Third Player Read online

  From behind him came a new sound and a judder through the ground beneath his feet. He turned, looked toward the abbey on the hill, and his mouth dropped in astonishment. The ancient abbey was slowly sinking into the ground, falling away as if it was being devoured. The ancient monoliths that stood at the very heart of the abbey were exposed for the first time since the dawn of civilisation. They glowed like bright beacons in the enveloping gloom, pulsating with a life of their own.

  ‘The prophecy!’ the veteran corporal exclaimed in Fillip’s mind. ‘It’s happening! Our salvation is at hand!’

  Somewhere to the rear of the horde’s ranks came a dreadful roar, as the creatures saw the glowing monoliths. Fillip’s attention was dragged away from the events on the hill as, with an ear shattering scream, fresh ranks of devils clambered over the burnt-out shells of their comrades bodies and descended upon the rear trenches. This time there was nowhere to run to.

  With his heart in his mouth, the adrenaline surging through his veins and the ground shaking, Fillip turned to face the advancing horde, bayonet fixed. He managed to wildly fire off two last rounds, which ineffectually bounced off the armoured shell of the nearest of the horde, before the beast was upon him. He dropped to his knees and pushed upwards with his bayonet at the soft underside of the creature, as it teetered over the parapet. He was drenched in the sickening, foul smelling body fluids of the beast as it screamed and writhed, the blade on the end of his rifle firmly stuck in its intestines. Fillip desperately pulled and twisted his rifle, in an attempt to withdraw it from the devil’s underbelly, but it refused to move. He was vaguely aware of the veteran beside him, coming to his aid, but being torn away by the claws of another creature. Then the shadow of another beast fell upon him, and before Fillip could react, he was ensnared in the cruel grip of a pair of claws. Helpless, he was lifted high above the creature’s back, face toward the broiling sky. Through a red haze of pain he just saw the shape of a vast, beautiful bird with incredibly graceful lines, rise out of the hill where the abbey had stood only moments before. The bird of salvation was huge, dwarfing the combatants on the planet’s last battlefield.

  As the pincers closed about his body, snuffing out his young life, a smile touched his lips and the huge bird disappeared into the heavens with a triumphant roar. On the opposite side of the vale, a tall armoured quadruped, looked upon its advancing army of children, saw the bird fly and excreted such displeasure, its attendants were sent reeling in a fit of apoplexy.

  The weak sunlight glinted off the tarnished metal as the hulk slowly tumbled end over end. The hull was pockmarked with small dents and ruptures, caused by the impact of micro-asteroids over the aeons that the wreck had floated derelict through space. It was a massive wreck, with a large main body and long boom, leading to three huge engine nacelles. The ancient vessel at first appraisal appeared undamaged. The reason for it being abandoned, like the Marie Celeste of deep space, unclear. But as the hulk tumbled over itself, the distant sun shed light upon a long angry gash, that exposed the innards of the ship to the cold of space. The scorch marks surrounding the breech proved that the rupture wasn’t caused by an unfortunate malfunction in the vessel. The way the composite structure had been ripped apart could mean only one thing, someone, something had attacked and gutted the ancient ship.

  There was another flash of light, as the sun reflected off the hull of another vessel only a few hundred klicks away. The design of this ship was completely different, it was spherical in shape, but it too had a huge slash across its surface. Then another wreck came into view, then another and another, until it was obvious that this part of space was littered with the hulks of hundreds, maybe thousands, of gutted derelicts. It was a graveyard of interstellar ships, with each and every hulk locked in an eternal orbit, like dead moons around a diseased planet.

  At the centre of all the devastation sat a massive structure,, with no apparent organisation to its shape or form. It was as if it had grown organically, perhaps from parts and materials ripped out of the hearts of the devastated ships that orbited around it. If ever there was a place that embodied the interstellar traveller’s vision of hell, this corner of space was it... The disorganised mass of material at the centre of the graveyard exuded a sickening malevolence that was pure evil. This place was death.

