J. Mitchell - The Severed Tower

They were just impressions, just suggestions and senses. It was simple and concise, the same idea over and over, and if she had to put it into words, it would be:

Can you hear us?

The shock of the question’s simplicity made Zoey’s concentration slip. The stream overwhelmed her again and she grimaced, feeling the pain rising. She concentrated, pushing back once more.

The suggestion was still the same. Can you hear us?

Yes, Zoey thought in response, I can.

As she did, the crystalline shape above her flashed brightly, its fluctuating shades of green and orange blending together into pure white light. The walkers on either side trumpeted electronically in surprise.

A new sensation bombarded Zoey then.

There was no way she could translate it into words, it was just simple emotion, uncomplicated and pure, nothing else, and it felt like… pride. Zoey knew it came directly from the hovering energy field above her, and the realization troubled her.

If that green-and-orange shape was transmitting feelings into her mind, did that mean… it was alive?

Another suggestion came more powerful than the first.

Do you remember?

Remember what? Zoey thought back.

The suggestion shifted and morphed almost instantly, different streams of consciousness and ideas merging together into something new.

Us, the crystalline shape seemed to imply. You are of us.

Zoey stared up at the shape in fear and confusion. A part of her wanted to recoil at the thing’s thoughts, but another part felt a familiarity with communicating this way. It was almost like hearing your native language for the first time after living in a foreign country. Part of her felt drawn to the shape now—and that made her even more frightened.

We are Mas’Erinhah. We have waited long.

The feelings of satisfaction and joy bloomed—and then cut off completely.

The stream ended. The glowing field of green and orange floated back toward the machine it had left earlier, burying itself into the walker until it disappeared.

When it did, the tripod reactivated. Lights flashed, mechanics hummed to life, its triangular eye burned red, green and blue. The tripod stood up powerfully and glared down at Zoey.

The suggestions came once more, only they were muted and focused, as if filtered somehow, but now Zoey found she could read them as easily as before.

You are honored, they implied. You are the Scion.

Zoey stared back in confusion—and then the walkers moved for her as one.

IT ONLY TOOK TEN MILES into the Strange Lands for Mira to see that everything was wrong.

Impossibly huge storm clouds massed on the horizon, flashing lightning of different colors. Antimatter Storms in the third ring, judging by the distance, and that should have been impossible. They were fourth ring Anomalies, but that wasn’t all. The landscape was darkening. The sky, the light around them, everything was fading and becoming dimmer.

In itself that was nothing new. The farther you went into the Strange Lands, the darker it got. Midafternoon in the fourth ring felt like midnight. The problem was, it was getting dark much too soon. They were still in the first ring, and Mira wouldn’t have expected to see the light begin to fade until halfway through the second.

None of it added up, and it only served to increase her nervousness.

What if the Strange Lands were completely changed? What if everything in her Lexicon, everything she’d ever learned, no longer mattered? She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. If that was the case, then she was in big trouble.

But what choice did she have except to try?

Max walked next to her at the front of the line, traversing a wide, ever-stretching remnant of the world before—a huge highway that stretched forward over the rolling hills of what used to be the South Dakota plains.

When whatever created the Strange Lands occurred, it wiped away every single person inside, ripping them completely out of existence. Evidence of the abrupt snuffing out of hundreds of thousands of lives was everywhere you looked, this road especially. Rusting and crumpled signs identified it as Interstate 12, but no one called it that anymore.

Now it was known as the Forlorn Passage, a key safe-route into the the northwestern Strange Lands. Once a major road artery between Bismarck and Sioux Falls, it had been packed with cars when the Strange Lands formed. The vehicles sat where they careened and crashed, driverless and out of control, years ago, their remains stretching all the way to the horizon.

It was always eerie looking at the cars, knowing that people had been driving inside them one moment… then simply erased, like chalk on the Scorewall, the next.

Mira glanced behind her at the line of people there. Ravan had brought the majority of her men, almost thirty Menagerie, and they followed after her and Max in a tight single file line, as Mira had instructed. There was still no indication of what the pirates were doing here, but in the course of the trek Mira had noticed one odd thing.

Two kids near the middle of the line were carrying a large wooden crate between them. It looked heavy, whatever it was. It would have been a major hindrance, carrying it on foot. Which meant it must be important, but Mira knew better than to ask.

The group moved between the ruined vehicles, following the Passage northwest, which just happened to coincide with the needle of Mira’s compass. It meant the Assembly had gone this way, too. They were heading in the right direction, at least.

Mira’s opinion of the Menagerie had always been low—degenerate disorganized thugs who preyed on the weak. While this trip hadn’t done anything to change the “degenerate” part of that opinion, she came to see they had as much discipline and work ethic as any survivor group out there. They were all in good shape, used to quickly obeying Ravan’s orders, and the pirates had made good time since leaving the boats. But… they were still Menagerie.

“You sure we have to stay single file like this?” Ravan’s voice asked behind her. “I’d feel better if I could group my men, at least in threes. Makes us more defensible.”

“You expecting to be attacked?” Mira asked.

“Expecting the worst’s the best way to be prepared for it.”

“Guess it’s hard to become a Menagerie Captain without being a little paranoid.”

She thought she heard a smile in Ravan’s voice. “You have no idea.”

“Well, sorry, but bunching up here is a bad idea.”

“Why? Just hills and old cars, I don’t see anything to be scared of.”

As they walked past a pickup truck, Mira reached inside its bed and grabbed an old grimy bottle. She turned and threw it into the grasslands just outside the freeway.

It flew about ten feet—and began to spin, accelerate, and rise upward, as though something was pulling it into the air. Then it exploded in a bright shower of splintered light.

As it did, things became visible.

Walls of rippling energy that moved at various angles in the air, shimmering with color like curtains of light, stacked one after the other. Even in the daylight they stood out. There were hundreds of them out there. A few seconds later they disappeared again, leaving no trace behind.

Ravan’s eyes widened in surprise. Behind her, her men stared nervously at the air outside the highway. Even Max whined a little bit. But Mira took no satisfaction from it. She was stunned by what she’d seen.

“Holy God,” she said under her breath.

Ravan turned to her. “What? You weren’t expecting them?”

“Not that many ,” Mira said. “There should be a dozen at any given spot; but that was…”