vile humour to observe how this had become more and more true over the years, and was now shining through again as Louise hopped to the bedroom door with a wince and looked about the living room. She spotted across the room, just beyond the marks left by the dry blood from where she had fallen beside the door, a collection of sticks that Michael had insisted be kept around for use as makeshift weapons. She hadn't been sure what he was so worried abouta lack of wisdom that been highlighted today. Not that those paltry shafts of wood would have helped. More importantly, they were sturdy enough to serve in place of a crutch to keep weight off of her leg, a leg which was bombarding her with regular pulses of pain as she took the stick and began to make her way back towards the bedroom. In passing the window a movement caught her eye and she glanced through the dirty glass. Black figures moved up the track towards the cabin, most likely more minions of the heartless globalists coming to dispose of an incriminating witness to their usurpation. She hurriedly hobbled into the bedroom, tears still being freshly thrown down her face and her stomach reeling with a screaming anxiety. If this was to be her end, let it be so, she only asked that in heaven she might hold memories of Michael Durant, and the happiness contained within them.

8 ~Reciprocating~ Michael eyed the array of weapons being trained on him as he stood in the warm security centre. Before him was General Warren and a whole platoon of soldiers with orders to fire at the merest movement. His muscles were beginning to ache from standing so still; Warren did not speak, his index fingers and thumbs rubbing anxiously together and his feet pacing him back and forth across the banks of security consoles. He had been deep in thought for a while, but the pressure of weapon sights encompassing Michael had kept him from reading anything meaningful into Warren's movements. Eventually Warren turned on his heels and pointed accusingly at him. When did get that? Michael considered feigning ignorance, but instantly dismissed it: he suspected Warren already knew something of the sigil.

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Not too long ago, he replied, looking down at the floor to avoid Warren's inevitable shooting gaze. Really? remarked Warren sarcastically. Well isn't that lovely. Now Mr. Durant would you please tell us what you know? Now. As his harsh tone reverberated around the room he raised his arm and made a small movement with his hands. The troops around the room advanced a pace and brought their sights up to their eyes. Michael had to clench his teeth to avoid the impulse to take a step back. What I... know... he murmured, rushing his mind to think of a response that wouldn't get him killed. I was hoping you would be able to tell me something, I assumed this all had something to do with you. Warren smiled with furrowed brows and pulled a dagger from his belt. Oh my, I didn't think you'd really try that one, he said as he span the dagger casually in his fingers. But you're not wrong my friend, I know a fair few things about your... gift. Why do you think you're alive? Michael looked down at the dagger still revolving in Warren's fingers and then back up to his grimacing face. Suddenly Warren flung the blade towards Michael with incredible speed, but Michael didn't feel the impact as he flinched away from the incoming projectile. He opened his eyes and saw the dagger floating peacefully in front of him as Warren stood with an arm outstretched and a dark green sigil glowing on the palm of his hand. Unlike Michael's, Warren's sigil was circular with only a thin cross-hair decorating the central space. The scene remained static for a few seconds before Warren lowered his arm and the dagger fell to the floor with a light tap. The gifted General then explained it all to him, and Michael quickly saw why he was being kept alive. Both of them had been given sigils by mysterious voices that came to them in dreams; Warren did not mention the name Jangbu but Michael was sure it was the same being from the description he gave. It seemed that the globalists would need both of these sigils to reach what Warren was calling 'our goal'. This goal, he soon explained, was something Michael initially thought must be a cover story, but he could see in Warren's eyes a dedication that could only be inspired by his genuine desire to make his words into reality. Could this really be what all this was about? Pursuing some legend? He spoke of the place called Shambala that the file Michael had accessed had described. He told in a lecturing tone of how it was a sacred settlement to the native peoples of Tibet that surrounded its hidden location, and how it harboured those among them those who had achieved, 'Enlightenment'. Warren made a point of not describing what this Enlightenment was but it seemed clear that it was of some nefarious use to the globalists, and he aimed to secure it. The file had been the log of the first attempt by a world leader to secure this power: a German team under

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Hitler's orders had ventured into the mountains where Shambala was said to be hidden, only to be found dead on a distant mountain trail by wandering shepherds. The diaries of these men had spoken of torturous voices in their heads that had disorientated them and led them astray whilst gradually wearing their minds down to insanity. They described walking through caves illuminated by astral blue crystal stalagmites and encountering inexplicable lush green pastures deep within the snow covered mountains. After his rambling explanation that left Michael a little unsure of what to believe, Warren turned and once again pointed at him. And so you see, we need you to join us on a little trip to find Shambala. We know something the Germans didn't: that the sigils yourself and I bear are the key to finding Shambala's location, and its power. It wasn't, as Michael had been holding out, all some joke or gross misunderstanding. The idea that there was some deeper power in life seemed to have at least some truth to it, the sigil on his hand was enough to tell him that. Moreover there appeared to be at least a hint of a legitimate way that they might be able to utilize an esoteric power based upon this veiled world. Michael breathed deeply and attempted to think clearly. So once again he was going to be a pawn in a power grab, but this time he at least knew there was a way to stop it if he chose to believe the words of Jangbu, the being that had empowered both him and his enemy. Perhaps both of them were the pawns here, pawns to a power that could overwhelm their consciousness and have them change their lives into humble servitude to an unprocurable voice. It seemed this was something Jangbu and the globalist mind devices had in common. So you knew that Rawley would die if he touched me? asked Michael with a tinge of anger in his words. Yes. Well, actually not really. The sigil gives us powers you see. Mine is this handy telekinesis, and my, err, research gave me some idea of what yours might be. But I needed to do a test, and that Rawley was always a bit of a liability. We're better off without him. Warren's words were emotionless and straight forward. Michael's anger increased upon considering this man's disregard for human life. If there hadn't been so many soldiers he would have lunged forward and given his touch of death another 'test'. I shall do nothing without my wife, Michael eventually stated bluntly, setting a firm gaze on General Warren who was now sitting upright in one of the seats by the consoles. Warren smirked and stretched his arms. He flicked his hand and the dagger on the floor returned to his side in a flash. Indeed. You needn't worry: your precious wife will be coming with us. We

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can't kill you just yet but we can do anything we please to her, and I'm sure you'd rather see that not happen. It seemed these despicable rebels were no better than Colonel Bridges; the deja-vu was overwhelming as he recalled his eventful mission performed under the very same duress that would be tragically compelling him once more. Yes, continued Warren, I think we're going to have a very productive venture Mr. Durant. He turned away from Michael and spoke under his breath. Try not to let your sins get to you.

9 ~Slingshot and Stone~ The following day Michael stepped out into the bustling hangar bay, weary of the gun barrel levelled inches behind his back. He was in the brightly lit warehouse where in ages past the Royal Air Force had kept their most advanced and secret aircraft, including his old Aurora Mark Two. Today it was lined with Vail craft, the exquisite machinations that the globalists had pilfered from Colonel Bridges' advanced arsenal and made their own. All around these craft were soldiers who busily yet silently loaded canisters and crates into the holds of the sleek circular ships. Michael was led by a small band of guards towards one of the Vail craft at the far end of the hangar. His eyes scanned the groups by each craft, looking for any sign of Louise amongst the heavily equipped troops and more nimble ground crew. The guard at his back stopped and told him to wait beside a pile of metal crates that were waiting to be loaded into a ship. As time went by, most of the materials waiting by the various craft disappeared; the soldiers would later have to cram themselves into the remaining space in the cargo bays. Michael mused on how apt it was that these servant soldiers sat amongst the cargo: the globalists probably also considered their troops to be nothing more than objects. Soon the doors right at the other end of the hangar opened up and General Warren strode confidently into the space, the echoes of his boots on the metallic floor just reaching Michael's ears through those of his huge retinue of soldiers and scientists. The mass of bodies made quick progress down the centre of the warehouse right towards where Michael was watching them from, and eventually stopped right next to him. He saw some of the scientists throw him a few forlorn looks. Years ago these same men had constructed the plane that had kept him alive in those last days of the war. Warren jumped up onto a solitary storage crate and called for all of the

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occupants of the expansive hangar to gather around him, an order that was quickly fulfilled. Michael did not move; the crowd formed around him and made him anxious that his deathly hand might claim another of these brainwashed men. Would that be so bad? Warren began to speak. My friends, you are here today to help begin the story that will be known to every man woman and child for the entirety of our species' future. It will be the story of how a brave few brought human kind to into the realms of Enlightenment and made our temporary cure for war everlasting. There was a brief bout of applause at this point. Michael pondered on just how this Enlightenment was going to prevent war for ever, and felt vindicated in his assumptions that the globalists' plan seemed to involve gaining yet more control over the already puppet-like minds of human beings. As the applause faded away like a dying storm, Warren continued. Recent developments have meant that we are now able to access this great opportunity. I guess that whilst I'm thinking about it I should introduce you to Michael Durant. Warren pointed at Michael, prompting the crowd around him to bend their necks to view the subject. Without Michael none of this would be possible, Warren continued, so I'd like you to give him a round of applause! The crowd broke out into another wave of clapping as Michael stood blankfaced and staring at the ground. He would let Warren have his fun for now; there would surely be a chance to repay him once he decided just how he was going to end their plans. Now you all know what you're meant to be doing so I shall not hold you any longer, though there is just one more person I'd like you all to know. The tone in Warren's voice prompted Michael to look up, hoping to see him pointing out the location of Louise, but his arms were firmly by his sides. There was a moment of strange silence, watered down by the whirring of air conditioners and the Vail craft's buzzing electrical engines. Out of this subtle wash came a clunky echo. At once the whole crowd turned on their heels to look back down the hangar towards the doors. Michael could barely see the figures entering the room over the tops of the audiences' heads, but he could tell that two of them were carrying a stretcher with someone lying heavily across its green fabric. The crowd was still and silent as the small group paraded up the warehouse towards them. Michael soon saw that he was right in his suspicions: it was Louise lying on that stretcher. She seemed to be unconscious and there was a thick grey electronic medical support bracer around her leg that was no doubt filling her with the drugs keeping her comatose. Her sleek form, encased in an olive green jumpsuit,

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was carried rhythmically across the hangar. Michael felt roaring emotion but no impulse to act, not that there was any viable action that might meet the demands of his racing heart; doing anything sudden might leave her dead before he could even reach her, now just a few meters away. The sight of the breathing mask over her face brought back faint memories of how he had found her in that hospital bed as a teenager after she had collapsed, now decades old but still floating in his mind. The same feeling of deep horror that had manifested in him then seemed to slip out of his memories and into the present, forcing him to close his eyes briefly and take a deep breath so as to keep his composure. This, Warren boomed, is Louise Durant. Not in such good shape apparently, but I'm sure she'll be fine. Warren looked at Michael with a smile, but Michael's gaze was fixed on Louise so he quickly looked back to the rest of his audience. She too will be joining us as a special guest, so do be nice to her. But I digress, we've waited enough, let's get this revolution started! There was a bout of plain applause once again and the crowd dispersed to go to their various crafts. Michael stepped forward to move towards Louise but was instantly halted by a gloved hand on his shoulderthe fabric preventing its wearer from experiencing the deadly curseand a gun in his back. He complied with the soldier's growled orders and followed him into the cramped Vail craft. As the door closed he watched the stretcher bearers haul Louise into the craft opposite his as Warren strode up the ramp behind them. The question of how exactly he might stop the formidable force arrayed around him returned to his mind, but still found itself no more attended to than before. Surely it was impossible for one man to defeat this army as Jangbu so desired?

10 ~Martial Spirits~ Louise's first feeling was the cold wind sweeping over her. She lay still, unable to discern any useful signals from the swirling noise that danced in her head. With stinging pain she opened her eyes to an unfocused display of dull green that slowly formed into the image of a billowing canopy above her. There was an unusual heat on her mouth as she breathed, prompting her to slowly turn her eyes downwards to view the steamy breathing mask strapped to her head. Wondering why she might be wearing such a mask brought her memories

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back: those troops had stormed the cabin and injected her with some hideous looking liquid. Assumably the place she now awoke in had been decided by the globalists also, and the fact that she wasn't dead meant they must want something from her. This thought reminded her of him. It wasn't unreasonable to believe that Michael was dead; how much time had passed since they had taken him? The air around her was fairly cold, especially with the darting wind that would periodically race over her, spawning a ricocheting flapping from the loose material hanging down from the sides of the canopy above her. She looked around and noted the various dark metal crates piled up beside her, interspersed with computer consoles and monitors flashing with images of bouncing waveforms and pulsating radar images. Thoughts of where she might be were entirely futile with such little information, so she lay almost thoughtlessly, watching the canopy flex up and down in the breeze until a shadow was cast over her by a man in a deep black uniform. His short grey hair and gullied face betrayed his age. Rise and shine, Mrs. Durant, came his unheard voice, accompanied by a repeated hand signal implying the message through action. Louise slowly lifted herself up to a sitting position, pulling the mask from her face and watching the man's lips as he spoke. My name is General Warren. It was by my order that you are here and I thought it only appropriate to explain my motives. Louise frowned. Okay, was all she said, unsure of how to act in this strange situation; her mind was distracted by thoughts of her husband. Would you care to walk with me? asked Warren, holding out a hand to help Louise up from her low bed. Louise ignored the gesture and climbed up onto her feet, grimacing as she placed weight on her leg. I am sorry about that shooting business, continued Warren, withdrawing his hand with a dark smirk. You might be pleased to know that the one who enacted it has already left this world. It took Louise a moment to realise what he meant. She chose not to comment on this point, after all she was having trouble deciding just what she should think of it. True she had wished him dead at a time that seemed as if it was only earlier that day, but years of war had made loss of life such an abhorrence that she could hardly even tolerate it in her enemies. Warren led Louise away from the small tent where she had been lying, which she could now see had been jointly occupied by laborious computer personnel. He weaved her through a path across the apparently expansive camp that sat on a stony plateau below the most glorious panoramic mountains, flanked by huge rolling clouds

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that shone as an orange nebula in the dying light. Vail craft occasionally darted out of the clouds and swept down over the camp, or just drifted along high in the atmosphere, reflecting a spiked aura of sunlight to Louise's skyward eyes. Warren finally stopped in front of a bank of technicians who sat stooped over panels, listening carefully to fuzzy voices reporting through their headsets. This, he gestured to the mountains around them, is innermost Tibet, a region of mystery, unknown to all but the most hardy of mountain wanderers. We are here to find something of great value to the greater development of human kind, and though you may not imagine so, you, my dear, are a crucial part of this noble quest. Louise was again unsure of how to respond, so simply followed Warren's lead. How so? she said, verging on sarcasm. Perhaps you can guess. In all honesty it is your husband that we want, and it is you that he wa~ He's alive!? Louise interrupted, stepping forward and staring heatedly at Warren's lips to read the response. This response was slow in coming, but it was what she desperately wanted to hear. Yes, Michael is alive and well. He is with the expedition group trying to find the afore-mentioned article. I doubt you know why, but he is the only person on this planet who can actually find it for us. Louise was elated at the news of Michael's continued existence, and in her excitement felt pressed to extract more information from the smiling Warren. How can that be? What is it you are looking for? Warren seemed to chuckle to himself before answering. You know I thought you might not even ask. Nevertheless, it is not something that I can reveal to you at this stage. Rest assured that should he complete his assigned tasks, you shall see him again. Louise's questions were answered but her heart was pounding with a joyous relief. The life of despair she had foreseen for herself may give way to something she could bear, maybe even something, as her hopeful mind speculated, to rival her life back in the cabin. She was trying to think of an effective question to follow up with, but Warren had turned away and was speaking to the radio operator behind him. Louise could not see Warren muttering to the distressed man: Dammit, already? All right, begin the triangulation and prepare scout team Delta to move to their location. Tell the expedition group to continue Westwards and have scout team Charlie take over for Alpha. We can't afford any more incidents like this one or we'll all be dead before the morning.

