The Gate Guardians: Vol 1 of the Jack Campbell Chronicles

By GHK1937z1uyGe

Terr at Sol, Place of Peace, Earth, is overcrowded and there is no room for the Hordes of Humanity from the originating ancestral System. The Sun of Lantius is expanding and billions of souls will be extinguished unless complete control of the Gates can be discovered. The Guardians attempt to manage the exodus, but Gates are simply the last vestige of the Big Bang, infinitely long conduits of concentrated dark energy and their control, by even the genetically gifted Ayat, is tenuous at best.
The Tanan armies seek to manipulate the Gates for their own people and within the Lantian System they dominate with their engibred Susayati warriors. Their leader, the Urgan is becoming frantic, there is less time than anyone thought.
The Ayat of Earth have lived amongst humanity, hidden, guiding, controlling and manipulating. Complacency has become a disease and the Redyn Council, the rulers of the Ayat Nation, lack clear Purpose.
Into the mix Jack is born, his mother and father were key members of the Lantian Redyn, but 'Came Through' to Earth. Jack, despite his parents' machinations, fails the millennia old Tests and the family have only two options, lose Jack or lose themselves to the Nation. Before they can decide his mother is murdered. His father, proud and defiant, chooses isolation and he and Jack live their lives away from the watchful eye of the overbearing Madris, leader of the Redyn, Jack's own maternal Grandfather.
On the day he has been promised all the answers to his disguised uniqueness, the Tanan's of Earth, the Yit Varti, strike and kill Jack's father.
Suddenly he is catapulted into a world previously unknown to him, a fight across the Universe, between various subsets of Humanity, for control of the Old World, the New World and the Worlds beyond; control that can only be assured through the mastery of the Gates.
But what is Jack, his neurons do not work as they should, will he create Gates or be the source of destruction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781626758698

Book preview

Alex

Prologue

35 years ago

Beeston Castle, Cheshire, England

The air shimmered casting ripples on a vertical pool of dark emptiness. The imaginary stone was cast and from the central impact a series of circular wavelets rushed through the midnight atmosphere. Beyond were stars, the crisp dark autumn heavens quivered as the portal expanded. The surge in concentration of dark energy consumed the world and his nostrils filled with the familiar, tell-tale smell of burnt vanilla and cinnamon. He felt the solidity of his wife’s hand gripping his forearm tightly. There had been so little time to liaise with the regional Paeyaban, let alone the Vishan and his horde of pencil pushers. The eldest children, on leave from the Acadamae, had accompanied their parents. Only four locally available Guardians could be summoned at such short notice, the deep purple, of the hastily adorned battle armour gave him some measure of comfort. But everyone hide in dark shadows of trees and bushes, a necessary precaution in these uncertain times. Could the enemy know of this location? The thought flickered through his mind, before he pushed it roughly away. Less than an half an hour ago he had felt the all-encompassing ‘Touch’ of the Gate as its re-emergence was initiated. He was a Finder, gifted and sensitive, vibrating with the rhythms of the Universe. On this occasion he had been caught completely unprepared and unaware. Something extraordinary had summoned the Gate into being.

The surface of nothing seemed to boil, gouts of air rushed outwards, distorting the shade and shapes beyond, creating ghouls and ghosts in the void. He allowed his imagination to cavort with reality, bringing it slowly back to focus entirely on the enormous band of power, frolicking, pulsating and whirling as the neutrinos spiralled within at speeds greater than that of light. Not a casual mundane threshold reducing the magnitude of space to nothing, he knew this Gate would carry life.

And they came, women and children at first, their eyes casting furtive glances behind, hands uplifted shielding heads as if from rain. Not in ones and twos as would normally happen, but running five and six abreast, the Gate was so powerful it was enabling a mass exodus. These were Ayat, he could tell, genetically their origins matched and he felt his heart soar. Now the elderly began to arrive and numbers rose dramatically. He motioned for his children and the Guardians to bring forward the clothing they had brought, but it would be grossly inadequate. Hundreds had arrived and the Gate showed no signs of diminishing. The crowd all but ignored him. Once they had moved out of the dynamic vicinity they turned around and inspected each body that emerged from the still engorged Gate, looking for friends and relatives.

