Three Visions

[Nayla II]

~ First Vision, c. 8752 AG (4 years before The Collapse) ~

THE MARQUIS VESNER, who at this time was the Siridar of the planet Denya VII, had come to visit his vassal Elena Ganeva on her homeworld. It was his first visit to the Winter Palace, and he had come to attend to affairs of state and to witness an extremely rare three-moon solar eclipse that was due to happen the following day.

A crowd, large and densely packed, could be seen filling the enormous square in the west wing of the Winter Palace, making the roar of a proud lion, hedonistically glorying in their planet and their Countess and their promised future. She was due to appear and make a speech any moment now. The anticipation of seeing her was reaching fever pitch as midday approached. From the vantage point of the balcony, the crowd was dissected through the centre by a barriered line, along which the new Vesner battalions, sent to help guard their vassal, were slowly marching from one end of the square to the other, thousands of men and armaments trundling along rhythmically, going on endlessly amongst the jubilant crowd, the whistling, the songs, the stamping of feet.

Above, the Countess Elena (as she was then titled), was looking through a window at the crowd below, feeling a tad nervous before making her speech, as she sometimes did. You never knew if the lion might consume you. But she knew she would be okay once she stood out there and felt the love of the crowd, it would exult her and she would exult them in turn. That was certain. But nonetheless she felt some butterflies and her appetite dropped. She talked over some matters with Marya Alexsevna, her Mentat, in order to distract herself.

Tarkov, the Ganevan House Agent, was – as ever – worried about many things; his beady eyes darted from the crowd, to the Countess, to Vesner, and back again restlessly as he paced across the room. It wasn't only security matters that concerned him. He was worried about how the people might take to the idea of having some of Vesner's battalions in the city, and also whether the Marquis Vesner would cut a popular figure with the crowd or not.

“We are a fiercely independent people, Marquis,” he said to Vesner. “Not everyone will see this armed force in a positive light. Politics, as ever, is a complicated business, perceptions of event always vary. There will always be mis-trust of foreigners and their armies. However, they will trust the Countess. Whatever opposition and grumblings there might be, we can be sure of one thing – the people worship her like a Goddess and will believe anything she says. Or at least, most of them will. We have plenty of security in operation, as you would expect, and we have set up a blaster shield which will sit just in front of the pair of you when you make your speeches. I just ask that you don't walk beyond the shielded area, as this could potentially be dangerous. We can't guarantee to defend you outside of this area.”

“Oh come now, Tarkov,” said the Countess, coming over. The tension between the two was still high after a recent argument, but Tarkov lived only to defend House Ganeva, as his father had before him, so he proverbially bit his tongue once again. “We don't need to be molly-coddled,” the Countess went on, “This is a day of celebration, a day to get closer to the people. Let's not dull things before they've even begun.”

“I ask one simple thing, ma'am: do not stand in front of the shield,” he said calmly.

“Anyway, it's about time,” said the Countess, glancing at the clock on the far wall. Tarkov and his security guards walked out first and positioned themselves around the balcony, and the cheering of the crowd grew louder. Tarkov looked around, keen-sighted, got an update from his team, glanced at his watch, and then signalled to the Countess to come out.

As the Countess walked out into daylight, a deafening crescendo of cheering and clapping arose. Men, women, and children screamed in unison 'Elya, Elya, Elya...' at seeing this tiny woman, barely five feet tall, step out in her regal robes. She was beautiful and revered. She walked up to the white line on the floor that marked the otherwise invisible blaster shield in front of her. She raised her hands and the crowd were elated, and she was almost disgusted for a moment, disgusted by their demented and fanatical excitement, their roaring in unison. Then she began to enjoy the buzz. As the noise died down, Vesner followed her out and stood beside her to the right. They stood about about a meter and a half back, behind the rail of the balcony. A lesser but still loud cheer arose for the Marquis who smiled and raised his hands too.

Having waited several minutes for the crowd to calm, the Countess started to speak.

“Welcome, sons and daughters, welcome. Your Holy Mother knows each and every one of you, her happy family, and welcomes you all here on this day of celebration.” Her magnified voice boomed and echoed across the square. She waited for another burst of cheering to die down. She had a measured and confident speaking style, quite energetic, that sometimes bordered on the fiery. “This our planet. This is our Denya. This is the Eden that was known in the ancient holy books, the living verdant paradise, the fortress built by Mother Nature to safeguard her children, the paddock that Fate provided to protect us while we carried out our most important work, bearing the flame of civilisation for all mankind.

“This is our Denya, the protector, the nurturer, the fosterer of all that is good and great. Shared by us all – our happy workers, our skilful artisans, our industrious peasants, our mighty soldiers.” The crowd loved this. Animatedly, the Countess passed through the blaster shield without a care, and walked up to the guard rail, causing the crowd to chant again. “Yes you, my sons and daughters, honouring the lifeblood of your parents, who by industry, by tooth and claw, by prowess and ability, have built this planet strong. Doubt it not that I know your true worth.”

Tarkov, angry but keeping an air of calm, subtly stepped closer to the Countess, electronically signalling her to step back behind the shield. There was no response. His little eyes glanced around frantically at the crowd and the rooftops opposite.