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11 ~Soaring~ Michael heaved himself up the last hard-worn step to join the ring of soldiers fanning out across the flat plateau. From here they commanded a wide view over the deep valley to their North and the harsh slopes on the other side. Ever since he had been pushed out of the Vail craft into a fledgling camp, he had been led forcibly first into the expedition group, and then along with the perilous route across the peaks and troughs of the mountainous terrain West of the landing area. Around him was a constant guard of silent soldiers who seemed to traverse the rough paths with far more ease than he; their sturdy boots were of far more use than his thin fraying loafers. The plateau they had just reached was one of the many checkpoints of the journey where Michael would be given the rare privilege of a hard mat to lie on and a chance to pilfer what he could from the group's various supply packs. The strangest thing though was how the soldiers that made up the bulk of the group, around fifty in all, never spoke beyond answering the orders of the rather plain commanding officer, one Captain Pillar. This Pillar had seemed rather taken aback to meet Michael. So youre Michael Durant, he had said whilst eyeing him up and down. It seemed Michael was well known amongst his enemies, which in a way he took as a positive point. After this initial meeting Pillar had kept communications to a minimum, but Michael was well aware that Pillars thin eyes were regularly set on him with a stern frown, and even when Michael looked back he wouldnt alter his view; this man was unabashed. Michael pulled the fading brown mat from his pack and looked for a suitable place to lay it down. The soldiers were darting about everywhere like hive-minded ants, and the pieces of ground that were unoccupied kept changing, whilst always becoming fewer in number. Eventually Michael set the mat down in front of the freshly assembled central tent and let his pack slam recklessly into the ground beside it. He lay back, prompting a half-smile at the rudimentary luxury, and began to listen to the bustling activity around him. He still despaired at the fact he had not seen Louise anywhere during his brief walk through the main base, and she definitely wasnt anywhere in the expedition group, he had made himself sure of that at the first checkpoint at the

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expense of a vital chance to rest. Still he was convinced, perhaps foolishly, that she was alive somewhere in the ranks of the main camp, his only evidence being that she should remain alive as long as the mission was still progressing. He decided to listen to the chattering jargon of the radio operators inside the central tent. There was one who he could hear clearly above the others; he was apparently placed just on the other side of the fabric. This is Epsilon One calling Scout Group Alpha please report, over. The sound of fuzz and white noise whistled through the tent to Michaels ears. The operator repeated his call but the same static was the only reply. Captain Pillar sir, sounded his voice, but the following words quickly died away into a mess of chatter from the rest of the staff as he apparently walked away from Michael deeper into the tent. Michael listened in curiosity for Pillars dull voice, but there was too much noise coming from the whirring generators and the beeping radar to make out anything more than individual words. Eventually Michael heard footsteps and someone sitting down in the chair by the radio. This is Epsilon One calling HQ, over. It was unmistakably the voice of Pillar, a development that caused Michael to sit up and move his ear closer to the fabric; something must be going on for him to be taking a personal role in the mundane processes of protocol. HQ receiving, go ahead, over. This is Captain Pillar reporting for Epsilon One, Scout Group Alpha is not responding to our communications, requesting radio triangulation to acquire their position, over. There was a short silence before the reply came. Captain Pillar please confirm: is Scout Group Alpha M.I.A.? Over. Pillar sighed audibly and Michael heard a shifting of feet. Positive, he sullenly responded, Over. There was a rather long silence now in which neither the radio nor Pillar said anything, a silence that Michael listened to attentively, ignoring the soldiers who glanced at how he was pressed up against the tent as they sped past. Eventually the radio sprang back into life. Captain Pillar this is HQ, triangulation reports a signal from sector 57 to your North-East. Were sending Scout Team Delta to investigate, you are to continue West and deploy Scout Team Charlie on your right flank, by order of General Warren. Over. Wil-co, over and out. Rapid footsteps followed as Pillar tramped away and Michael moved back from the fabric, noticing the ache in his neck that was protesting against his overly

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strenuous position. He was unsure of what to think of the sequence he had just heard. He could only speculate as to why a scout group would be missing. He was sure there must be more to this expedition than was made clear; the level of firepower they had brought meant this couldnt be a simple walk in the hills. What haunting presence was it that left even the globalists in fear?

12 ~Cat and Mouse~ Only the sound of the mountain wind broke the stillness of the night, a night made bright by the portable floodlights and night-vision goggles of the sleepless guards surrounding the camp. The group hadnt moved since Alpha Team had been lost a few hours ago; Pillar and the other commanders were busy moving the reserve scouting team, Charlie, into position North of the camp. Michael had enjoyed the prolonged break. They probably wouldnt move until daybreak given the heightened sense of danger among the officers; still no explanation had been found for Alpha Team's disappearance. He had spent the majority of this time asleep, but was now in a half-conscious state in which thoughts of Louise dominated his cognition. He had endured much greater separation than this in the past, but the fact that this ordeal seemed so aimless and unjustified tortured his restless mind. It was around three in the morningthough he didnt know this at the time when Captain Pillar carefully shook him awake with a blank face and calmly spoke. Please follow me. Michael heaved himself up, fighting the aches that were spreading like toxic weeds through his muscles, and slumped into a slow walk behind Pillars juxtaposing upright gait. They walked away from the camp towards a small raised area where a sharp eyed scout sat amongst the dry tufts of grass silently scanning the moonlit mountains. Pillar muttered a trivial order as he walked past the man, prompting him to quickly disappear back down into the camp. Pillar wordlessly signalled Michael to stand next to him as they gazed westward into the valleys and peaks that would by morning be underfoot. Can you see it? said Pillar, his eyes fixed on the horizon, directing Michaels attention to his point of vision. Michael looked closely at the lit up clouds beyond the distant mountains; something was illuminating the sky from below. The light? Yes, can you describe it to me?

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Michael viewed the light once more in order to formulate a description whilst he privately questioned the purpose of this exercise. Well it seems fairly white. The source is beyond the next mountain. It must be very bright to light up the sky like that. Or perhaps just very large. There was a pause as Michael stopped to prompt a response from Pillar. It eventually came as Pillar turned away from the distant light and looked back down into the camp pensively. So they were right. This means we are close. Close to what? asked Michael, feigning ignorance of the whole Shambala idea; the Captain seemed to be more open now; perhaps he would gain some useful information. After all, he still had his clandestine task of stopping them. Our quarry, Michael, spoke Pillar after a sigh. It was the first time he had addressed Michael by name, and the way he spoke it seemed laboured. Surely they told you why youre here? Well I managed to work out some of it Michael mused conservatively, still hoping to pry some answers out of him. That glow, its some kind of, err, sacred place right? Pillar turned around and looked Michael in the eye with a dull intensity. If you wanted me to reveal something to you then youre wasting your time, he stated; apparently he had seen through Michaels ploy. You know all you need to know for the moment. Michael was undisturbed by the compromise of his scheme. He returned immediately with a question that had only just occurred to him. If I know all I need to, why did you show me his glow? The intensity of Pillars glare faltered and his eyes slowly turned away to the black overcast sky. He took a few paces around the raised area before replying. I guess this is something I will have to reveal to you. I cannot see the glow. I didnt think I would. Be content to know that our intelligence suggests that only you will be able to see it. The file from our base? Michael responded, drawing a silence from Pillar that confirmed his suspicion. Our intelligence also suggests, continued Pillar, ignoring Michaels interjection, that the mark on your hand should react to the energy in this place. Michael raised his hand and looked closely at the sigil on his palm. Indeed he could see a very faint luminescence, only visible in the contrast of the night to the keen eye. As he observed it Pillar suddenly stepped towards him from behind and looked over his shoulder, prompting Michael to step away and turn to his face him with arms raised in a loosely defensive posture. Wait, wait. Would you show me that mark again? Pillar asked weakly; his

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steadfast composure had seemingly been broken by the prospect of seeing the sigil. Michael looked piercingly at Pillar, scanning for hostile intentions. He quickly allowed himself to let down his guard and held his hand out palm side up. Pillars eyes fixed themselves on the mark and he leant down towards in it awe. Be careful, Michael warned, if you touch it~ I know, I know, Pillar blurted out hurriedly, standing up straight once again and allowing his eyes to blink at last. Its just I see the glow. Michael was unsure of what to say. You mean to say that not everyone can see it? Pillar looked up as a cawing bird swept overhead. Hmm. It seems indeed you have cornered me here. Should I tell you why it is significant? Hmm. Do you need to know? No, no I dont think so. He looked back to Michael. Dont worry about it Michael, it's just something I was wondering about. Michael noted that he seemed much more upbeat all of a sudden. Assumably the fact that he could see the glow of the sigil meant something to him; was it something he had learned from the files, or was it, as Michael was beginning to suspect, that he too had heard the voice of Jangbu?

13 ~Permeated~ The small stones ground between his feet as he followed Pillar down the gentle slope back into the camp. His mind was formulating a response to the piece of information Pillar had just given him. So you were in the Forty-Second Mechanised? he asked, surprised by how weak his own voice sounded. Positive, I was the second-in-command of Fox Company. I met her on several occasions. Michael was again left silent, unsure of what he should ask. What more was there to ask? Pillar had fought in the same Company as his wife years ago: although it seemed somehow like such a strange link he couldnt infer any significance; objectively it was just an interesting fact. Perhaps there was something more he needed to ask? Ah, was all he could manage. Pillar displayed a minuscule smile and took the initiative. She was a vital part of the Company; she was our senior medic for many

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years. She saved countless lives Michael. Pillar glanced back at him, but Michaels eyes were fixed on the ground. They passed the outermost tents of the camp, stepping carefully over trailing wires and re-entering the earshot of the various guards and scheming officers pouring over maps, thus blocking any further elaboration on Pillars experiences. Ill see you in the morning Mr. Durant, remarked Pillar, wandering off towards the main tent without even a backwards glance. Michael stood still for while before wandering back through the night to his dusty camping mat. His mind soared through reams of speculation as to what purpose Pillar had meant in telling him about his past with Louise. There was a chance it was nothing, but a far more appealing chance that it was some kind of chink in his armour that he might find again, with vital, or even just interesting, information being the reward. Thinking about what he might gain from the man brought his thoughts back to a far most grandiose topic: how he would supposedly save the world by stopping this whole expedition. He had hoped that he would spark some genius as to the method by which to do so, but in days of walking the mountain trails nothing had presented itself to him. For starters there were far too many troops for him to ever take any brash actions, no matter where he thought they might get him, and of course they always had a trump card: Louise. He wondered how things might change if he could only take Louise out of the firing line. Had she never been brought into the equation he might have planned to just risk escaping into the morning mist and dooming the expedition to failure, but her life would likely be forfeit were he to do that now. It would take something more subtle to solve this puzzle, but he had never been one for subterfuge; his career had been spent taking the fight to the enemy and disappearing into the clouds before the flames had subsided, but now he was mired in his adversary's grip with a pistol to his wife's head and countless gun-toting eyes watching his every move. As he lay in the eerie darkness he clenched his fists to spite the cold, and in doing so began a new train of thought: could his power, this deathly hand, be of any use? He could kill anyone he wished with a touch, but in what way might killing someone help? Should he move against any member of this globalist host he would render his life as payment; even with the utmost stealth and subterfuge he would have not only the challenges of escaping the murderous soldiers but would have to rescue and protect Louise along the way. There was a short period in which his mind fell quiet and his subconscious seemed to be convinced he would soon fall asleep, but it was suddenly invigorated by a new thought that sent a shot of nerves through his stomach. After cursing himself for not thinking of it earlier he considered the new option that was unfolding in his

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mind like a tidal wave crashing on the shore: the expedition would fail without both of the sigils. Both Jangbu and Warren had mentioned that the sigils were somehow key to finding Shambala. This being the case, his touch of death could take Warren out of this life and doom the expedition to failure. If he could first get Louise somewhere safe, he could destroy Warren and give his wife a chance at life, though the keen trigger-fingers of the globalist soldiers would ensure it was one without him. In his mind he imaged Louise whining about this plan. I'm not going to escape without you, her voice would ring. You still haven't taken me for that dinner! Michael burst into an unstoppable grin as he remembered how he had promised that after the war he would take her out to dinner, a promise made in good humour against the shadow of death across them; not much had changed since then after all. Despite this, the idea of killing Warren still found favour in his mind, aside from a solitary detraction that made itself clear through a distinct feeling of discomfort when he imagined how he might commit the act: his oath to never take another life. His sins weighed on him heavily enough. They were a silent torturer that was unshakable and frustratingly unforgettable, and he was not keen to make them more potent by adding additional lives to the tally. Jangbu had said to him: 'Act wisely'. Surely he couldn't be condoning death with these words? Though if not, why was such a morbid power bestowed on him? Was it some kind of test? Jangbu had implied that he needed to use the power to stop the globalists, but if not for taking life then by what method might this be achieved? With many questions and no answers, his tired mind threw itself into sleep.

14 ~Returns~ The whole group walked with cautious precision as they edged through the thick mist in the low valley. It was afternoon but the mighty body of heavy vapour had not dispersed, and Michael could only see the soldiers to his sides and a faint dark shape two meters in front of him as they trekked steadily along the overgrown trail. The warriors were all on edge after one of their number had collapsed in a foray of screams a few hours ago, shaking his head wildly before drawing a side arm and taking his own life. Something had disturbed him so powerfully and rapidly that he had lost the will to live, and all without warning or any identifiable means of doing

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so. The slow pace ebbed to a halt. The soldiers eyed the mist all around them, and Michael could hear Pillar shouting something at the head of the marching column. There was a long pause whilst the soldiers scanned the limited horizon for movement; Michael wondered if there had been another abnormality among the men that had halted their progress. He remembered Pillar describing to him the previous night how Scout Team Delta had found some bodies covered in stab wounds around Team Alphas abandoned radios. Suddenly the rapid clicking of gunfire, dampened by the thick mist, echoed like the sound of a helicopter racing down the valley. Michael found himself pushed to the ground by a soldier behind him as bullets whizzed above them. He heard a short thud and saw the soldier fall to the ground as the gunfire intensified. The soldiers at the front of the column were firing as well now; the echoing shots moulded into a uniform layer that resounded like an infinite cracking of glass. Michael crawled on his stomach to the edge of the trail where the ground dipped, providing some basic cover. His heart jumped as a cocktail of dusty mud and stones blasted up in front of his face where a stray bullet slammed into the hardened ground. Soldiers came running past him, advancing up to the front of the column where the threat seemed to be coming from. The sounds of fighting got closer and closer. One of the soldiers stumbled and fell across him in the ditch, his face covered in blood that was pouring from a messy rupture in his forehead. Michael had fought through the whole war, but had never seen such a horrifying testament to its monstrosity. From the sky he had sent hundreds to their deaths by searing napalm or skin-tearing shrapnel, but when the damage a bullet does to the body is seen up close it makes it all too real. For a few moments his eyes were fixed on the blood pouring from the open wound, but his training had served him well, and he was able to regain his composure quickly. He pushed the body aside and leant over it, observing the network of straps and cords that held his equipment to his armour. He carefully undid some of the connections and removed the soldiers knife sheath from across his chest, before strapping it around himself under his shirt. The garment was loose enough to conceal the small bulge that the sheath caused, and if they hadnt bothered to do any routine searches yet it was unlikely that they would now. He was sure the hidden blade would come in useful. The gunfire seemed to have subsided, and the soldiers were frantically shouting that they had lost their targets. It seemed whoever had attacked had lost their nerve, or their lives. Michael raised himself to a crouch and surveyed the area. He could hear the rapid stamping of boots getting louder and louder, and suddenly a

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soldier with no helmet burst out of the mist just a few meters away. On his forehead was something Michael instantly recognized: the sigil. Aside from this, the man appeared to be an ordinary globalist soldier. This development was quickly over-shadowed by the fact that the man was running straight at Michael with a raised knife and murderous eyes. Michael stood up and reached under his shirt, preparing to pull the blade, but a high pitched gunshot washed through the silence and the man was sent reeling to the floor, landing right at Michaels feet. Michael quickly withdrew his hand from his shirt, and at that very moment Pillar emerged from the mist, apparently following in the attackers footsteps. Are you okay? Pillar immediately asked, lowering the pistol in his hand, the slider on which was locked back, its supply of bullets exhausted. On his head was a set of infra-red goggles that he lazily pulled off and let hang around his neck. Yeah, mumbled Michael with a nod, looking around at the three bodies scattered around him. He tried to think of an appropriate question to ask regarding the globalist soldier who had just tried to kill him, but Pillar pre-empted his inquiry. We found Alpha Team, he said blandly. They engaged us at close range at the front of the column. He have casualties so we wont be moving for a while, Im calling in med-evac, maybe even some reinforcements. I want you to stick with me. As he spoke he leant down and pushed the dead soldier onto his back. Michael joined him in examining the mark on his forehead, and confirmed it was identical to the sigil on his hand. Mind control? suggested Michael, just as blandly as Pillar had spoken. Pillar said nothing, but clearly was considering it as an explanation. Were not meant to be here, he mumbled quietly to himself, before walking towards the front of the column and beckoning Michael to follow him. As they advanced, Michael was able to see the damage done by the fighting further along the trail; he counted scores of bodies, several of which also had the sigil imprinted on their forehead. They spent some time wandering through the mist, checking on the various platoons, almost all of which reported some loses. Some had been destroyed completely. Pillar managed to find a working radio and began checking in with the other group elements. From the sound of it the scout teams had been left alone, and the main force was being brought up to reinforce them at some point during the night. It wasnt clear whether Warren himself would be joining them, but if he did Michael was certain that Louise would be brought up too. Sitting on rock beside Pillars temporary command tent, he impatiently waited out the falling night.