The old ruined Castle, standing atop a rocky outcrop on the central Cheshire plains was alive and teeming with life. He had been stationed nearby for forty seven years and whilst there had been numerous false alarms, on only three previous occasions had anyone ‘Come Through,’ and the total had been seven souls across the last five desolate decades. He knew this lonely posting was a punishment for his outspoken attitude. He could recant and utilise his undoubted skills elsewhere, somewhere more active, anywhere other than this deadened location. He smiled to himself, knowing beyond any doubt to whom this group belonged. Everything would change, this was the beginning and he was here, on this night to witness the inauguration.

More arrived, a seemingly never ending stream of naked bodies, for only organic human matter could pass through a celestial Gate. He began to usher those nearby through the archway and over the small new concrete bridge that crossed the dry moat, onto the wider plateau. Too many congregated within the fort’s confines and proximity to the Gate was dangerous, especially as it closed. The bodies coming through were younger, stronger and steady. They carried non-existent weapons and marched as if wearing the Guardian body protection. The silence from the crowd was unnerving, they moved as he guided them, their heads twisted backwards to watch the final moments of the Gate’s current life. Eyes searched the ether, desperate, anxious eyes.

The procession had apparently ended, the throng had moved back from the threshold, though everyone’s attention was transfixed to the stuttering portal. The galactic magnificence was dwindling, the distortion of the night was imploding and the circumference of the energy circle began to shrink rapidly. He sensed the fear, not all had made the transition safely. Instinctively the names of two people came to him, names associated with heroic tales that had already traversed the enormity of the universe. Two people upon whose shoulders were laid the expectations of the human worlds. Could it be they had been consumed by the very Gate that had freed so many of their followers, attended by their cousin? He could not believe it. Yet the vitality of the Gate shrank before his eyes and he watched in dismay as the circle lost its cohesion and became ovoid.

Before it blinked completely out of existence a couple of figures dived outwards, as if plunging from a spring board through a ring and into a pool. They rolled onto the hard stony surface, leaping up into battle ready postures and the crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheering.

Anthony Campbell strained to look over the heads, his wife was clapping enthusiastically and the children were jumping up and down joyously. He saw the Earth Guardians eyes wide and childlike. He could just make out a man and a woman, dark hair and classic good looks for the male and the piercingly green eyes of the female. He knew who they were, what good son of Lantius did not know, especially one related by blood?

The tales and deeds of Gregor and Mary had crossed the void and even on Terra at Sol, Place of Peace, Earth to the local human inhabitants, the stories of the Guardians of the Kran Yomar were written large.

25Years ago

Puys le Veque

Southern France

The hotel facing the town square was full, so too were the guest houses and the odd rental properties dotting the valley floor. Gregor stood outside the reception area and watched as the procession of bodies emerged from doors and began to clamber on board a vast array of vehicles. There were tour buses, small coaches, people carriers, a few large limousines, numerous motorbikes and even an old Citroën deux Cheveaux. He slipped the helmet over his head, the just tight enough Shark lid nestled perfectly around his temples and he grinned to himself. He was incognito, hidden from the star struck eyes and opened mouth stares. At least for the next half an hour there need be no pretence, no thought for how he projected himself towards the adoring mass of Guardians, for the next exhilarating sixty kilometres he was just a man. He thumbed the Ducati to life, hearing the distinctive rumble of the old Pinnagale’s engine. The clutch was eased off and the bike shot forward leading the convoy at break neck speed.

The fields beneath the isolated hill were all white. The huge marquee billowed slightly in the wind, catering tents circled the main monolithic construction and further away those who had not found local accommodation had set up tent villages. The entire vista was a hectic hive of activity and Mary could not help but smile broadly. She felt a presence beside her and turned to see the firm uncompromising face of Archie Campbell, Gregor’s father and Master of the Grand Acadamae. He turned to her and took her hand, she felt the warmth and energy exude from the imposing man, his lips twitch into a mischievous grin and he pulled her gently towards the flow of Lantians.