  Dominator

  It was a horrifying vortex that threatened to tear his mind apart. The sheer magnitude of the universe and all its dimensions stretched his sanity to the very limits. He was completely detached from his body. He had no material form. He was a flash of light, a particle of energy, and he could only just remember the original form he took in that narrow, three dimensional universe he came from. In the tiny part of him, that could still remember what it was like to be mortal, Gulag was terrified. He was lost in the infinite dimensions of space and time, without a clue as to which path to follow, or why.

  Sometimes, he thought he could hear the screams of lost souls, pleading for him to find the way back to the universe he once came from, but he couldn’t be sure. There was something he was supposed to do, somewhere he was supposed to go, but as he travelled as a flash of light further and further from the place he came from, he lost track of what, if anything, mattered.

  Time passed, how long he couldn’t be sure, it could have been anything from the life of a supernova to the time since creation, but he eventually became aware of only two possible paths through the bizarre dimension he travelled. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, his universe had become a tunnel. At one end of the swirling multi-coloured mass was nothing, a complete void. At the other end of the tunnel was pure, blazing white light.

  He became aware that he faced a decision that he had to make. In which direction should he go? Toward the light or toward the all-enveloping dark? The light hurt; it was bright to the point of being painful. The voices—were they voices?—screamed at him to turn toward the light, but that path was too painful. Oblivion seemed to be the easy option; the simpler choice. In oblivion he would know no fear, he would be free from indecision. Gulag diverted his path and dashed toward the comforting, all enveloping dark. He expected, hoped for death, nothingness, peace. The reality was none of these, and far worse than any nightmare.

  Darkness turned into flashes of light that wrenched at his mind and soul. From somewhere he once more felt the horrific agony of physical pain. Once more he became aware of physical presence, aware of the fact that he came from a material, three-dimensional universe. He resisted—with all his willpower he resisted—but he couldn’t stop the reunification of body and soul. In an instant of time that couldn’t be measured, he left the other plane of existence and returned to his own universe. He became mortal once more.

  Gulag groaned loudly, every bone ached and his head pounded. He felt disorientated, at a loss as to where he was or why, but with immense effort he opened his eyes and once more became aware of his physical surroundings. Lights flashed and winked about him, while other beings of a shape he recognised to be of the same form as his own, lay around him. The beings moaned—which meant something, although he wasn’t quite sure what. Flashes of recollection entered and left his mind. This place was part of a ship, of that he was sure. So these people must have something to do with the operation of the vessel. But as to where they were or why…his memory was a blank. He thought hard, ignoring the aches and pains, concentrating on who and what he was. For some reason he knew the answers to these questions were of vital importance.

  Eventually—how long exactly he didn’t know, the gaps in his memory were replaced, like the pieces of a jigsaw. It was as if tidal gates were opened as with a rush, his memory flooded back to him. He sat up, looked about the bridge of the Dominator, and wished his memory had never returned.

  The bridge was bathed in the dull green glow of emergency lights, quietly silent except for the groaning crew and the background hum of the air conditioning. It was like the deathly calm that follows in the wake of a devastating storm. Gulag discovered h
e was slumped in the captain’s chair, and it took all his strength to lift himself unsteadily to his feet. He staggered over to the engineering console and lifted the head of the crewman who moaned gently. Well at least he was alive. Gulag eased the crewman out of his seat and laid him out on the deck floor. Then he sat down at the console and tried to concentrate on the display readouts. He had trouble reading the information, his vision kept swimming in and out of focus. So far as he could ascertain, there was no real damage to the Dominator. The powerplants had gone into emergency shutdown, but the status fields surrounding the singularities were still in place. He forced himself to think hard, to organise his thoughts. It took a little time, but eventually he remembered how to operate the console. His hands moved a little uncertainly over the panels and the main lights returned, followed by a whine as the Dominator’s main systems came back on line.