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15 ~Commitment~ The faint echoing of gunshots barely reached the main camp, but many a keen ear was present to hear the bouncing waves discretely infiltrate the air. Louise was unaware of Warren's booming voice sending orders back and forth across the encampment as she sat on a precipice over a large crevice looming on the far boundary of the globalists' tent city. The afternoon sun fought valiantly with the chilling mountain air, and the spoils of this battle made it just about viable for Louise to enjoy the harsh environment. She became aware of movements behind her and turned around with one eye open. She saw that the tents close to her were being hurriedly packed away by sweating soldiers whilst beyond them men were dashing around in all directions. She sat for a while longer viewing the scene, reluctant to end her peaceful solitude on the precipice. Eventually she stood up and stretched her arms to the white sky. The quick disassembling of the camp continued. More and more tents were falling and Louise began to wonder why the sudden unscheduled movement was occurring; surely there was something wrong? She wandered slowly into the camp. The soldiers ignored her completely, too absorbed into their hasty work. Above them, several groups of Vail craft gently swooped down towards the staging area at the centre of the camp, and Louise became certain they were moving to some place else. She kept walking, waiting for a hand to land on her shoulder and led her to wherever it was deemed necessary that she be. When it finally did she turned her head to see the tired face of General Warren who spoke without looking at her. There have been a few issues up ahead. We'll be joining the expedition group from now on. Saying no more, he brushed past Louise and beckoned her to follow him towards the staging area. She complied happily, for she knew well that Michael must be somewhere in that expedition group. Unless of course the issues Warren spoke of had something to do with him. Louise stopped herself thinking of such things; it would do no good to indulge in paranoid speculation. She had no reason to believe Michael wasn't absolutely fine, but as she had learned throughout her life: absence of evidence was not evidence of absence. Not long after the commotion had started, herself, Warren, and a group of heavily armoured troopsassumably Warren's honour guardpiled into a Vail craft

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and sat silently through the short journey that followed. When the doors opened again there was a gust of freezing air that immediately made Louise shiver. Warren stood, prompting his guards to do the same, and as he walked out he dropped a heavy brown jacket into Louise's lap. She looked at it for a second, then looked up, but Warren was already out of sight. It was a trivial comparison, but Louise decided that Warren was a better man that Colonel Bridges had been, despite their shared hunger for power. Outside, many other Vail craft had touched down all around and they were now spilling out troops with heavy packs on their backs. The visibility was poor; she could hardly see much further than the group of Vail craft around her, but she could just see the last of Warren's honour guard fading into the mist up a small incline. She followed at a half-run and soon caught up with the group. Warren had just finished speaking into his radio and he beckoned Louise to come closer. The guards surrounded him like a wall, their weapons held almost at head height ready to fire at any moment. This mist is too thick to go further by air, Warren spoke, this time looking right into Louise's eyes. We shall continue on foot to reach the expedition group. We should arrive there at some time during the night. Stay with me for now. Louise nodded and Warren turned away. He waved his guards forward and they began the trek further up the incline towards the high mountain trail. With them walked hundreds of troops, laden with packed tents and supplies to last several weeks; the sounds of their thick boots crunching against the tiny pieces of stone on the ground were invisible companions only to the whistling wind and the occasional call of a wild bird. They walked at a uniform pace for hours, up and down over the mountainsides as the mist constantly grew thicker and thicker. Warren would look back now and then for the briefest of moments, noting that Louise was still pacing along behind him before returning his view to the small computer in his hand that was displaying a detailed map of the area. When darkness fell on them the soldiers activated lights on their chests and weapons that made clear to them only a few meters of space; the mist quickly blocked the photons' advance. Louise could only see the dozen or so men around her. It seemed strange that there were hundreds more just a stone's throw away that she was completely unaware of. She had grown tired almost to the point of stopping when the marching came to an abrupt halt. The mist in front of them was slightly illuminated. Warren busily fired streams of orders into his radio whilst Louise stood still, watching soldiers rush past them from all directions. Some of them were apparently from the expedition group as they were covered in dirt, and some bore wounds on their limbs

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that were wrapped in stained bandages. Louise eyed the mist before her carefully, willing fate to somehow have Michael emerge from it, but no such event occurred. She was led by a soldier to a tent that apparently had just been erected on some slightly uneven ground where she found herself lodged with dozens of canisters of water. There was a small space on the floor where a sleeping bag had been laid out and a small pack of food left. The only light came from the soldiers outside, but Louise was sure that the label on the pack read 'WARREN'.

16 ~Demands~ The mist hid him well as Michael carefully moved across the plateau where the expedition group had camped to wait for reinforcements. Pillar had said that the main force would arrive at the rear of the column during the night, and the thought of having a chance to see Louise had driven away any chance of finding sleep. Every now and again the mist would become brighter as a soldier wandered past; Michael was careful to duck behind a tent every time he heard the crunching of footsteps. The tents became more dense and he was sure he had found his way into the camp of the main force. There were soldiers everywhere, and his advance through the maze of canopies was slow, not that he knew in any way where to go. If Louise was anywhere then it would probably be towards the centre of the area with the commanders, but that would surely be the hardest area to enter undetected. At several points he crouched down behind some pile of boxes or a supply tent and wondered what possible hope he had of actually finding her amongst the hundreds of people arrayed along the trail here. Yet even though it seemed like a forlorn hope, he could not bring himself to turn back, for the faintest glimmer of a chance was enough to risk detection for. But what if they decided to do something to her as a punishment for his disobeying of orders? It was too painful to consider. He would have to be invisible in his advance; the guilt of having Louise punished by his own foolish actions would be unbearable. He had no idea where he was, but all the tents he found around him were apparently unoccupied: they were full of supplies. There weren't many soldiers around so he must have already passed through the guards' perimeter. He would be relatively safe from detection here, but couldn't possibly know which way he should proceed next in order to reach his target. He walked for a short time, then sat down in a darkened back alley formed

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by the rows of tents. The tent lines were too dense for a heavily equipped soldier to patrol the thin path, and indeed the only feet he heard passing were quite distant. He sat for a while looking upwards at the mist above him, marvelling at its uniform darkness. It reminded him of the uniform brightness of the place where he had spoken to Jangbu, the Plane of Clarity, and in turn it reminded him of his mission. His best idea was still to kill Warren, but this course of action ran contrary to his desire to survive and his intrinsic duty to protect Louise. Lost deep in thought, it took him a moment to respond to the sound of voices faintly reaching him from a few tents away. He primed his ears and listened carefully; the voices were low and spoke slowly, but he recognized them both. One was the dull drone of Pillar, and the other the heavenly song of Louise. He almost jumped up, then quickly began to make his way through the network of ropes between the tents towards the sound of her sweet voice. He found the tent it was coming from and sat behind it restlessly, listening to the words in the darkness. Sorry, what was that? spoke Louise. I asked if you knew why Michael is helping... us, said Pillar, pausing to chose the pronoun carefully. Michael noted how his hesitation rang with doubt. Indeed Pillar seemed to be somehow different from the rest of the globalists. Perhaps he too had somehow escaped the influence of the brainwashing aurora that had reprogrammed everyone else. Michael had thought only himself and Louise had escaped it. His mind had already been rewired in a far less invasive manner by that strange device Bridges had used on him back in the radar station where it had all began. Louise had been deep within the shielding of the American base the whole time. If Pillar too was able to escape the power of that vile Machine, then perhaps there were others like him? Michael had no time to ponder this further as he heard movement coming from within the tent. He didn't really know why, but his hand moved to press against the knife strapped across his stomach. He heard the tent unzip and Pillar stepped out. Michael peeked around and saw him leaning back into the tent whilst reaching for something on his belt. His hand now moved under his shirt and gripped the handle of the knife, but moved away again when he saw Pillar's hand was not seeking a weapon, but instead a small piece of paper lodged into an ammunition pouch. He passed the paper to Louise. I'll see you again soon, Corporal, he said, lazily saluting and turning up the brightness of the light on his uniform before walking away. Michael forced himself to wait for a few hellish seconds before moving around to the front of the tent. The zip was still half undone so he ducked low and looked inside. There was Louise, sitting with her back to him, looking at the paper under the faint light of a glow stick.

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Michael was perfectly still, letting the smile on his face grow unbounded as he watched her brush her hair back from her face. She seemed to lean closer to the page, looking carefully at something before suddenly turning around and staring Michael right in the eyes. I-impossible... she murmured, before losing her breath as Michael lurched back from her embrace.

17 ~The World Tonight~ The first feeling that ran through her was horror as Michael lurched away from her embrace, but the shaking of Michael's head told her that there was something more to his refusal of her open arms. He held up a hand and pointed to his lips, before silently mouthing the message: You must not touch me. Louise was understandably confused as to this arrangement, but after climbing into the tent Michael quickly filled in the unbelievable details of the sigil and its power. He told of how he had killed Rawley, and Louise remembered Warren telling her that Rawley had been 'dealt with'. Louise remained silent, patiently waiting, her eyes fixed on Michael's lips as he told her about something she had just learned about from Pillar: the mysterious Jangbu. Louise grabbed the paper she had been reading and thrust it in front of Michael, pointing at something written towards the bottom, just above the signature of Captain Pillar: it read, 'When you finish reading this sentence, Michael will be behind you.' Michael paused to re-read it in the dim light of the glow stick, making sure it said what he had thought before silently commenting, Pillar gave you this? he silently commented. Louise nodded and mouthed back a response. Yes, just a moment ago. Look here. Michael was only an amateur at lip readingLouise had taught him a few things during their stay in the cabinbut he managed to get the gist of her words. She was pointing at some text higher up the page that Michael promptly read. It detailed how Pillar had been contacted whilst asleep by Jangbu, and he had told him that he must give this note to Louise on this very night. It went on to describe how Pillar was one of the few people who would be given access to Shambala, along with Michael, herself and General Warren, and that only if everyone who entered made it through to the end of some mysterious event would the power they all sought be

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granted. I don't seek the power, said Michael, his silent voice devoid of emotion, but his face betraying his pleading tone. I really am trying to stop them, that is what Jangbu said I must do. This message... He looked away from Louise and back down to the page. I'm sure it must be somehow part of his plan. Michael hardly believed his own words, though he dearly wanted them to be true. The fact that Jangbu was contacting Pillar as well as him and Warren was certainly suspicious. It seemed that they were all being informed of their paramount importance to finding the elusive goal of the expedition, yet never told of their roles relative to the other two. Either someone was being left out, or not all of what Jangbu was communicating was true. Perhaps none of it was true, though the sigils bore testament to the fact that whoever, or whatever, Jangbu was, he held some real power over the world. As Michael thought about these things, Louise sat looking back and forth between the letter and Michael's face. She was outside of all this; she knew nothing of Jangbu, the sigils, or this supposed quest they were on. She was just a mere hostage, a bartering piece to keep Michael playing the globalists' score. Whatever was going on, it must be important. She asked Michael in a whisper what the expedition was trying to find, but Michael could only shake his head. I have no idea. 'Enlightenment', or something. But I know it's important. We were attacked by rouge globalist soldiers, they were possessed by some hidden power... And some of the other soldiers... They're going crazy. I don't think we're meant to be here Louise. There was silence as they waited for the crunch of footsteps walking past to fade away, then Louise whispered. So do you know how you can stop them? Can you trust that Jangbu? There is a way, but I~ Michael stopped almost immediately in his explanation, paused, then decided he had to tell her the rest. I think if either myself of Warren are killed then we can't get into Shambala. So I was going to kill him with this. He raised his hand displaying the luminescent sigil. But if I do that, we'll never escape with our lives. Louise had no idea what to say. How could she advocate the sacrifice of both of their lives when she had no idea what they were even trying to save? Michael had mentioned that Jangbu had asked him to 'save the world', so whatever he was meant to stop happening must be important. She just knew too little to say anything. All she wanted to do was to take Michael in her arms, but the deadly sigil shining on his hand was a warning to the folly of such an action. Michael sat through Louise's silence, not really expecting a response. He sighed and took a last long look at the beauty of Louise's tired face.

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I have to go, I don't know what they'll do if they find out I'm here, but I don't want to test them. I love you Louise. Louise nodded. I love you too. I'll see you again? Michael similarly nodded a response, before peering out of the tent and slipping away into the cold darkness once more. Keeping to the rope strewn passages between tents he made his way rather more quickly back to the billowing canopy under which he had been sleeping, using his memory of the guards' patrol routes to his advantage as he sneaked through the dangerous insides of the huge beast that was the globalist army. He didn't know when he would see Louise again, but he would make sure that it was soon. For now he needed to have a long think about everything that was going on, about Pillar, the sigils, and most importantly about whether he could trust the voice in his head that called itself Jangbu.

18 ~The Blue Archway~ Michael was constantly wondering if Louise was following somewhere behind him as he trudged through the mist. It had become clear to him that they were on the verge of reaching their destination: the mist around them was glowing with an aquamarine light like the one he had been shown by Pillar a few days ago. They were nearing the source, and he was becoming infected with shots of anxiety every time he tried to speculate as to what would happen next. At several points during the day they stopped marching for a short while as another soldier fell pray to the disease of the mind that was slowly taking its toll on their numbers. Invisibly and silently it spread a fear amongst the men that even their brainwashing could not fully suppress. The pattern seemed to be that the closer they got to their destination, the more often men would fall, sometimes just running wildly away into the mist, sometimes taking their own life in a fit of screams. It was late afternoon when the the marching was ordered to halt once more. The mist around them was glowing extremely brightly now, but Michael was sure only he, Pillar, Warren and maybe even Louise were aware of this. It seemed everyone who Jangbu had contacted was able to perceive this light, but the reason for this was still hidden knowledge. A soldier emerged from the the mist and told him that Pillar needed him at the head of the column. Had they reached their destination then? The soldier spoke

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no more and continued walking towards the rear of the expedition group. Michael watched him walk away, wondering if he was going on to fetch Louise, before turning and striding quickly along the rocky path to Pillar's position. Suddenly the mist seemed to end and Michael walked out into a passage of clear air bathed in cool blue light running between the wall of mist behind him and a towering wall of rock to his front. Directly before him stood Pillar and a group of soldiers, all with their backs to him, examining something in the wall of rock. Michael could see there was something glowing there, the same colour as the light that surrounded them. As he stepped forward, Michael noticed the sigil on his hand becoming noticeably brighter; it now also produced a faint tingling on his skin. Pillar turned around and immediately noted the glowing shape. It seems we have found the entrance, he said casually, gesturing over his shoulder where Michael could now see there as a stone archway carved into the rock face, but the way was blocked by ornately decorated stone doors. Embedded into the archway were clusters of crystals that shone with the soothing blue light that had filled the mist, spreading a unique feeling of calm to Michael as he gazed upon them. And look up there Michael, Pillar continued, pointing skyward. Michael's eyes swept upwards and came to rest on the most magnificent radiant blue ether that seemed to be seeping out from the rock face itself. W-what is it? was all that Michael could manage to say as he rubbed his eyesthey were stinging from their exposure to the dancing sombre light. It's the Shambala beacon. The local legend is that it guides those who are worthy to the gates of Shambala; that's here. We're almost there Michael, soon the secrets of Enlightenment will be granted to us. What secrets? Michael immediately replied, but was unable to prompt a response. At that moment the sound of rapid footsteps became apparent behind them, and from the wall of mist came bounding Warren's honour guard, quickly followed by the man himself, with Louise running close in tow. Michael grinned at her, but she did not return the gesture; her eyes were fixed on the ground and her face was sullen. As Warren walked to take a closer look at the archway she looked over at Michael, filling him with an empathetic sadness. Before Michael could move closer to her and inquire about her distress he found himself being summoned by Warren to stand before the archway. He saw that the deep green sigil on Warren's hand was glowing also, making his skin appear to be discoloured by disease. I see no reason why we should wait, let us open the door to our goal Michael, spoke Warren, almost to himself, staring at the stone barrier before them.

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Do as I do. He placed his hand on the door, and Michael moved to do the same under the heavy gaze of the honour guard. The tingling feeling coming from the sigil became rapidly more intense, almost to the point of becoming painful. The crystals flanking the door changed colour from their luminous blue to an alternating pattern of violet and green to match their sigils, and the door began to subtly vibrate against their fingertips. More and more soldiers were arriving from the column; they formed a curious semi-circle around Michael and Warren, with Pillar and Louise watching carefully from the centre. The doors began to open by the force of some invisible noiseless mechanism, and all present were quick to peer into the opening void in the rock face. It was revealed that beyond the door there was a passage which could not be seen to have any end, lit by the same glowing blue crystals that had shone upon the archway. It looked rather spacious: it opened out into a cavernous expanse above the thin corridor of walking space, the roof of which was veiled in darkness. The doors ceased opening, leaving a gap only wide enough for a single person, and the crystals around the archway returned to their normal colour. Warren stepped back and Michael followed suit. There was a silence whilst everyone looked at Warren for orders. He looked for a long moment down the dim passage before he raised his hand and shouted: Third platoon, secure that passage. The quick stomping of boots followed as a group of soldiers slid through the gap in the rock and into the looming caverns within. Forth and Fifth platoons advance at marching pace, the Durants, Captain Pillar and myself will follow. All remaining expedition group elements are to set up a camp here and the remaining Able Company elements are to follow me platoon-byplatoon. Warren turned to Michael and spoke more quietly. It's time to make history Michael. Michael said nothing. His anxiety reached new heights as it seemed he was about to run out of time regarding the completion of Jangbu's questionable mission.