“This is our Denya,” the Countess continued, “The primeval oak whose seed was planted by the ancient Eveks, whose roots, grown for many, many long years, sink deep into the molten bowels of Kyatch, and whose branches, gorgeously leafed and lush, lift up endlessly into the spiralling stars of the firmament above. This our Denya, whose trunk is thick and strong like the torso of Vir, and whose bark is like an anvil that can take a billion blows from the hammer of Tung.

“Are we not strong? Are we not blessed, in the teeming womb of this our happy home? This dear, dear place, my home and my father's home, the ringed stockade, moated round by our three moons, red Aster, the virgin pure, blue Vetteletz, cool and rapid, and pale Khazarine, the lion, unconquered and unconquerable. Our fathers' fathers spilt blood and dripped sweat so we could live on in the glory of this pure tenement. And do we not do the same? Will we not build a state even more glorious for our sons, and their sons, and their sons after them?  For our brightness can never be measured. Our brightness shames even the very stars that surround us.” She pointed upwards, toward the Pleiades and the constellations beyond the blue sky above.

“Tomorrow, our holy moons will align. The universe will speak to us, and it will say that Denya is great. It will say that Ganeva is great. It will say that I am great. And in our greatness, we will rise like an eagle, triumphantly to beat back the envious siege of our shameful enemies, who never valued us sufficiently, not knowing how Fate favoured us. Yes, we will rise like a sun, full glorious, and strike them blind to look on us.

She paused, a longer, fuller, pause.

“So join me in this celebration of our strength, my sons and daughters. Let us be merry, knowing that the future, like the past, is bright, and brighter still. Let us enjoy this day. For we know that Fate, the Sure-Handed, is guiding us onward, and we know that we are great. Fate bless St. Basil. Fate bless House Ganeva. And Fate bless this beautiful land of ours.” She took a priceless diamond ring off her little finger and tossed it over the balcony and into the adoring crowd.

Listening to the rapturous applause, she stood there for several minutes, a blank but proud expression on her face, staring into the far distance, her arms crossed in front of her.

[Nayla II]

~ Second Vision, c. 8758 ~


“What images return,
Oh my daughter?”

+

SLAVOJ ŽIŽEK awoke in the cramped confines of the tent, beads of sweat dripping from his dark skin. The young marine fondled the little diamond ring that was hanging from the chain around his neck, as if he would draw energy and succour from it. Nearly every time he woke up in these situations, that was the first thing he did; check that his lucky charm was still there. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it silently, then span it around with his finger tips, as it was a dynamo driving him onward. To him, it served as physical evidence of his continuing reality amongst the many threats of wartime.

Usually it was the cold you had to fight out there in desert at night, but something in his dream had made him hot. Perhaps it was visions of the sands? Perhaps he had been thinking of the Marquise Elena Ganeva, whose little finger had once poked through that ring that hung around his neck? Or of the Asimovan assassin who he secretly loved? Whatever he had been dreaming about, it faded quickly. In its place, a sense of panic began to set in, drawing him into the present moment.

Something wasn't right.

In the darkness of the tent, he could hear nothing over the faint sound of his own breathing. The Insarov marksman listened as carefully as he could, holding his breath and focusing. His senses were warning him about something, but he couldn't bring the source of it into consciousness.

Then, in the dampened sound of the cave, he heard cautious footsteps, ever so faint, creeping toward the tent.

Pulling a large dagger from its sheathe, he waited.

+

EVGENIYA went through the gap between the dunes, making no more noise than the breeze, treading lightly as a dream. Then onto her belly she went, up the ripples of the solid stoss side of the dune, crawling up the incline of sand. Over the ridge, she saw the two Muadra, facing away from her. Fierce warriors. Women with mohicans and rat-like pony-tails. They walked their guard-route, armed but oblivious.

She attacked so swiftly they thought the spirit of the desert had come alive and killed them. They died so fast that they did not have time to feel any strong passion at all. They lay in silence with slit throats on the baked sand. Worm food.

“Skraeling wretches,” Evgeniya cursed, and disappeared behind another mound of sand. She held her UBA to her mouth. “Private, take out the remaining guards at the entrance. The others are in position. I'm making my way to the ingress,” she whispered, rising back to her feet. “And...”

“Yes?” came the reply in her ear.

“Kiss that lucky ring for me.”

“Aye, ma'am.”

About a kilometer away, Žižek was laying under the shadows on a cliff face. Without taking his eyes from the scope of his Apollo-class rifle, he pressed the ring to his lips for perhaps the thousandth time. Then he scanned across the Muadruan fortress ahead of him. In seconds he determined his targets and began to pull the trigger.

The bullets whistled over the sand.

+

WITH the speed of a dragonfly's shadow she entered the base, gliding through dark recesses. She crouched, hovered. She did not see how we see. Her eyes were like frozen lightening. Optic apertures, savage slits. In slow motion her enemies moved as she pulled her pistols and shot, the silenced bullets hissing with little thuds, dispatching her foes. She made a signal with her UBA, and moved on to the centre of the base.

Dragonflies only fly forward. Hesitation was death.

From his position on the cliff, Žižek saw a large explosion and a huge column of smoke start rising from it. He caught it in the periphery of his vision, but kept his eye on the scope. Squeezing the trigger again, he covered the retreat of his comrades.

Hit and run. Years of practice against the Communists rebels and the Kossack on Zara' had made the Ganevan marines into experts at guerilla warfare. A smile came onto to Žižek's lips.

“Take that,” he muttered.

The destruction of the Muadra base would be telling.