  Gulag must have lost consciousness again, or sat at the console in a daze, because the next thing he was aware of was the turbo-lift opening and the tall mutant woman Colmarrie stepping onto the bridge. She staggered to the captain’s chair and collapsed in it, facing Gulag. She held him with a malevolent stare.

  ‘May you rot in the hottest frigging part of hell Gulag!’ she thought at him. ‘You could have killed us all you, cloned bastard! Just what do you think you were doing?’

  Gulag focused his eyes on his adversary and said, ‘Ah, the mutant scum... I forgot all about you. I hoped you were dead, but that was obviously too much to ask for…’

  Colmarrie gave him another cold stare, then ignored him. She got out of the chair and moved to where one of the crew was coming around. The mutant quickly checked the crew-woman’s vital signs then moved on to the next casualty. Gulag sat watching the improbably tall woman for a few minutes, then with a resigned sigh he got up a began to help the rest of the people on the bridge.

  By the end of ship’s day the rest of the those on board the Dominator had been revived. Casualties were limited to one broken ankle, a few strained muscles, and a lot of very bad headaches. However, they still didn’t know which ship’s day it was, or where they were. For the moment, the fact that they were back in normal space, relatively unscathed, was all that really mattered. The who, what, where, when and why could wait. Gulag still felt lost, displaced, unsure of what had really happened. His self-confidence was shattered, and he feared that the experience had scarred him forever. In his short cloned life he had always been in control of his destiny—master of the world around him. There was someone or something out there with the power to control all their destiny's, and it had just sucked them up and spat them out. Gulag hated to admit it, even to himself, but he’d had the shit scared out of him. The mutant woman Colmarrie, sat at the head of the conference table in the ship’s briefing room, chairing the emergency meeting. Gulag sat quietly beside her, content for the moment to leave his old adversary in charge.

  ‘So let’s go through this once more,’ she said with a sigh, ‘the main armament of the Imperial battle-station was punching holes in the hull of the Excalibur?’ Gulag nodded in confirmation. Colmarrie knew all this already but he didn’t have the energy to argue.

  ‘OK, and Dominator refused to answer the helm?’ she asked, this time looking at Josh Brabazon who, like her, had been stranded on the ancient starship. His face was pale and gaunt; his expression haunted. It occurred to Colmarrie that Gulag and the human both looked as if they had stared into the fires of hell.

  ‘Yeah, I guess so,’ Brabazon replied tiredly shaking his head. ‘I don’t really remember much. It was as if my mind was locked in the corner of my own head. The creature that purports to be the Dominator’s computer had complete control over me. I had no will of my own.’

  ‘God, that must have been horrendous!’ said Anderson, the human marine captain who had been stuck on board with the rest of them. ‘Is there a chance that the computer can take over again? I mean, do we even have control of the ship now?’

  Brabazon shook his head. ‘I don’t know captain. At the time, I got the impression that the computer was afraid of what Gulag might do. It was adamant that the ship wasn’t going anywhere, at least until the arrival of that third starship, but I don’t feel its actions were meant to be malevolent. You’ve got to remember it’s been a few millennium since Dominator has had to interact with other sentient beings.’

  ‘I’m amazed you can be so charitable to something that took over your mind and body, friend Josh,’ Colmarrie expressed, shaking her head in wonder. ‘Is there any chance that Dominator could take over you, or somebody else, again? Despite what you just said, does the computer pose a real threat to our safety?’

  Brabazon shrugged, ‘I don’t think I could personally be affected again. My mental shields will be better prepared in the future. But there’s no guarantee that anyone else with an aptitude for telepathy couldn’t be affected. At the moment, the computer is quiet—it may have been damaged by our recent voyage, but how it will behave in the future I don’t know. We may have to accept that our host is at best erratic, at worst hostile...’