19 ~City of Sediment~ Necks arched upwards all along the column of marching soldiers as they viewed the expansive space that stretched higher than they could see into an ocean of

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malicious darkness. Their boots echoed timidly from somewhere inside the black blanket, so at least they could be sure it wasn't simply an endless black hole that loomed over their heads. The passage itself was only wide enough to allow them to walk two abreast, and even then it was cramped. Michael was made to walk in a small space cordoned off by the heavy marching presence of Warren's honour guards in front and behind of him; they took no risks regarding his deadly touch, but at least he managed to avoid the unnerving claustrophobia of the stifling walkway to some extent. Everyone seemed to expect something to happen at any momentthe atmosphere was fatiguingly tense. The marching would still periodically end as a soldier dropped to the ground after the echoing click of a handgun firing, only now it seemed to be happening more and more often. The further in they went the more frequently they seemed to stop, eventually every few minutes. There wasn't enough space to move the bodies back so Michael found himself stepping disconcertingly over the bloody corpses. Soon there was a change. Warren's booming voice echoed the orders to halt once more along the passageway, followed by orders for all of the regular army units to return to the camp. Indeed most of the casualties so far had been from these units. It seemed they were more susceptible to the strange power that was infecting their minds. As Michael pressed himself up against the side of the passage, the soldiers in front of him cautiously passed by towards the camp outside. He counted just over a dozen men, only half the number that had made up the two platoons ahead of him. Assumably the ranks behind him were similarly depleted; Warren's order for them to retreat seemed logical in this light. Now all that was left of their expedition group was himself, Louise, Pillar and his depleted personal platoon, and Warren with his honour guard. As they began to slowly move again they could hear gunshots echoing behind themsome of the retreating soldiers had failed to escape the cavern before their minds gave in. Warren's gait now seethed with anger, a noticeable change from the excitement he had shown when they had first entered the cave. Voiceless and event-less, apart from twice stopping when the last two members of Pillar's platoon ended their lives, the group walked on as the time on their watches passed into the night. The faint dot of light that was their only known exit far behind them faded from view, and the world was shrunk to a one dimensional choice of walking forward or back. They did not even stop marching when they passed a skeleton slumped against the side of the passage, all that remained of some lost seeker of this mountain's treasure, perhaps one of Hitler's men. General, up ahead! shouted Pillar suddenly. Warren's honour guard crouched and sighted their weapons forward, but the remainder of the group stood

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still. Far down the passageway they could see another blue light that far outshone the ambient glow of the crystals around them. They slowly advanced further until it became clear that the opening was a door into a larger chamber. This must be it! Advance at double time! ordered Warren, breaking through his fading anger to renew his excitement. Michael looked back over the shoulders of the honour guard and could just about see Louise towards the rear of their small column. Her face still as sullen and emotionless as before. There must be something on her mind; or was it just part of some act she was employing? Michael had little time to continue his analysis as he was quickly pressed forward into a run as the group made their way towards the door. He glanced back and saw that Louise was not running, and that Warren had his arm around her, but he almost instantly lost sight of them between the bodies of the heaving soldiers. Emerging out beyond the door revealed to them a large open cavern, glowing with the now familiar radiance of the aquamarine crystals. It seemed to have no particular features, and there were no other visible exits to the chamber, however Pillar was quick to point out that there was a faint luminous pattern etched onto the floor in the centre of the cavern. As Warren and Louise finally came running in, the group fanned out into a loose semi-circle around the central pattern. The pattern itself was several metres across and seemed to be a combination of Warren's circular sigil with Michael's cross-like sigil. The light it emitted was a pure white, but its brightness was rather meagre. Warren held his hand out over the pattern and his sigil lit up brilliantly, illuminating his face in the deep green and causing the pattern on the ground to become noticeably more bright. Michael, you too, we're almost there, spoke Warren, his voice quiet and husky yet still repeated over and over by the cave's heavy echo. Pillar stood at the side with his arms tightly folded, his eyes jumping between Michael, Warren and the pattern, apparently deep in thought, whilst Louise stood back from everyone, her hands shaking slightly, her eyes unfalteringly fixed on Michael with a burning intensity. As Michael slowly raised his hand to match the motion of Warren, Louise stepped forward slightly. P-please d-don't... she muttered as tears began to well up in her eyes. Michael turned his head and saw the glimmer of liquid running down her cheek. He was instantly filled with a torturous distress. He began the first movement of his feet to go to her, but his sigil bearing hand was already raised. A blindingly thick gossamer light engulfed the chamber.

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20 ~The Cost~ Louise shivered slightly as a sharp tendril of air whipped around her arms before being cut off by the pendulum swing of the tent flap. Everyone in the camp knew as well as she did that they were getting close to Shambala now, and every thought of it filled her with anxious worries about just what would become of them when they reached it. Such unresolvable fears had been exhausting her mind throughout the day, yet now when she finally came to rest her, mind was reinvigorated with fresh concern. Endless speculative thoughts swam around her mind, and soon she actually found herself becoming drowsy, unusually so in fact. In addition, her eyes, although open, seemed to see nothing more than a fine white mist. Before the minute was over she was completely awake, only now she was lying in a shining field of blank whiteness. Out of the blank scene she heard a voice. It sounded like it was coming from all around her, but her deafness gave her the privilege of knowing the voice must be inside her head. So perhaps she was dreaming? It felt so real, but the sometimes the mind was cruel enough to play such tricks. Do not fear Louise, I am Jangbu, the voice boomed. She thought back to Pillar's testimony and wondered if she was now going to be dragged into the mystery of this Jangbu that perplexed all those it concerned. This is the Plane of Clarity, and I have called you here to warn you of the trial you will soon face, the voice continued, its tone offering a sense of sadness and regret. Things will occur beyond your control, and you shall have a most horrifying choice before you. Everyone who enters the realm of Shambala must go through a trial to prove their virtue. I cannot say much of this, but I implore you to clear your mind for the tasks ahead, and always listen to your deepest, quietest thoughts. My thoughts.... What do you mean? spoke Louise, unsure of which direction to voice her question in the shining vacuum. There was a pause before Jangbu responded. Louise, Michael will not live to see the morning. The silence returned as Louise took this stark premonition on board. What? H-how can you know that? she asked with a faltering voice, looking around herself as if it would somehow reveal her mental tormentor to her.

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It doesn't matter how I know, but you should consider why I know, and why I wished you to know. The future isn't set. I will vouch to this truth with the admission that indeed I am hoping Michael might act in ways that prevent my own... death. What... what... Louise paused to compose herself before speaking further. What is Michael going to do? Her question only thinly veiled her desire to know more about how Michael would supposedly die. I am sorry, but I can tell you no more. What I will say is this: in the trials to come, one should not disobey their heart twice. Within seconds Louise was sitting bolt upright back in her tent, her skin dotted with goosebumps as the night air continued its dance around her body. She was shaking but not from the cold. Her eyes stung as tears forced their way through the dust on her face. It was almost cripplingly terrible to imagine that the words she had just heard were true, but then again she had no reason to believe this ethereal voice. What foresight did this being have, and what intention did it harbour in spreading its cherry-picked predictions amongst the helpless seekers of Shambala? She lay down once again and stared at the fabric of the tent canopy above her. Her head was throbbing with a need for sleep, and it didn't take long for her to fall into a troubled slumber that ended in a flash with the feeling of Pillar's hand on her shoulder. Let's go, he uttered, almost not clearly enough for her to read his lips, before disappearing beyond the tent flaps. On the move once more, Louise gazed at the light that permeated the mist all around her. She dared not ask any of the soldiers guarding her if they saw it too; not that they would have responded to such a question anyway. Nonetheless, they seemed to be oblivious to it, but of course maybe they had just been ordered to be so. That day they finally reached Shambala. Louise had watched as Michael and Warren had opened the gate and the deathly march into the caverns had begun. When her turn to move came she was almost too ill to advance. An illness born of fear had been fighting with her conciousness ever since Jangbu's message, and as she had walked along the dank passageway through the mountain her mind had expended its zeal simulating and speculating on what might await them at the end of this claustrophobic road. When the party had finally sighted the end of the line, Louise had felt too sick to go any further. The soldiers, and Michael, had ran off towards the light ahead of them whilst she stood and stared at the ground, unable to mutter any thoughts through her tiredness and confusion. Warren had stayed with her without even

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reacting to the fact she didn't move, as if he had predicted that she would act in this way. Louise almost welcomed his arm around her in her weakness; she felt safe for the briefest of moments, but Warren's words quickly broke this moratorium. He had spoken with the frustrating arrogance that came from the knowledge of one's power, and as Louise watched the movements of his lips she could not withhold her anger at how he smiled over his morbid message. That shepherd of Shambala told you Michael would die didn't he? Well he gave me a few messages to pass on too. He told me that it must be you that takes his life if we are to achieve our goals. His life for the freedom and enlightenment of all humankind; I assume you see the merit of this trade. Needless to say the continuation of your own life is rather dependant on you making the right choice. I shall say no more.

21 ~The Cloisters~ Michael looked down at his hand. The sigil was gone and his skin had returned to the smoothness of his youth. He felt his unfurrowed face to confirm that he really had been transformed into his younger self. His loose torn clothing had been replaced with his old flight suit from his time in the air force, and his hip was weighted with the heavy presence of a handgun and a neat row of magazines. The world around him was a thin navy ether with strains of violet swimming the dark sea. He seemed to be standing atop a huge white brick column that stretched downwards as far as one could see, giving him no room to step away from his current position. There was a booming noise like that of a powerful wind that resounded throughout the space, its direction always changing so it was never clear where its source hid. Michael looked around himself, wondering what exactly he was expected to do in this place. He assumed that this world was the work of Jangbu in some way, but apart from that there was no evidence of any obvious course of action save jumping from the column into the invisible abyss, and he wasn't desperate enough to try that just yet. Suddenly he heard an uproarious moan rush through the ether from behind him. He instantly span around and placed his hand on his pistol holster ready to draw. It was a few moments before he spotted the movement out in the purple haze: a line of sullen faced individuals was walking solemnly towards him, their feet hitting

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the thin air as if there were a solid clandestine surface at the same height as his column. Behind them walked yet more figures, all staring out at Michael with soulless eyes. He drew his weapon and ducked down into a steady firing position. Most of the figures approaching him were wearing heavy battle armour, though a few wore ordinary clothing stained with blood. Michael quickly recognised the arrangement of chest plates on the figures' armour as that of the Russian military back in the war. What was going on here? The floating crowd drew yet closer before letting out another unnerving moan that resonated in Michael's body with an eerie chill. What do you want? Michael shouted out somewhat desperately, tightening his grip on the pistol and lining the iron sights along a trajectory into the neck of the nearest armour-clad figure. There was no reply, the beings simply drew yet closer, prompting Michael to shuffle back as far as he could to the edge of the column. Unable to hold his nerve, Michael squeezed the trigger and watched as his target tumbled over backwards, knocking back some of those immediately behind him. Michael rose to his feet to get a better firing line into the advancing men's exposed faces and tapped the trigger several more times, causing more bodies to drop onto the invisible floor. However the crowd still grew closer and closer, their pace slowly picking up. Just a few seconds later they were almost upon him. The slider locked back as the magazine emptied on the pistolhe had no time to draw out another. A dozen bodies were trodden underfoot as the mob strived towards him on his solitary column. Michael was looking down into the ether, now considering the mysterious darkness as a tempting option against the empty-eyed attackers. The crowd parted and a figure suddenly rushed forward from behind them, moving with such speed that Michael instinctively stepped back, causing his foot to slip from the sharp edge of the column, pulling his weight down into the abyss. As he fell he saw the face of the man who was charging him. His identity was confirmed by his fitted black uniform and the revolver hanging on his belt; it was that foul Rawley, the only victim thus far of his morbid power. What sort of dream was this? Michael quickly lost sight of the mob as he fell. The ether seemed to get thicker and thicker until darkness was all around him; he couldn't even see his own hand in front of his face. The falling sensation had gone too, he seemed to be in a strange state of nothingness, he even felt his conciousness waning under the shear lack of input from the world. This quickly ended as Michael suddenly became aware of himself once again. He was standing up, and the gun in his hand was gone, in fact it was now back in the holster at his side. His eyes focused, allowing him to discover that he was once again

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standing on a white column in the purple ether. It wasn't clear if it was the same one as before; the bodies he had left floating out in the mist were gone. He moved his foot and heard a clink. Looking down he saw the glinting yellow of a bullet casing rolling towards the edge of the column. He made no effort to stop it falling away into the dark sea, but this meant that he was indeed back in the very same place he had fallen from. The deathly moan sounded once again and Michael reached for his pistol. He remembered seeing Rawley's face, and in a flash something became clear in his mind: that these soulless wanderers were the lives he had taken from the world. Was this the afterlife? Was he to be haunted for all entirety by these vengeful spirits? The thought shook him, and made him feel a deep and genuine terror as he spotted the crowd of spirits emerging from the ether before him. He could only reason that this was intended to be some sort of punishment for his trespasses against the sanctity of life; so was this dark world Hell? Get back! he shouted, raising the pistol at arms length and aiming at the group, but his hand was involuntarily shaking and stopping him getting a sure aim. What do you from me?! There was no response. The bullets parted the mist and struck at various points along the line of bodies. Some fell, but many were saved by the armour that had been their only companion into the world of death. This time they moved much faster than before, but Michael still had time to unload one and a half full clips of bullets into the mass of advancing spirits before once again they parted and Rawley came charging towards him, perfectly recreating the events of just a minute prior. This time Michael was ready for him, and a well aimed bullet jolted Rawley's head back as his body skidded along the invisible surface, stopping just before the column. The rest of the undead suddenly let out a deep bloodthirsty shriek and charged Michael, their eyes burning with bloodshot anger. Michael was frozen by fear for a deadly moment before managing to throw himself from the platform once more, loosing off blind shots into the underside of the mob as he fell. Once again the darkness around him solidified and he was alone. Just what was he to do in this place? For how much longer would this world hold him captive for his sins?

22 ~Field~ Warren opened his eyes and saw his honour guard gathered around him. He

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was standing in the trough of a small valley just over a hundred metres across with steep grassy sides. Occasionally, small dark shrubs uniformly bathed in a warm sunlight broke the wall of green. Warren welcomed the heat after days of walking through the cloying mist of the Tibetan mountains. Is this... he began to utter to himself, but before he could continue Jangbu's booming voice echoed along the valley. You are not in Shambala yet General. This is your trial. All who wish to enter the sacred realm must pass a trial according to their intentions. You wish to gain power over the fate of a species, so I must in turn provide you with a test of your leadership. Warren remained silent as he joined his honour guard in looking around for the source of the voice, but there was nothing to be seen. In that case, I will face your trial. You have already told me that I shall succeed, do you not remember? Indeed I have, but the future is not set General, you would do well to remember that. Around you are your honour guard, they must be strong of mind to have reached this world. They follow your every order to the last detail, even unto their own deaths, a most impressive display of loyalty. Let me see if you are truly right to control their minds. Check your ammunition General. As Jangbu said this final comment Warren signalled to his men, prompting them to fan out into a circle around him with their weapons ready at the shoulder. Warren drew his pistol and anxiously eyed the high crests of the valley around them. The valley floor was completely exposed with not so much as a tree for cover, vulnerable to any attack from their flanks; if Jangbu sent warriors against him he would be at a severe disadvantage. Jangbu meant to test his leadership, so Warren resolved himself that he would command his men with perfection and hold off anything thrown at them. After all if this was a true test then there must be a way to pass it. There was a strange high pitched noise that seemed to get louder and louder, and Warren's honour guard let their weapons hang around their necks on straps to cover their ears with their hands. Warren was forced to do the same, dropping his pistol to the ground. He knew this was the perfect time for the enemy to attack. Firing positions! Firing positions! he shouted, but his voice was being drowned out by the incessant noise. He looked up the side of the valley and spotted a great mass of metal charging down towards them. There were at least a hundred men approaching in medieval style knight's armour with banners billowing above their heads. At their helm ran a tall helmeted man in much more ornate armour than the rest, holding a huge gilded sword with one hand and a heavy looking jewelled shield in the other.

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They approached closer and closer but still the noise continued. They were only fifty metres away when it suddenly faded away and Warren was free to command his men once more. Firing line, two ranks, weapons free, open fire! His men reacted instantly, forming two short lines one behind the other and sending a wall of bullets into the mass of warriors who let out a hearty battle cry as the first of them began to fall. The tall man at the front quickly faded back into the swaths of soldiers who were now falling in droves as the globalist bullets clanked through their armour and pushed their bodies to the ground. Warren watched as the enemies fell; they would surely kill them all before they made it close enough to engage with their melee weapons. Still, something didn't seem right, mainly that this massacre hardly constituted a trial of his leadership. There must be something else to this test that he was perhaps missing. He turned around and was shocked by the sight before him. Sneaking up behind them was a vile creature, twice a man's height and four times his breadth, with a body of brown stone and four flailing arms jutting out from its back that blossomed with flowers of spikes at their terminals. Its head resembled a bear, but the thin fur seemed to be metallic. Its powerful legs moved a pair of titanic feet that boomed and burrowed into the ground with each approaching step. Warren screamed to his men in his mind, but his voice failed him at the shock of seeing the fierce beast descending upon him. Just as one of the swinging spiked arms was about to impact heavily with his head, Warren felt himself pushed to the ground. Above him one of his men was sent reeling through the air, leaving a trail of blood in his wake that fell across Warren's face as he rolled away from the advancing footsteps of the monster. It immediately became clear to Warren that his men could hear his thoughts; just before he had been saved from death he had pleaded to his men for help in his mind and indeed one had disengaged the approaching horde without orders to aid him. Warren wasted no time in taking advantage of this; he split his men into three groups: one moved forward against the howling medieval soldiers, one furiously engaged the beast with futile bullets whilst manoeuvring to draw it away from Warren, and the last gathered around him to prepare a small rocket-propelledgrenade launcher that every fifth soldier was required to carry. Warren was on his feet and reaching down to pick up his pistol as the warm flash of an explosion bathed his face. The projectile explosive impacted the monster in the back, knocking it heavily to the ground with a thunderous boom and leaving a black scorch on its powerful body. With a simple thought he commanded his men to open fire on the downed behemoth with their assault rifles, the diversionary group doing the same, as he turned his attention back to the medieval soldiers.

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Almost all of them had been defeated, but his men were falling to the ground as the tall armoured man who had been leading their charge slashed at them with incredible speed and darted around their stabbing bayonet thrusts. His supernatural strength left Warren's men dead in seconds, and now he was gathering his warriors, many of which were wounded, ready to advance towards Warren's position. To make matters worse, on his flank the beast had managed to recover its balance and had performed an almighty jump towards the diversionary group. Now it was tearing them apart with its wide jaws and hammering arms. The blast from the grenade had done little to sap its strength, and Warren was now quickly running out of options. All he could do, he reasoned, was divide and conquer. Seeing the glimmering armour of the warriors begin to move once more, he ordered the remaining group surrounding him to circumvent the melee and meet him on the other side of the small valley whilst he sprinted as fast as his ageing body would allow to put the raging beast between him and the supernatural warrior with his remaining armour-clad troops. As he had hoped, the beast turned to engage the mob of charging medieval warriors before the fleeing Warren or his guards sneaking around the flanks. The armoured warriors were forced to turn their attention to the beast and attempted to engage it as it stormed their position, but they were quickly wiped away, their weapons deflected from the monster's hide and their armour crushed like paper. Warren cursed himself; if he hadn't been so quick to attack those men they might have been able to use their numbers to actually damage the creature. Even so, the now lone tall warrior with the gilded sword stood valiantly before the beast. It swung its deadly spiked arms at him but he nimbly positioned himself each time so that they would just edge past him. It was a matter of seconds before his gleaming sword was deep into the beast's neck. The monster plunged to the ground as Warren stared on open-mouthed. The last of Warren's honour guard arrived at his side just as he had ordered. They prepared to open fire on the last remaining threat: the unreal swordsman brandishing his gilded blade who was getting closer to them by the second . As their fingers put pressure on the triggers of their weapons the warrior leapt high into the air, defying gravity and falling down right into the middle of Warren's men. As Warren jumped away and brought his pistol up ready to fire, the warrior sliced all but one of the honour guards with a flashing circular sweep of his blade that sent blood streaming onto the quaint grassy valley floor. Warren started firing but the warrior had already positioned his shield ready to stop the bullets with showers of sparks. The last guard scrambled to Warren's side and levelled his weapon at the hip. As the bullets spewed from the barrel the warrior lunged forward, keeping the shield between him and the assault rifle and his sword

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between him and Warren's quickly emptying pistol. Warren's eyes widened as the slashing blade knocked his gun to the ground before moving to slice his guard's rifle into two clear pieces, each smouldering with the heat of overuse. He was forced to step back with his guard following suit to avoid the second swipe. The swordsman threw his shield powerfully into Warren's chest, sending him reeling painfully to the ground. As he impacted the mercifully soft soil and the ornate shield bounced out of the warriors reach, Warren suddenly saw what the only possible way for him to defeat his opponent was. Indeed, he mused, the ultimate test of leadership was to know when lives needed to be sacrificed for the greater good, and he had enough experience of this to know that now he must loose a pawn to save the king. As the swordsman lunged forward ready to deliver a finishing blow Warren commanded his guard to cover him with his armoured body letting the warrior's sword slice clean through his thick helmet before moving further down and lodging itself in his shoulder. For a brief moment the weapon was defunct, held motionless in the body of the filial guard. Below them, Warren reached out with his hand as the green sigil glowed, calling the pistol telekinetically to his hand. The warrior's motion of removing the sword from Warren's guard gave him the momentum that caused him to fall over backwards as a bullet ripped upwards through his skull. The warrior hit the ground with a clank, and the last of the honour guard slumped onto Warren lifelessly, covering him in the blood leaking from the deep wound that brought unease to even the gore-hardened General. He pushed the body aside with an exasperated grunt and lay staring up at the sky that was previously blocked by the armoured superhuman, his chest quickly pulsating with his heavy breath. He dropped the pistol and clambered up to his feet, his brow breaking out in a light sweat in response to the rare burst of physical exertion. Without even thinking he moved over to the fallen warrior and pulled away his helmet. There was the bloodied face of Michael Durant. What... muttered Warren. I-I killed Michael! The Stone! I cannot~ He was interrupted once more by Jangbu's voluminous voice. Fear not General, that is not the true Michael, but you should take note of how he looks when dead, for as I have said, should you wish to succeed you will need to see the sight once more. This I know, shouted Warren, directing his voice to the sky that was now clouding over, blocking the warming light and giving a chilling wind its chance to run down the valley. But how will I know when his use has been expended? And just what will I be gaining in taking his life? Jangbu responded to Warren's inquiries. Michael is necessary for you to attain the Stone, but in time he will steal its

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power away from you if he is not killed. The battle you have just fought was symbolic of your journey to greatness in many ways, however may you be warned once again that in reality it must not be you that kills Michael. I have already told you of the malformed future that would occur should you do such a thing. Once you have the Stone's power you must ensure that Louise fulfils her task and takes Michael's life on your behalf. Warren broke out in a smile. He knew the hour of his victory drew very close, he could almost feel his power growing as he brushed himself off and stood up straight, viewing the mess of bodies around him. Very well. I shall do what I can. It is in the interests of my species that I succeed, so I must do so. In fact I have already planted the seeds in her mind as you ordered; she is aware of her duty, and I will endeavour to have her fulfil it, he spoke, seemingly to himself; a unwarranted self-justification of his actions. You have passed your trial General, continued Jangbu, apparently not in direct response to Warren's monologue, but to ensure you are able to effectively influence Louise I am sending you to watch over her trial next. You will find the opportunities to turn her against her husband will be many there. Thank you, Warren said simply with an almost sarcastic bow of the head. I shall tell you this also: if Captain Pillar disobeys you even once over the smallest of things you must kill him, for it means he intends to make the power his own at the cost of your own life. He understands not how this action will prevent him from doing so, but he shall try nonetheless. Go now worthy leader, and turn that woman's futile love into a brilliant hatred.

23 ~The Righteous Man~ The flickering orange light of flames warmed Pillar's face as he viewed the scene before him. He was standing beside a dark road that was surrounded by burning buildings. The sounds of the roaring fires competed with the near constant noise of rattling gunfire all around him. The sky was adorned with the black of night, and the wind was perfectly still. A group of globalist soldiers ran by in front of him, one of which was carrying a wounded comrade on his soldiers. There was an echoing series of cracks that ended in the saviour soldier falling to the ground. The rest of the men dove to take cover behind the wrecked vehicles littering the street; Pillar hurriedly did the same, peeking out at the blinking muzzle flashes coming from down the road. He

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finally realised exactly where he was. Machine gun, seventy yards, Second squad flank through the market! Covering fire! Pillar recognised the voice shouting orders: it was Lieutenant Reynolds, the man who three years ago had led half a company of troops to capture a town square from partisan fighters, just as Pillar remembered ordering him to. This battle had taken place during Pillar's year long campaign against South American resistance fighters, mainly groups of soldiers who had been protected from the mind hijacking rays of the Machine by their bases. The night he had sent Reynolds to capture the square, Pillar had been securing the newly placated suburbs of the settlement with the rest of the company. The night brought chilling memories to bear; it was the night he had killed whole families in cold blood under the orders of one Brigadier-General Warren. Around him the charred bodies lying in the road, illuminated only by the fierce tones of the raging fires, tortured him for his decision to fire-bomb the town centre before the assault. The civilian deaths, insignificant to the commanders, were monstrous. Pillar's palm computer was flashing in its pouch on his chest. When he viewed the screen it was displaying only two words: 'Save them'. Pillar knew immediately what this meant. Judging by the time on the display he had twenty minutes before his unit moved to the football stadium, where his past self would order the slaughter of hundreds of surrendered rebels. Jangbu had told him he would face a trial, and this must be it: he had to save those prisoners to prove he had the virtue to enter Shambala. Pillar attempted to stand but the clanking of heavy bullets upon the body of the burnt out car he was stooped behind sent him straight back down. He lowered himself onto his stomach and began to pull himself along the ground, pushing away the many shards of glass and warm bullet casings that littered the road. Suddenly there was a huge explosion behind him, followed by a series of nervous shouts. Glancing back Pillar saw a tank charging its way down the road towards him; the battle reports had said Reynolds had been lost fighting a tank on the way to the objective, perhaps he had just witnessed that moment for himself. In a matter of seconds several loud explosions sounded, one of which originated from right beside Pillar's head; the tank had loosed off a shell that had screamed down the street, just missing the soldiers diving for safety and detonating at deadly proximity to him. Despite this Pillar felt nothing, and he was able to watch with perfect clarity as a Vail craft swept down from the amber-lit skies above them and burned a crippling wound into the tracked killing machine with its bright energy beam.

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Running his hands over his face Pillar confirmed that the shell hadn't damaged him any way, not even leaving a scratch. He toyed with the motion in his head that he was in fact invulnerable from attack in this world. This theory was instantly confirmed as a searing hot bullet rolled gently onto the ground beside him after impacting with the back of his head. He had felt only a light tap, as if a fly had mindlessly bounced off him. With this development Pillar pushed himself into his feet and began to run as fast as his weighty armour would allow away from the front line. He remembered that the Stadium was on the North-West side of the town, so after a quick reference to his compass he began to navigate his way through the world of flames and collapsing structures that the town centre had become. It took ten minutes before he could even see the Stadium ahead of him slightly uphill through a relatively undamaged part of the town. The settlement was populated now only by the occasional military vehicle speeding towards the front line, or rushing back to the field hospital with the wounded. Seeing one of these reminded Pillar of how this battle was one of the last operations in which they had expended resources extracting the wounded; in the future the sheer amount of soldiers they had at their disposal overwhelmed the need to preserve their existing ranks, leading to ever more suicidal and yet ultimately effective tactics. Still, Pillar had always tried to have the injured tended to whenever he could, which was probably the reason he never became a Major. As Pillar reached the Stadium entrance, pausing to catch his breath, a small convoy of infantry transports pulled up just a few metres away from him. Soldiers spilled out of them, including both his past self and Brigadier-General Warren, both of whom promptly marched through the large double doors into the main complex with a train of soldiers following in their wake. After watching his past self disappear from view, Pillar walked up to a soldier standing guard by the door who had been speaking with his commander and so with luck had not just seen the past-Pillar walk inside. The soldier seemed to ignore him, not even looking at him despite his superior rank. Soldier! Tell your Sergeant to move his platoon out of the Stadium, this whole place is rigged to blow! Pillar's story fell on deaf ears; the soldier apparently could not hear him. Pillar reached out and tried to place his hand on the man's shoulder, but his arm simply faded through the soldier's armour as if he wasn't even there. It seemed Pillar was just some kind of spirit, a silent observer who couldn't influence the world around him. Though if that was the case, how exactly was he meant to save the prisoners? For a rare moment he panicked inwardly about how he should act, but this

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soon passed as he regained his determination and proceed to move quickly into the Stadium complex. He didn't know what he could do, but doing nothing was the best way to fail, so he focused his mind to the task as he jumped up the long flight of stairs to the playing field where the prisoners were being held. Out on the grass the prisoners were all bound and sitting on their knees in a group towards the centre of the pitch whilst soldiers stood in a loose ring around them with their weapons held to the shoulder ready to fire. Striding across the field in front of him was Warren and his past-self; he saw Warren gesture, causing the soldiers following them to reinforce the containing ring of men. Pillar ran out in pursuit, still unsure of how he was actually going to change things if he couldn't touch anything or be noticed by anyone. He moved up behind his past self who was watching Warren speak into his radio. Warren quickly ended his communication and looked over at the past Pillar. The front is failing Captain, kill the prisoners and move all of your platoons to the forward rally point, I shall meet you there, he said before quickly turning and striding purposefully away towards the exit. Yes sir! chirped the past-Pillar with an obedient salute, turning towards the prisoners and raising his radio to his mouth. He was about the order his men to fire: Pillar was out of time. He jumped forward and attempted to pull his past self away and again his hand just faded through him, but this time it felt slightly different to how it had when he had tried to touch the soldier outside. His hand seemed to tingle, and a ringing sound reverberated in his ears. He wondered if there was in fact a way he could influence his past self. He pushed his arm right through the body of the younger Pillar, who was now beginning to speak the first words of the order. It was now or never: Pillar jumped forward, plunging his whole body into that of his past-self. The ringing in his ears became instantly deafening and he lost conciousness, only to regain it almost straight away. Now he was holding the radio in his hand and he felt a burning gaze focused on him from his right. He glanced over and saw one of Warren's political officers standing with his handgun discretely pointing at him from his hip. These political officers were trained to punish disobedience; Pillar would be shot if he did not follow Warren's orders. Perhaps he was beginning to see why he had been so quick to give the order the first time around. He hurriedly considered his options. His goal here was to stop the prisoners from being killed; or was it? The message hadn't said anything specific about saving these men, he had just assumed that was what it meant. Also, if he didn't kill these prisoners he would have to leave at least two platoons to guard them, and since he would be shot for disobedience those that remained would have no

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commanding officer, meaning that the front line would probably collapse and the battle would be lost. If that happened then the whole town would simply be destroyed rather than risk another assault. He was forced to consider the question: how many lives would be lost if he let these men live? The political officer took a step closer and tried to catch Pillar's eye but he ignored him. His mind continued to race, simulating the future that might be if he saved these men. It seemed to him that by keeping himself alive and capturing the town at least partly intact he would be saving more lives than he took, not to mention the fact that whoever would be given his position as commanding officer would likely be far more ruthless towards civilians or the wounded than he was; how many lives would this take during the nine months of this campaign still to be fought? He considered the nature of this task: that this was a trial to test his virtue. Jangbu wanted him to prove his honour by not killing prisoners, but would he also not want him to save the greatest number of lives possible? By 'save them' could he have meant the people that he would save in the future by surviving this night? The political officer began to walk towards him with increasing pace, now holding his gun up ready to take the shot. Pillar desperately tried to work out what to do. What if his actions here were actually changing the past, would he be creating a time paradox if he had his past-self killed? Surely he had to kill the prisoners? But what would happen to the others if he failed Jangbu's trial? He couldn't doom thousands to death by sparing a hundred. Had Jangbu even considered this in giving him this task? The political officer had the gun to his head, he could feel the cool metal against his temple, he had to decide right now. Execute the prisoners! he barked into his radio, and the sound of gunfire filled the air. He fell to his knees and threw the radio aside. What would happen now? Had he failed? Had he saved the right people? The gunfire died away, and he felt a hand on his shoulder. You did the right thing, the political officer said, but his voice was that of Jangbu. Pillar looked up at him, and saw a smile across his face. At first he was angered by this, but he quickly began to feel the first tentative waves of relief as he realised what Jangbu's words meant. All of the soldiers faded away along with the bodies of the prisoners, leaving only Pillar kneeling before the political officer in the middle of the silent field. So, I passed the trial? Pillar asked, looking nervously up at the officer. Yes, you have passed, but I don't think you fully understand why, was Jangbu's response. Pillar looked away and said nothing, so Jangbu continued. You did what you thought was right instead of what you were asked, and thus you proved

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your worth. I ordered you to save those prisoners, but you knew that doing so was the greater of two sins. You have shown that you are able to disobey authority if it is right to do so, and this will be very important in the minutes to come. What do you mean? inquired Pillar, standing up and wiping his hand across his face. I am going to send you to Shambala, Captain. There you will be given a chance to disobey authority to save human life, just as you have done in this trial. Okay, said Pillar with a nod, standing up straight and facing the political officer with a resolute expression. Let me tell you this also: in visions I have had in which your expedition is successful, I see that you save Michael's life. Keep that in mind, lest the opportunity to do so passes you by.