  ‘Okay, so that is a problem we shall have to deal with when it arises, my friends,’ Colmarrie told them decisively. ‘What concerns us most at present is the incredible event that moved us to here—wherever here is. As you are all aware by now, we are nowhere near Dyason. The ship and everyone in it has been moved bodily to…somewhere.’ She turned to Gulag and fixed him with a hard stare. His eyes stared unfocused into the middle distance, his expression blank. ‘Perhaps you would like to explain to us what, exactly, you did to us all? Just what the hell happened clone?’

  Gulag tried to focus on those around the table. For a brief moment he thought about telling the mutant bitch to go screw herself—he wasn’t answerable to anyone. He didn’t need to explain his actions—why should he? But then it occurred to him that he would need the help of these people to control this damned ship, and discover just where in the universe they were. Without mutual co-operation they were all stranded, and there was no way he was going to try warping space around his mind again. Relying on others was a concept new to his essentially young, cloned mind. He held back a retort and concentrated his thoughts. They all looked at him in anticipation.

  ‘I believed that the Dominator was in real danger,’ he began with a sigh. ‘The Excalibur was taking hits and her hull was being breached. Although the Dominator hadn’t been targeted at that point, it was only a matter of time. Then, when that third vessel left the wormhole, I felt we had to move out of danger.’

  ‘And how exactly did you do that?’ Anderson asked, giving the Dyason clone a suspicious stare. He couldn’t quite get his head around the fact that his body clock told him that only a few hours before he was safely on board the Excalibur. Now he was marooned with a rag-tag crew, on a ship run by a psychopathic computer. ‘The whole universe seemed to just fade away. What the hell happened?’

  Gulag wandered if any of them would ever understand just what they had all been through. He could lie, of course, but his gut instinct told him that the truth would serve him better—at least for the time being. ‘Over the past several years the Imperial forces have been carrying out experiments using cloned telepaths to warp space and teleport objects and people instantly from one point to another. Before coming on-board the Dominator I was involved in these experiments.’

  ‘So let me guess—in an attempt to keep the ship for yourself, you decided to try and warp space with your own mind. You tried to teleport not just yourself, but the whole of Dominator, to another point in space?’ Josh Brabazon asked incredulously. ‘Jeez Gulag! I can’t believe you would try something so dangerous. You could have killed us all!’

  ‘Tell me Gulag, have any of these experiments been successful in the past?’ Colmarrie asked sardonically. ‘Or were you just lucky?’

  Gulag stared hard at the giant mutant woman but said nothing.

  ‘He wasn’t that lucky—we’re still bloody lost!’ Brabazon pointed out. ‘Just whe
re were you planning on sending us to anyway? Have you the faintest idea where we are?’

  Gulag slammed his fist on the veined crystal table top and said with venom, ‘Look! There was no other way of saving the ship. Dominator is the inheritance of the Dyason. We could not, I would not, allow her to fall into the wrong hands. As soon as the unidentified vessel arrived I knew I had to do something. Desperate times require desperate measures! Warping space was the only remaining option, regardless of the risks. What happened after that, I don’t really know and you’re right—I haven’t a clue where we are. But at least the ship, and everyone on-board is safe.’ He looked around the table, defying anybody to challenge him.

  ‘Yeah, but for how long?’ Josh Brabazon, the wiry human scientist, retorted. Gulag opened his mouth to snap back angrily but before he could answer a thought entered his mind and he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Restraint would be advisable at this time clone,’ the mutant woman mentally advised him. ‘Everyone has been through great trauma, yourself more than the rest of us. You may have inherited your predecessor’s memories Gulag, but your own mind is still young. We will all need to work together to get us safely home. I don’t agree with what you did, but I understand it. For the time being at least, let us forget our previous differences and conflicts.’

  Gulag turned and looked at the rebel leader but said, and thought nothing.

  ‘Arguing will get us nowhere my friends,’ Colmarrie turned and looked at those around the table. ‘What we need to do now is work together to get us home. We must forge our different peoples into one effective crew if we are to survive the coming voyage. I know nothing of starships and the heavens, so I must rely on your expertise to guide us…’