24 ~I Present: The Past~ Louise marvelled at the sight of her teenage face staring back at her in the mirror. The mirror was unfamiliar to her, as was the small bathroom she found herself indecorated with ageing cream tiles and various handmade ornaments lining the thin shelves. Almost as shocking as the sight of her own youthful visage was the sound of a thumping four beat song playing outside the room. It was so clear and defined in its tone and eloquence, unlike anything she had heard in years. For a long while she just stood staring at herself, hearing all the sounds she could as if feasting on a banquet after an age-long fast. It was some time before the issue of working out where she was, or why she was there, even crossed her mind. The door opened and a girl walked in. Louise immediately recognised her, but it took a few moments to recall her name: Rebecca Harrison, her old friend who she had lost contact with after leaving school and never found the impetus to seek out. Louise, what are you doing in here, eh? Rebecca asked merrily. I-don't know, Louise managed to utter, hearing her own youthful voice with both surprise and amazement. Ugh, what have you been drinking? laughed Rebecca, reaching out and grabbing Louise's arm and pulling her out the door. Come on, you can't leave Michael on his own down there! Michael? He was here? Where was 'here'? She had no memory of this event, but this seemed to be a scene from her past. Perhaps she had just forgotten it over

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the years. Then why was she reliving the past like this? Jangbu had said there would be a trial; perhaps there was something she had to do differently now to what she had done before, but she couldn't remember even the faintest detail of the house Rebecca was leading her through, let alone anything she might have done here. Everyone she saw paid her little attention, so assumably she had already been there for some time; it was strange seeing all the faces she had so nearly forgotten. Rebecca had pulled her down some stairs then through a kitchen into a dark and rather warm living room that pulsed to the sound of the beat-heavy music. As she was dragged past the kitchen table, she thought she saw a man standing through the door to the utility room, a man with grey hair and a black military uniform; General Warren was standing there watching her, whilst apparently everyone else at the party was paying no attention to him. After being pushed into the living room Louise was trying to look back into the kitchen to see if Warren was following, but she quickly had her attention diverted back into the room as Rebecca shook her by the shoulder. Louise! Michael is... Rebecca began in shock, signalling towards the centre of the room with a tilt of her head. Louise immediately saw what had alarmed her friend of the past. There on the sofa before them was Michael and a girl. She thought she must know her but couldn't think of a name. The pair were held tight in each others' arms. Louise stood almost paralysed for a moment as she watched Michael kiss the unnamed rival, before spinning herself around and moving to march right back out of the room. Blocking her way was Warren, standing with his hands behind his back and a smirk across his face. W-what's going on? stuttered Louise, physically shaken by what she was being forced to watch. This is the past my dear, replied Warren with a dark tone, gesturing around himself with one hand before returning it to the other behind his back. But I... I don't remember this ever happening. This never happened! Louise wiped her face with her hands and blinked several times, rocking from side to side subtly in her anxiety. Oh you weren't really here when this happened, Warren explained. Jangbu is giving you a chance to see the past you never experienced as part of your trial. My trial? Louise looked up at Warren as she inquired. Yes, a trial to see if you can come to accept how your so-called 'love' has blinded you to... the truth. Warren raised an eyebrow as he spoke the last words. What truth? What do you... what kind of trial is this? The truth that Michael never loved you, Louise.

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Suddenly the world seemed to fall away and they were surrounded by the deepest darkness. Warren stepped to one side and gestured for Louise to step forward. Let's see what Michael really thought, he said almost comfortingly as the scene changed to a military barracks on a grey, cloudy day. Louise was older now, the image of herself was in her early twenties wearing an oversized white lab coat with her now much longer hair tied tightly back into a neat ponytail. Around them various groups of army personnel were moving around, oblivious to the two's presence. I won't listen to your lies, stated Louise, turning around and attempting to walk away, not that she knew where she could go. Oh you don't have to listen to me, replied Warren. Just listen to the man himself. Warren pointed towards the nearest barrack building, and sure enough out of it walked a young Michael in a loosely fitting flight suit alongside a bright faced woman in a matching outfit and carrying two flight helmets. Michael closed the door and took one of the helmets from her before they began walking away towards the hangars visible above the barrack blocks a short distance away. Louise knew it was exactly what Warren wanted her to do, but she couldn't help but give in to her temptation to follow. Don't worry, they can't hear or see us, listen in as you please. I'll be around, if you need me, said Warren, speaking with increasing volume as Louise jogged away. She didn't look back, running up behind the pair of pilots and falling into a brisk walk next to Michael as he talked with the woman. She's still at university, she's training to be a doctor, Michael said casually, apparently answering an earlier question. So you really are married! Aren't you a bit young? asked the girl. Her voice was calm and charismatic, which annoyed Louise in a strange way; she was feeling the pangs of jealousy already. Well yeah I guess. She was just so... you know... like pressurising. I didn't really have much of a choice. Louise's pace slackened slightly as she absorbed this response. How could he have said that? He had asked her to marry him out of the blue; he was lying to this woman to play down the commitment of his marriage. Louise couldn't bear to speculate as to what he might have in mind for doing so. I don't know, I don't think Indy passed the test, Michael was saying as Louise returned to his side; it appeared the conversation had moved on. Louise walked with them a little more as they continued to talk about the flying skills of one of their fellow pilots, until the scene faded to black once more. Louise looked around and couldn't see Warren anywhere, but before she

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had a chance to wonder what would happen next the scene had changed again. Her outfit hadn't changed much so they can't have been much further into the future, and once again they appeared to be in the same military base, only this time the still darkness of night was spread across the sky and virtual silence pervaded the air. Louise heard a quiet echoing sound of laughter behind her that quickly faded away. Turning around she saw nothing. She walked towards the source of the sound as her night vision began to take effect and the outline of a barrack block in front of her became more clear. There was a second sound like the scuffing of boots on gravel. She was drawn to a spot behind the barrack where the ground was littered with stones. There in the darkness she could see movement, and something being thrown into the air. The object billowed in the slight wind, betraying its identity as a standard air force issue shirt. Louise didn't need to move any closer to see that it was Michael and that girl making love against the barrack wall that had generated the stray piece of clothing. A deep and rapid sickness rushed through Louise's body. She fell forward expecting to vomit but nothing came, just a horrid pain gripping her stomach. As Louise closed her eyes and clenched her fists, the vile sound of the girl's heavy breathing died away and she found herself in the sea of blackness once again. Stop your lies! Louise called out to the darkness, but she quickly found herself returning to another scene, this time inside a concrete tunnel that looked like it was part of an underground bunker. Her lab coat was gone and she now wore a military uniform, with a heavy pack on her back and a rifle in her hands; it must now be some time during the war; the Private's rank badge on her shoulder suggested it was one of the early years. The bunker shook as an explosion sounded somewhere above them, and the dim lights flickered for a moment. Louise could hear the sound of crying coming from a room just a few feet away from her; it echoed along the corridor eerily, made especially unnerving as there seemed to be no one else around. Stepping forward, Louise peered into the room. It was a small space, not unlike a prison cell, with just a small bed and a table in the corner. On this bed was the body of the girl in her dull blue flight suit, her face pale white and her right leg covered in blood. Beside her was Michael, weeping into his hands which themselves were stained red with blood, the same blood that was smeared all over his own flight suit. The scene would have been touching had it not been accompanied by the heavy stench of betrayal; Louise was almost brought to tears herself as she observed her husband lean down and kiss the cold lips of his perished mistress. Suddenly harsh Russian shouts came echoing from somewhere else in the

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bunker. Michael was quick to pick up his handgun from the small austere table before darting right through Louise as if she were a ghost and speeding off down the passageway. She remembered Michael had sent her a message about how he had barely escaped capture when soldiers had stormed a bunker he was hiding in, but she had never imagined that it was some pretty girl who had kept him in the danger zone whilst everyone else had retreated. Her anger began to visualise itself in her expression. The scene faded and was restored once more to present a world she could recall much more clearly: the jetty on the island where herself and Michael had lived peacefully for the last four years. It was the dead of night and there was a small boat moored to the end of the wooden structure where someone was climbing out. Louise walked along the jetty, noting how her hearing had again disappeared into the depths of time and that her loose frayed clothing was much easier to move in than the heavy armour she had been wearing moments ago. As the figure climbed out of the boat he was greeted by another tall dark shape that Louise instantly recognised as Michael. She had to move right up next to them to read their lips in the darkness, but it was made much easier when the man who had just got off the boat began shining a small torch onto a thick document he was holding, reflecting light up onto his and Michael's faces. It was then that Louise recognised the strange man: it was Rawley from the globalist army. Shambala? Never heard of it, Michael was saying as Louise arrived. Hey neither have I, but I know you're itching to get back into action Michael, and this expedition will probably be as dangerous as they come, said Rawley in a bland tone, as if reading pre-written lines from a script. Well you came to right man: I'll help you with whatever it is you want. I've really got to get away from my wife anyway, I don't think I can pretend to put up with her much longer. By now Louise was expecting something like this to be said and so wasn't too phased by Michael's words, but the fact that Michael had known about what Rawley was up too all along only made the pile of emerging lies ever larger. Hmm, well then I shall return in the near future to abduct you and remove you from said undesirable. You have our thanks Michael, I know will be indispensable to our mission. Until then. Rawley switched off the torch and jumped back into the boat. Michael walked briskly back along the jetty, assumably to slip back into bed unnoticed and plan how he would 'put up' with Louise until Rawley returned. Louise didn't know how to feel. Michael had been lying his whole life. He didn't respect their marriage and he didn't even like being with her; the happiest times of her life must have been the worst of his. All he wanted to do was fight and kill

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and spread his vile influence over the women who trusted him with their lives. The world faded for the final time. Louise found herself facing a widely smiling Warren in the darkness. The Michael you think you know is a lie Louise, he began, stepping forward and looking her closely in the eye. The real Michael was a man who married his first girlfriend thinking he had no choice, only to fall in love with the lovely Bethany Saunders, the girl who would die to save his life during the Battle of Bratislava, a battle that claimed the lives of every other pilot in his squadron. He was a man who lived with lies and deceit to get his way, and now seeks to dominate the world through stealing the sacred power that this expedition seeks. The wise Jangbu has informed me that he will succeed in stealing the power, and eventually corrupt the forces of reality until this world is destroyed. That is the purpose of your trial Louise, the purpose of your whole life in fact: to realise that Michael is not the man you once thought, and to realise that in time, you shall be forced to take his life. As Warren finished Louise finally met his gaze with tear-filled eyes. You're lying! You're lying! she cried, her face turning red and glittering paths forging their way down her cheeks. You know that I speak the truth Louise, for you always suspected it. No man could be so faithful as to remain filial for nearly a decade of separation, it's just not in our nature my dear. Warren placed his hands on Louise's shoulders and looked down at her with a fatherly sympathy. If you're not convinced then let's take a brief look at some of Michael's other mortal sins. All around them various scenes played in fast motion. Some depicted Michael killing civilians, stealing from people's homes, flirting with women in bars and the final scene, playing in regular speed, displayed Michael throwing his wedding ring into the flaming wreckage of a downed fighter and walking away as if it was nothing but a rotten apple core. No... Louise uttered as the darkness returned and Warren continued to bare down on her with his torturous words. You must kill that traitor Louise, you shall be saving every one of the two billion souls on this planet for the loss of just one, one that has been horribly corrupted and deserves no better than to enter the hellish afterlife before our noble quest brings it an unwarranted salvation. Warren spoke strongly, saliva launching from his mouth as he forced his words into Louise's eyes; her busy mind translated the rapid movements of his lips into terrifying concepts. No... I... Michael....

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Louise could think of nothing to say in the face of the undeniable truth. Warren seemed very happy with this; he looked up into the sky of darkness and shouted with maniacal fervour. It's time! In a flash of piercing blue light Warren disappeared leaving Louise alone in the abyss. Louise heard the voice of Jangbu suddenly rush through her mind. In the trials to come one should not disobey their heart twice. It was something he had told her before; he had said the same words the in her vision. What exactly did he mean? Louise could hardly bring herself to consider this question through the anger and despair that enveloped her very being. Everything was changing in the shortest of timesit was unbearable. Her mind had been torn apart by questions that Warren seemed to be able to answer, but the answers pained her more than the questions ever could. The darkness suddenly became bright. Louise found herself standing atop a tall pillar of rock that formed a huge circular jagged cliff-side rising up commandingly from the ground far below. Above her was a sky of opal blue that was near luminous in its intensity. Surrounding the giant pillar was a uniform plain of rich green grass that stretched to the horizon and assumably beyond. In the middle of the grassy plateau atop this pillar was a simple stone pedestal with a notch in the centre that looked like it could contain something spherical about the size of an apple. In front of her was Warren, holding a dark brown sphere in his palm that seemed to emit a strange orange ether into the air. To her left was the deceased body of Captain Pillar, his face marked with a bullet wound. To her right was Michael, who was looking right at her with wide eyes. Wide, treacherous eyes. Louise was quick to realise that she had a dagger in her hand, and was quick to react to Michael's advance, his arms open to embrace her and his face covered in a broad smile. He didn't suspect the blade that split his heart in two would be thrust at him from the hands of his supposedly ignorant sham wife. Louise coiled back, leaving the dagger in place as Michael fell unceremoniously to the ground and Warren barked with laughter. You have saved us all Louise! You have brought freedom to all mankind, freedom from war, want and worry. With your brave sacrifice, and this, the Stone of Akasha, the Golden Age of humanity shall begin! Louise was shaking with nerves and fear at what she had done. She had killed Michael, her husband, the man who had ended the war, the man who she had spend the happiest times of her life with. Even if he was nothing but a merchant of deceit, she felt shocked to think that he was dead, and mortified to think that it was she who had just killed him.

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She tried to unscramble her mind and stop herself falling to the ground as the strength of her legs failed. The whole scene rapidly disappeared; all of reality was filled with a beautiful turquoise light that bathed Louise in its radiance and destroyed all hints of sadness in her mind. Was this the Enlightenment they had sought?

25 ~Letting Go~ I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Michael called as he was charged by the legion of angry spirits yet again. He had fallen from the solitary column many times, always being returned there as he felt himself merge with the inky darkness below. By now it was clear that he was indeed being made to face those he had killed and experience their anger first hand. If the purpose of this trial was to make him feel the guilt he had repressed his whole life, then indeed it had succeeded; he was on the edge of despair, torn between regret and fear every time the phantom horde sent him reeling from the column into the abyss. No matter how bad he felt, the cycle seemed to be repeating with greater and greater speed; the footsteps of the damned would be bearing down upon him just a few seconds after he would appear on the column, and it was becoming yet faster still. Despite this he could see no other option but to jump each time. For one cycle, in frustration, he had allowed one of the spirits to reach him, but its fierce grip was no less real than that of a mortal. What exactly was he supposed to do here? Was torment the only aim of this experience? Must his guilt grow and grow with every passing cycle of the chilling routine until he breaks down and takes his own life with the few bullets left in his pistol? Another cycle began as these questions swirled about in his head with little chance of being answered. He fell heavily to his knees and let out a deep breath. He could already hear the rush of boots on the invisible floorthe vile moaning of the resenting dead was again ringing about the solitary ethereal space. Help... Michael uttered under his breath, his eyes closed and his spirit broken. Then he suddenly felt the heat of flames and heard the booming sounds of a Pulse Wave Detonation Engine as the dark metallic body of his legendary aircraft, the Aurora Mark Two, swept over his head and sent the bodies of his attackers soaring through the air, the deadly fires of an incendiary bomb licking around them. The Aurora! You're here to help me! cried Michael, rising to his feet and gazing out into the purple ether that was still swirling from the pulse waves that had

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blasted it apart as the Aurora swept through. The deceased craft edged back over to Michael and set itself down on the hidden ground beside him. Flight Lieutenant Durant, please take your position in the pilot's seat and prepare for evacuation, spoke the craft's bland computerised voice. Michael's relief was almost tangible as he turned to view his saviour, and his despair was almost unbearable as he saw the craft erupt into flames when a searing beam of energy cascaded down from above and tore through its chassis like paper. A Vail craft followed the beam down, strafing over Michael and disappearing silently into the ether behind him as the wreckage of the Aurora and the charred bodies of the advancing spirits faded away; so it was all an illusion. That meant then that the absence of any damage to Michael's body by the exploding plane was not due to some unknown power, it just wasn't real, though whilst trapped in the looming ether of this world it was hard for Michael to define 'real' at all. Nonetheless, Michael knew that this world, and its creator Jangbu, must be toying with him if they were so low as to provide the hopes of escape only to destroy them before his eyes. The spirits once again emerged from the mist with their collective anger seemingly intact. Louise! Captain Pillar! General Warren! Michael called out desperately, looking around for any other illusions that might save him from another stomach turning fall into the darkness below. It seemed that the last of his calls had been successful: there before him stood General Warren, or at least the illusion of him. Try not to let your sins get to you, Warren said blankly without looking up from the ground. He turned around to face the group of oncoming spirits and raised his arm. The green sigil on his palm flashed and the phantoms were turned into wispy clouds that were blown away by some clandestine wind. My sins? What do you mean? Michael asked, rushing the words out lest Warren disappear as fast as he had apparated. Unfortunately this was just what happened. Warren's body shook and he keeled over as if struck in the stomach before lurching upright and falling onto his back. He lay still, then was himself spread to the wind in a dark cloud of swirling dust. Sins: just who was it that judged what would be deemed a sin in this universe? Was it some mystic like Jangbu watching esoterically from the shadows, or was it something built into human intelligence that pressed them to preserve the well being of their own kind? Whatever it was, Michael was facing it square on. Warren had told him not to let his sins get to him. What did this mean? The mob of displaced souls began their next advance, but somehow Michael's introspective thoughts managed to distract him from his ever-dulling fear of these undead beings. Could it be that he was supposed to ignore his sins? After all,

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the more he had thought about them, the faster they had made their advance, perhaps there was a link. But if that was the case then what was the point of this trial? He had been ignoring his sins for years; it was unlikely that the lesson of this torture would be to do nothing at all. There must be something more than that. Michael thought again about what sins were. Sins were only sins because people say they are. Here in this world, he was, 'people', so couldn't he just decide what was a sin and what was not? It was certainly worth a try. As the spirits approached Michael faced them openly and shouted heartily. I am your murderer, I killed you because it is right, I am free of sin! He watched as the charge of the phantoms slowed down, however it did not stop. At least he had proved that his attitude towards his sins was in some way affecting the rate at which the cycle of undead rushes would proceed; this meant that there must in fact be a way to stop them residing somewhere in the realm of his mind. This time he was again forced to leap into the darkness and feel a chilling lack of conciousness before returning to the column. He would have more time to think now that the charge had been slowed, but then again he might never work out just what it was he needed to think in order to get out of this stifling world. How does one get rid of their sins? One could forget them, but with these constant reminders it would near impossible to convince himself to do so. One could blame others and pass the sins onto them, but here in this world there was no one he could blame, not to mention that these spirits obviously knew who had committed the sins against them. Then Michael suddenly realised that he had neglected to think of the way in which sins had always been absolved throughout the history of morality: forgiveness. In religion, people would ask their supreme beings to 'forgive' them for their sins; but what were they really trying to do through this? Of course: they were trying to justify forgiving themselves. All Michael needed to do was find the heart to sincerely forgive himself for what he had done, then his sins would no longer be a burden on his soul, and hopefully he would end the endless advances of the vengeful dead. He spoke out to the ether. I, Michael Durant, forgive myself for the sins I knowingly committed. In the moment I did not think to consider the consequences of my actions, and I failed to recognise the severity of what I had done to the world. In observing these inescapable truths I promise to lift the burden of these sins from my soul and absolve myself through future merit. He didn't think it would be easy to drive sincerity into a statement regarding himself, but as he spoke he noticed that indeed he began to feel better. The old adage of getting things off one's chest seemed to be proving true after all; Michael felt a

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new confidence that he could leave his past behind in order to create a better future. The sounds of heavy boots were gone. The feelings of heavy guilt were gone. The purple ether faded and Michael was engulfed in a brilliant blue flash of light.

26 ~Harmonic Motion~ Louise looked around and quickly recognised she was still in Shambala, but several things were different now. Beside her stood Warren, smiling darkly, and Pillar with his usual blank expression and eyes that darted around nervously after moving away from her newly present self. Michael was nowhere to be seen. The pedestal in the centre of the plateau now had the small brown stone she had seen Warren holding just a moment ago placed in the small recession, with its seemingly fibrous orange ether dancing around it with hypnotising grace. Louise, you made it too, said Pillar softly, almost sadly. Of course she did, Warren interjected. She has a role to play that is as important as that of any of us. Once Michael arrives we shall see if our venture shall be fruitful. With his final words Warren glared at Louise. She knew exactly what he wanted her to do, but she thought she had already done it. Hadn't she already been here? Hadn't she already witnessed this scene being acted out in front of her? Wasn't Michael dead? As if answering her thoughts, there was a bright blue flash and Michael appeared beside her with a face that spoke of stress and relief. Louise! he exclaimed, moving towards her before quickly remembering his cursed hand and backing away. The action reminded Louise that Michael has attempted to do the same thing the last time she had been here, and that it was then she had made the killing blow. Was she supposed to have done so again just now? Surely not. After all the cosmos had not provided her with a dagger this time, and Warren did not seem in any way perturbed that she had not taken any action. This version of events must be different, but that still left the question of why she was being made to see two differing performances of the same act. Welcome Flight Lieutenant. Now that you're here we can get going, spoke Warren plainly. Going? questioned Michael, but Warren gave no further explanation. Instead he placed his hand out in front of him, the emerald sigil glowing brightly, and

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stared powerfully at the strange brown sphere set in the pedestal. Everyone's eyes moved to meet his point of focus where they witnessed the sphere rise up out of its notch in the grey stone and drift through the fresh air into Warren's outstretched hand. His fingers wrapped around it gently as he closed his eyes and let out a deep prolonged breath. Very good, he said to himself, clutching the sphere tightly and bringing it down to his side. The Stone of Akasha is ours. I knew I was given this power for a reason. There was a short pause, and then he said casually: Now is the time Louise, throwing his pistol from its holster to land with a thud at her feet. * Michael gazed with wide eyes at the sphere floating across into Warren's hand. Surely this was it: he had failed to find a way to stop the globalists from acquiring this treasure, this 'Stone of Akasha', whatever it was. Would the doom prophesied by Jangbu still come to pass? Or could he in fact still stop Warren getting that stone back to the real world? After all, his morbid sigil still shone warmly on his palm, and he somehow doubted that Pillar would try to protect his General if he moved to assault him; there was something about his manner that told him he only kept to loyalties out of fear. As he had been thinking, Warren had said something that Michael had missed, but he did see the gun being thrown to Louise's feet. What was Warren planning here? Perhaps it was a feint to draw an attack him whilst supposedly defenceless? He noticed that Louise was looking at him, but there was something unusual about her gaze; it seemed dark and distant, almost contemptuous. He smiled at her as he wondered what the matter might be; he remembered that she had been troubled by something before they had entered the trials. What might she be thinking? Was, as he suspected, Jangbu something to do with this? I won't do it, Louise said loudly, looking back over at Warren with a determined expression. What? replied Warren, his voice harsh and filled with genuine concern. He took a step closer and eyed the gun on the ground somewhat nervously; Michael could tell that whatever Louise was doing now was not part of Warren's plan. What could she have been meant to do with that gun? Guns were only good for one thing, but Michael didn't even want to consider the options which that train of thought would offer him.

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O-one should not disobey their heart twice, Louise stuttered, tears appearing in her eyes. One should not... disobey... She fell quiet as Warren's brow furrowed and his hand clenched the stone forcefully in his palm. I don't know what you're talking about, but this is serious now Louise. Captain Pillar, Warren said, turning to look at the sullen-faced soldier, please place the firearm in Mrs. Durant's hand. Pillar looked away from Warren towards Louise, her face in her hands and tears silently racing down her cheeks, and then down at the pistol lying on the ground like litter amongst the thick green grass. Sorry General, he uttered, his eyes still fixed on the firearm, I'm not going to do that. Warren simply smiled and sighed, looking at the floor as he passed the Stone from his sigil hand to the other before extending his arm towards the gun. I knew you wouldn't do it, he said, almost to himself. It seems the voice that called me here was indeed wise. Voice? Michael guess that he must mean Jangbu, which meant that Jangbu had indeed spoke to all four of them. What exactly had he told the others? It seemed each soul present on this grassy plateau had a different mission to fulfil, but their missions were conflicting. Why was Jangbu playing them off against each other? It seemed that Warren had been forewarned that Pillar would not follow his command; what else did he know about what was going to happen? * Pillar internally panicked as he spoke the dissenting words. He could tell that Warren intended to have Louise use that gun for some malicious purpose, and he had learnt well through his trial that there were times when authority needed to be disobeyed in order to do what was right. His nerves raced as he watched the gun levitate its way into Warren's open hand. Was this to be his end? I'm afraid I have been given no choice Captain. I thank you for the service you have rendered so tolerantly over the years, said Warren, apparently finding the sight of Pillar's eyes widening and his face growing white quite entertaining. Pillar felt his leg shake slightly but he quickly restrained it. It certainly wasn't the first time he had been staring down the barrel of a gunit had taken him over a decade of armed service to become a Captain after allbut he still felt pangs of fear made worse by surprise ringing throughout his being. Suddenly Pillar realised something: in his trial Jangbu had told him that he

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would need to save Michael's life if the expedition was to be a success, whatever that success might entail; he couldn't even decide whether acquiring this Stone was something that might benefit the world, though Warren had always seemed to think so. Jangbu had told him that all four of them must make it to the end in order to achieve his goals of bettering the world, but it looked like both he might soon be violating this condition, thus assumably leaving Michael to die also. Wait, I~ began Pillar, but the echoless explosion of the pistol firing cut him off, turning his body into a rag doll that slumped to the ground unceremoniously. Strangely, although Pillar knew that he was dead and could not feel any part of his body, he could still hear his thoughts just as clearly as before he had died. What would become of his unshelled soul? * Michael watched Pillar drop to the ground. He tensed his hands as anger leapt into his mind. Warren smiled and threw the gun forcefully at Louise. She roughly blocked it with her arms, forcing it to bounce back down to the ground. Michael was still considering stepping forward and using his death touch on Warren, but he had such little information, he didn't even know how to escape the sparse land of Shambala. Did Jangbu live here on these endless plains? Warren had his hand outstretched once again and was using his telekinesis to levitate the gun in front of Louise. Take it Louise, ordered Warren, and Louise slowly complied, wrapping her fingers around the pistol's grip and placing her quivering forefinger lightly on the trigger. Remember who he really is, Warren continued, looking Michael in the eye with a grimace. Michael was immediately filled with a desire to kill the black-uniformed old man standing before him. What evil had Warren been spreading into Louise's mind? Whatever it was, it was most likely the reason she was now pointing the gun right at him with her eyes closed. Michael suddenly found himself preparing to finally end his life of love and war at the hands of the person he had fought for years to protect. Bang. * Pillar saw the scene playing in slow motion before him. He didn't know where he was, and he didn't know what he was, but somehow he was still some form of alive. He could move, though he didn't really know what he was moving; his point

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of vision of was flying about the plains of Shambala. Everything he saw was stained in a deep putrid yellow and covered in small momentarily flashing black corruptions of reality. He quickly found his coordination and moved his view to the grassy plateau atop the rocky tower. There he saw Louise ever so slowly reaching out to grab the pistol floating in front of her. Moving closer, he saw her point the weapon at Michael with a look or horror across her face. What was going on? Was Warren controlling her? Was she going to shoot him? There was a cataclysmic booming sound as the pistol lit up and time virtually stopped in its tracks. Pillar swept in close and witnessed the bullet slowly push its way out of the barrel and begin its journey across the short space between its home and its target. He was reminded of his mandate to save Michael's life, and it was obvious that this moment was the time in which he had to do it. The question was of course: how? He couldn't influence the real world in his state of non-existence, and this time he couldn't just inhabit his body to take action. He was trapped in some dark plane of reality where his soul was made to watch events unfold before him with no material being through which to affect them. He swung his point of view in close so that the bullet seemed enormous as it twisted majestically through the still air. He only had a few seconds before it would impact; Jangbu had warned him not to let his opportunity to save Michael pass him by, he had to do something, anything, right now. As if responding to his despair, he became aware that there was some kind of power within his non-being, a power that grew the more he focused his mind on it. With only a second to act and little else to go on, he simply focused all of his thoughts on stopping the bullet in its tracks. He felt energy flowing through what can only have been his soul, and the yellowness of the world seemed to retreat to reveal its true colours. He just had to stop the bullet. * Michael opened his eyes and instinctively flinched away from the searing heat pressing against his cheek. There before him was a bullet, still spinning in the air but hovering in the same position. A brief glance towards Warren revealed that he was equally shocked, so this act of manipulation could not have been his doing. Was it Jangbu protecting him? Louise's eyes opened, her eyelids spreading minute tears into the air, and the gun dropped from her hand.

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M-M-Mich... she stuttered, so softly it was almost inaudible, before collapsing to the ground as her mind overloaded and her conciousness abandoned her like sand being blown from an open palm. Enough of this! Warren roared, pulling the gun into the air with his telekinesis. It was now or never, it seemed. Michael lunged forward with his hands outstretched, ready to fill Warren's miserable body with the venomous death that he deserved. But the gun was already in Warren's hand, the trigger was being depressed, and the firing pin would strike the bullet before he would be able to make contact. Perhaps his graceful luck was going to run out at this final moment. Suddenly Warren lurched backwards as if he had been hit hard in the stomach. Michael was instantly reminded of the illusion he had seen during his trial: the illusory Warren had lurched back just like that. Then it had fallen to the ground as if dead. Michael finally realised that he had seen visions of both the past and the future: he had been shown how the Aurora had died, and how Warren would die. He felt Warren's coarse skin as his hand brushed almost tentatively onto his furrowed forehead.

27 ~Inside it all~ The Stone of Akasha rolled gently across the floor and bumped softly against the side of Michael's torn loafers. Warren's body was perfectly still, his soul vanquished by Michael's deadly touch. The sigil itself no longer shone, in fact it seemed to be fading away altogether. Perhaps it had finally fulfilled its purpose? Louise heaved herself up and stepped forward, turning to be in front of Michael. His eyes scanned her hands and saw that the weapon was not present. Why did you do that? he asked plainly, averting his eyes from hers. She did not answer. Was it Warren who made you do it? Why did you want to kill me?! Michael's voice became raised as he lowered his brow and threw a fiery glare. I...I... Louise could not reply. Her eyes were filled with tears and her heart with sorrow as she stood before the man she could not bare to hate. Michael stared at her for a moment longer before his anger seemed to subside. Indeed, he too could not sustain such powerful negative emotions towards the woman who had given him a reason to keep on living through his hellish experiences.

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I know about Bethany, Louise whispered, staring at the ground and cradling one arm with the other. There was a moment of silence whilst Michael tried to think about what Louise was saying. Once she had looked up again, he replied. Bethany? Did Warren give you that name? I assume you are referring to the late Pilot Officer Bethany Saunders? What do you know about her? Michael again descended into anger as he spoke, prompting Louise to produce what was almost a cower. I know that you love her more than me Michael! she shrieked, turning around and dropping heavily to her knees, no longer able to contain her emotions. Michael was left speechless by Louise's accusations. His rage overflowed into a shout as he span around, lifted Warren's gun from his hand, and squeezed the trigger again and again until Warren's body was covered with crimson craters. The weapon clicked repeatedly, trying to prime an empty chamber. Louise looked around and was taken aback at her husband's fury. Lies! It's all lies! Michael bellowed, throwing the heavy gun out towards the plains below them and stepping towards Louise slowly. Bethany saved my life Louise, and for that I will always honour her, but whatever foul lies that Warren has weaved to turn you against me are bullshit! Louise quickly processed Michael's words; they were exactly what she wanted to believe, but how could she dismiss what she saw so easily? But I saw it... Jangbu showed me... she said weakly, looking down at her hands for want of anywhere else to lay her eyes. Michael is right, Louise, came a voice: the unmistakable voice of Jangbu. It washed with stark clarity across the plains of Shambala without the faintest echo, reaching Louise's mind even through her deafened ears. What you saw was not the true past, Jangbu continued, his voice getting louder now. Both Michael and Louise were silent as they scanned the world around them for any sign of the source of the voice, but as usual there seemed to be none. Michael, take the Stone of Akasha. I shall explain everything once you have performed this one last task, spoke Jangbu, prompting Michael to look down at the Stone still firmly gripped by Warren's whitening hand. With a brief look back to Louisestaring right at him with wide glinting eyesMichael reached down and took the Stone up into his palm. It felt slightly warm to the touch, and was vibrating subtly at a very high frequency. What is this Stone? Michael asked to the heavens, but no answer came. Instead he felt an unprecedented feeling of pure ecstasy all over his body; it felt as if all the energy in his being was being pulled up by a great whirlwind above his head. In his last moments of vision the world seemed to turn a shade of deep pungent yellow, a bright sepia, and dark warping corruptions of reality seemed to eat away at

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the fabric of space. * Louise gasped as Michael's body fell limp to the floor, joining those of Warren and Pillar upon the soft grass. She stood, with three motionless bodies around her, in a desolate silent world, shivering as adrenaline raced around her bloodstream. She wiped the salty tears away from her mouth. You too, Louise, stated Jangbu simply. Louise was unsure as to whether she should actually do it. What had just happened to Michael? Surely Jangbu would forgive her for thinking he was dead? Despite these thoughts, she found herself already moving to carefully drag the Stone from Michael's hand, wary of his morbid powers of touch. As she stood up straight with the Stone in her hand, the world of vile sepia seemed to veil her eyes too, and her conciousness quickly abandoned her stranded body. Again Shambala, a world within a world where life had not ventured for thousands of years, was still. Atop the mighty pillar that was its only feature lay the bodies of four explorers. One was staring up at the pale sky, a gaping red hole in his forehead creating a third eye that gazed with equal determination at the intense nothingness. Another was lying face down with blood covering his back and his hands curled into claws where they had once held two items of opposite purpose. The female lay on her side with her eyes closed as if asleep, her hair, darkened by dirt from days in the mountains, spread loosely over her face. The last of them lay in centre of them all, his mouth locked for eternity in a struggling smile and the sigil on his hand slowly fading away, its purpose fulfilled and its carrier stripped of his very soul by the ethereal powers of the Stone. No one would ever find these bodies, preserved forever in a timeless tomb, and indeed no one would ever even look for them. In fact very soon there would be no one left on Earth to do so.

28 ~Learned~ Jangbu's clothing was ancient: a weary leather garb with short rough trousers and a headband that perhaps was once colourful defined his appearance. He moved naturally and precisely with perfect balance, as if he had been studiously training his technique for movement across the vast whiteness of what must be the Plane of

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Clarityunless there were more blank white worlds in Jangbu's bizarre realm that they did not know of. Welcome, Michael, Louise, to the next level of your conciousness, said Jangbu, his normally booming echoing voice now plain and ordinary. Seeing his small frame standing before them suddenly made him seem far less mysterious and ethereal than they might have imagined. Michael looked at Louise standing beside him, meeting her eyes which were reciprocating the motion. Neither really knew how to feel beyond the relief that their lives seemed to have been extended once again by some miracle that was far above what they understood. You needn't worry about trying to explain to your brain what is happening. It will not understand, for it was not designed to experience reality outside of your realm, Jangbu explained, stepping closer to them, forming a triangle with himself, Michael and Louise at each point. Where you are now you have been before: The Plane of Clarity. The only difference is that this time you are permitted to be here by my masters, thus I am able to manifest myself before you in a form you might find comfortable, my former human self to be precise. Louise was gently touching her ears with her hands, seemingly distracted from Jangbu's words. Michael and Jangbu noticed this at the same moment, and Jangbu suddenly burst out into laughter. Ha, ha, ha! Don't be afraid Louise, it's true, your hearing has been restored! Louise was still for a moment, just long enough for Michael to consider asking if she was okay, before she looked first to Jangbu then at Michael with a beaming smile. I can hear! I can hear! she exclaimed merrily, raising and lowering herself on her tired toes as waves of excitement ran through her. You have been healed too Michael, said Jangbu with a sidelong glance at him. Healed? What? Your hands. The curse I regretfully burdened you with has been dispelled, Jangbu explained, pointing at the palm that once displayed the deadly sigil, but now was clear but for the dirt scraped across Michael's skin. His eyes rushed over his hands to confirm Jangbu's claim, then settled on Louise who was looking right at him with a wide smile that faded quickly as she remembered the reason she had been crying a few moments ago; albeit in a different world. You said what I saw was not the true past, Louise said to Jangbu, her voice resolute and diplomatic. Do you mean nothing I saw was true?

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It was indeed falsehood, Jangbu replied. Again, I regret my actions in forcing you to experience such sorrow, but it was all for a purpose you see. There was no other way to ensure that Warren remained oblivious to my true intentions. I think you need to explain just what happened, Michael suggested, edging closer to Louise with a casual adjustment of his stance. I've got questions about what I saw as well. Jangbu sighed as if bored with the conversation, his eyes pointed at the ground and his arms folded about his chest. Well it's not all that difficult to understand what happened, but I think you'll take some time to appreciate why it had to be this way. Indeed, I myself don't fully comprehend why things worked as they did, I guess it just the way it was meant to be. As he spoke, Jangbu turned around and began walking away from them, beckoning them to follow his path through the empty abyss. Firstly, Michael, you were too heavily burdened by your sins to enter Shambala, thus I designed a trial that forced you to learn self-forgiveness. Future merit can undo transgression Michael, but not if you are too tied down by a haunting past. You learned your lesson well enough, and thus you are here today. You already know why I gave you the curse of the sigil: it was vital that you be sought out by Warren to bring you to me, and it was vital that you had a weapon with which to vanquish him when the time was right. Louise, I apologise once again that I mislead you, but it was vital that Warren believed you were going to kill Michael. You see in fact I had been misleading Warren the entire time. He is not an evil man deep down, but he lacks the virtue I sought in my target. I had him believe that once he reached Shambala he would gain the power of the Stonenot that he really knew exactly how he could use itand that you, Michael, would eventually take it from him. Jangbu stopped walking and span around to face them. I told him that it must be Louise who kills you Michael, or he would not gain the power he desired. His greed kept him from straying from my rules. And so I allowed him to be part of Louise's trial, a series of false reconstructions of the past that would turn her against her husband and fill her with anger, anger that would translate into the desire to kill once the correct pressures were applied. You could have just told me that before, said Louise shakily, as if using her voice for the first time; she wasn't used to actually hearing her own words so clearly. So you would assume, but unfortunately you are not the most inconspicuous of people my dear. I foresaw that should I reveal the scheme to you, you would eventually allow Warren to uncover it. You can be read like a book, you

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know? Now that's true, said Michael with a smile, glancing at Louise who was caught empathetically sharing his glimmers of happiness. It seemed that Jangbu's explanation was lightening the mood; it at least made some sense now, and moreover: the ordeal seemed to be finished. But I'm sure you're still wondering how that bullet Louise fired at you did not harm you? Jangbu asked Michael with a smug smile. I thought that was your doing? replied Michael, stretching his arm which was beginning to ache with fatigue. Not as such, was Jangbu's response. He clicked his fingers and a flash of familiar blue light dazzled them briefly. When their vision returned they found Captain Pillar standing before them, still wearing his heavy combat armour but now without the gory wound on his forehead. Greetings, he said blandly, his face displaying what for him must have been a smile, but really he still looked rather neutral. The Captain had lessons to learn from his trial too, began Jangbu, stepping out from behind Pillar and drawing the gaze of all three of the Plane's visitors. He learned through his trial that orders are not always to be followed, no matter who they come from, but he also learned that he would need to save Michael's life. Indeed, it turns out that my life didn't end with the death of my body, Pillar explained. I was able to stop that bullet as a spirit manipulating reality. Not to mention that I was able to make a small gesture of revenge on Warren. So when it looked like he was hit in the stomach...? Michael excitedly interjected. Yeah, that was me, Pillar replied with a sigh, as if he thought nothing of it. There was a short silence. So what happened now? As if responding directly to Michael's thoughts, Jangbu stepped forward. I'll tell you what happens now. Now you begin the next level of your existence. But of course, it can't be just you that is given this privilege. Every single person on the planet must be called to this Plane by using the power of the Stone of Akasha. Jangbu clicked his fingers once again and there were several flashes of that familiar blue light. Michael half expected to see everyone in the world standing before him, but when his vision clarified he saw the rather more mundane sight of a circular wooden table with four chairs set around it, and to the side a man dressed in an impeccable waiter's uniform. This man was holding a pitcher of pink liquid in one hand and a tray with three tall glasses in the other.

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Jangbu sat down and motioned for the others to do the same. He was silent until they were all seated and had been poured a glass of the strange liquid by the waiter, who subsequently faded away into nothing, as if he had been just an illusion. I'm surprised you have not asked any questions about what I just said, said Jangbu, leaning forward into the table and interlacing his fingers. I wouldn't know what to ask, responded Michael honestly, glancing to both sides at Louise and Pillar who nodded in agreement. Well I shall explain a little further then. Let me first inform you as to the following fundamental truths as knowledge of them is a prerequisite to understanding your goal: firstly, there are seven hierarchical plains of reality, on which you have just come from the third. Secondly, the only existing base element is in fact: life itself. In the culture you are used to this is often called conciousness, or spirit, but generally across all realities it is known as Life. Thirdly, the purpose of Life in one reality is to expedite the transition of the species into the next reality by learning lessons and gaining experience as a collective conciousness. Do you follow so far? I guess, replied Michael. Louise was silent but was leant forward in her chair, listening carefully to Jangbu's words. Before Jangbu could continue Pillar asked a question. Wait, what exactly is the difference between these levels of reality? Are you from a different~ Yes I am, Jangbu interrupted, pre-empting Pillar's next question, though the form you see before you is not. This is my third level form, a relic from millennia ago when I walked this planet as regular level three human being. I was part of a tribe in the mountains; we called ourselves the Vedics. I was not the first person to discover Shambala, but I was the first to reach it and understand its meaning, and that in fact is the very reason am I here right now talking to you; though technically speaking there is no 'now' here in this place where time cannot reach. Michael leant back in his chair as he struggled to quite take in all this new information. So there really were worlds beyond their own, not just elsewhere in the universe but in whole different realities. Louise, it seemed, was not phased by this information. Her face was painted with curiosity but not the confusion that made its home over in Pillar's expression. In finding the secret of Shambala, Jangbu continued, I was given passage to the forth level of reality where I learned of the various systems in place for the maintenance of the whole reality matrix. You see, each level of reality provides some development for your Life that will allow you to enter the next level. The third level of reality is intended to allow beings to learn virtues through experience in a universe where resources are scarce and conflict is inevitable. By rising above conflict, beings are able to gain the mindset required for the tasks on the fourth level.

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Your species eventually achieved this through a very unusual but nonetheless effective method. By controlling the hearts and minds of your populous through technology, you were able to end war and create a system where everyone already had everything they ever wanted by simply removing their desires for new materials. Thus it is now possible for members of your species to enter the fourth level, including yourselves; you may not be under the spell of that Machine, but you have already far exceeded the requirements for advancement through your actions. There was a pause as the three soldiers glanced at each other, and then at the drinks sitting on the table. But I expect you're now wondering what exactly the purpose of the fourth level is? Jangbu continued. To answer I must once more ask you to keep an open mind and be ready to hear things you are not designed to understand. When I entered the fourth level I learnt that my new role was to be a steward over the third, more specifically over the race of beings I had come from. My objective was to guide the human race to the forth level once the time was right, and I shall admit that finding the correct time and method to do so was a tiring task indeed. However, now that you are here I shall be leaving this level for the fifth; my only requirement for advancement was to secure a method for humans to advance, and that method, my friends, is you. Michael leant forward and looked Jangbu in the eye. So this means you can control things happening in our world? In a sense, Jangbu replied. More accurately I am able to decide what will happen in your world, but it is difficult for me to change the course of history once it is under way. Think of it as a unfathomably huge list of things that will happen in your world, written thousands of years ago by myself in order to not only keep you alive, but to give you a chance to advance. In some ways, I was the God so many of you worshipped over the millennia, but a lot of people were wrong about me: I am not perfect. Alas it is this fact that drove me to involve you in this whole ordeal; it's very difficult to force events not already lain down in the plan to happen, but it is indeed possible. The development of the mind control Machine is one example, and the fact that it is you three before me now instead of nobody, is another. Which reminds me, I must thank you all, especially you Michael, for by fighting your way to this place you have saved me from a fate worse than death. Had you failed in your quest there would have never been another chance for anyone to discover the Stone of Akasha, and thus no Life would ever reach the fourth level, meaning that in turn I would never reach the fifth. There was a slight pause. Jangbu obviously understood the significance of what he was saying, but the other three would not know why being trapped on the forth level was so undesirable.

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I must say, in order to clarify myself, that living on the fourth level breeds within one's Life a burning desire to advance. It isn't something you find on the third level or below as most Life there is not aware of the system that is in place. The jump from the third to the fourth level is a threshold for your Life's development. After all, the so called 'Enlightenment' only comes upon reaching the fourth level, and you quickly find that the desire to continue your journey towards the last reality is irresistible. But enough of that, you will learn of these things soon enough, I cannot keep you here much longer anyway. I must give you instructions as to what you must do. We need to bring more people to Shambala right? asked Louise brightly. Jangbu seemed amused by her enthusiasm, and Michael was quite surprised at how Louise was taking this paradigm shift so naturally. Indeed. Once you have brought the remainder of the human race to Shambala, all three of you shall be granted access to the fifth level; this is what I am told. I will provide just one last piece of assistance: I shall move the Stone of Akasha from Shambala to a place of your choosing anywhere on your planet. The only way for people to ascend is to take it in their hands as you did. In a short while you will be informed on the method through which you might give messages to those still on the third level. Then you may persuade them to seek the Stone, much like how I have done with all of you. However, first and foremost you must make the journey to the fourth level; worry not for it is very simple. All you need to do is consume the liquid contained in your glasses and you shall have completed your mission on the third level once and for all. All three of them eyed the slightly viscous pink liquid sitting in the glasses before them. They were just one motion away from leaving it all: making the biggest possible leap into the unknown that humans would ever make. Each felt differently about the new horizon they were being practically forced to strive for. Louise was blissfully happy, eager to see the horrors of the human race put behind her; any nostalgic thoughts she might have had were far from the front of her mind; a nervous excitement dominated her thinking. Michael was more conservative in his approach. His dominating feeling was disbelief as to the situation that had changed so quickly around him and was now proposing that he undertake a journey across realities. Alongside this, he was experiencing a mixing pot of other emotions: anxiety of his life to come, regret of his loss of control in Shambala, and fear that he might loose everything he held dear through this momentous shift of conciousness. It was implied that he would still have Louise at his side, but what of their love? Did they have love on the fourth level of reality? Just how different was this new realm to theirs? Whilst Michael considered these issues, Pillar remained relatively calm.

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Somehow none of this was illogical to him, it all made so much sense, as if he was just being reminded of truths he had known his whole life. For the entire journey had had felt strangely about the thought of Shambala; even without knowing what it was he had felt happy about the concept of reaching it, happy in a unique and subtle way that he had never known before. Now he was here at the gates to what he could only relate to as Heaven, the next life, and it all seemed perfectly natural. In his mind all of the human lives lost to get him to this place were justified by the revolution the three of them would create. So we just drink it? Louise asked, wrapping a hand around the glass and dragging it across the table towards her, an action that was made a sound more undesirable than she had expected, but she was pleased to be able to experience the idea of sound once again. Louise, interrupted Michael, his voice filled with a worry that instantly infected Louise also. She let go of the glass and took hold of Michael's hand. Michael almost gasped in horror before realising that he no longer needed to worry about his deathly curse. Suddenly he wanted to embrace Louise like never before; after all there might not be another chance after this. It is only natural to feel nervous Michael, but I assure you that you will find the fourth level far more fulfilling that the third, fulfilling in ways your mind cannot even understand, Jangbu reassured him. Pillar grabbed his glass and pulled it close to him as Louise had done, before looking to Michael with expectant eyes. He squeezed Louise's hand and they shared a short yet meaningful smile before he followed suit in moving his glass to sit directly in front of him, the liquid sloshing without the slightest of noise as he did so. When you are ready, drink the whole glass. I shall see you on the other side, spoke Jangbu, before he disappeared just as the mysterious waiter had done a short while ago. Silence fell across the Plane of Clarity as each of the three travellers eyed the liquid and then each other, wordlessly portraying their anxieties at this final moment. Perhaps a toast? Pillar finally suggested, scraping his glass up off the table and holding it at arm's length. Yes, Michael said, his voice now filled with steady determination, a sign of his acceptance of the path fate would have him take. To Love, Life, and.... He faltered in trying to think of a third subject but Louise thankfully jumped in. And Humanity. Her voice was as resolute as Michael's. He looked at her and experienced a rush of feelings. In one moment he recalled all the love he had ever felt for this woman, and relived it for what would be the final time. He saw her eyes begin to shimmer as what tears she had left began their display, and the sight compelled his

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stinging eyes to do the same. Deep inside he dreaded what might be to come; perhaps his Life did not want to leave the third level so soon? To Humanity indeed, Pillar stated blandly. Cheers. They were too far away from each other to touch glasses, so the drinking came right away. Pillar was the first to have the liquid touch his mouth, a moment Michael had been spying on out of the corner of his eye as he brought his glass to his face, making sure it had no obvious repulsive effects on the Captain. As he began to taste the liquid on his tongue, a dull sugary sensation, he closed his eyes and thought of his life, all the tumultuous changes and challenges he had faced, and all the miracles that had borne him through them alive. It seemed that for his whole life he had been led from horizon to horizon, each time facing new enemies, be they secondary school love rivals or raging battle frenzied soldiers, and now he knew that Jangbu had been behind it all along. Was his free will just a simulation? Was it always going to happen this way? He didn't believe it for a second. He had battled fate on this expedition and forced it to change, proving that nothing was ever truly inevitable, regardless of any pre-written destiny that ruled over him. No force, from any reality, could control the inherent liberty of Life. In his trance of thought he felt the liquid stop flowing and immediately opened his eyes. The glass was still in front of his face, held at such an angle that some of the sugary solution could not reach his mouth. However more importantly, Louise and Pillar were both gone, their glasses standing neatly on the table. He was alone on the blazing white canvas of the Plane of Clarity, half leant back in a creaky wooden chair set before a solitary brown table with a glass held awkwardly against his curved mouth. He mused about the unusual circumstance he found himself in; it wasn't how he imagined ending his very existence. Now he did not even consider hesitating. It was time for him to join the unlikely Captain and his beloved wife, time for him to finally end his fatiguing journey through his hellishly eventful four decades on Earth, and time for his next grand adventure to begin. The glass emptied.

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