Gregor could feel the still air within the huge pristine canvass hall. He stood alone on a raised dais. He looked at the faces in the crowd and was able to pick out his close family members and friends. A sea of Guardians spread out before him. Today he accepted the title of Global Paeyaban, the old Vishan Krong still lived and whilst Gregor had fulfilled the function for the last ten years, today was more about the ever expanding clan of the Kran Yomar. Not a blood tribe, that would be impossible. The Kran Yomar represented ideals, a way of life, it was the epitome of Lantian Purpose. A rush of pride and adrenaline shot through his body and he spoke, the words flowed like a rushing torrent of water cascading over falls and rocks, hard, ferocious, powerful, and resolute. The hairs on his neck rose up and he felt the raw energy from thousands of minds swarm towards him, whirling around him in a pure unadulterated wash of love, belief and determination. From today the clan would grow exponentially and the Lantians of Earth would rediscover their Way

17 years ago

Sukhothai

Wat Sri Chum

It was here that evil was overcome, Gregor said quietly.

Mary held his hand gently. Only temporarily, evil is a constant and is, at best, only relative. Her voice sang, even though the words were an awful reminder of the potential consequences.

Is it worth the risk? Gregor’s words carried no question, he was certain.

Mary laughed a little, coquettishly. Despite their intent, there was also an excitement, a naughty school child like content to their actions. The Buddha sat smiling down upon them, the walls sheltered them from unwelcome eyes and the sun was already beyond the far hills and horizons. The Wat was isolated, empty and somehow it was sombre, romantic and devilish all at once. Gregor kissed her slowly, passionately, but with his usual tenderness and softness. She could not help but respond.

The Wat was alone in an open field, surrounded by a moat and trees nearly a hundred yards away, but unlike the other clusters of temples and buildings this one seemed to be completely self-contained. It defined itself. It was peerless and singular. The square high walls were only partially open on one side allowing a vision of the enormous seated figurine within. Built over seven hundred years ago, it at once seemed much newer, almost modern and yet somehow aged as if millennia had past it by.

Gregor knew the history, an elemental force had been absorbed into the fabric of reality, it was almost tangible, almost.

They were lost in the moment, his hands were fast and furious, his mouth hungry, his body hot and voracious. She twisted in his grip, mirroring his animalism. They were blind to the energy that manifested itself around them, deaf to the thunderous pulsating of the universe, ignorant of the transmogrification of the Serene One, from deity in repose, to Daemon. The world could have ended, stopped, been rewound, they would not have known.

The sky was black, clouds swathed the ceiling of the Earth and birds and cicadas slumbered. Stillness filled the void and it roared in great steaming vents of furious hollow quiet.

In the divine afterglow Mary knew without doubt that a new life was at its very beginning and that the Aerunyar was already aware.

16 Years Ago

Grand Acadamae,

Secret Location

Archie tried to remain calm, focusing his mind on an inner core where cosmic silence reigned and external negativity could not penetrate. He struggled, already old, even by Ayat standards, a survivor, gnarled and harsh, life was played on his face and he knew he inspired fear and loyalty in equal measure. But this recent news, delivered as casually as an order for take away, had shaken his universe. The pregnancy was delightful, but the conception, why there, why deliberately try to affect the foetus with such an unstable, unreliable and potentially catastrophic energy cocktail?

His son was mercurial, though arrogance and brilliance ran in close tandem. Archie had limited rights over his offspring, after all he had effectively deserted the two children when they were so young. His Purpose had been elsewhere, one day he knew they would understand. But this!

He wondered how such a plan had been contemplated, what kind of mind could be both so impetuous and yet so dazzling, so foolhardy and possibly so daring that maybe they had created....

He allowed his brain to drift in a variety of directions simultaneously, seeing, seeking possibilities and dangers. If the Redyn found out there would be hell to pay. If the clan discovered what had transpired there would be unrealistic expectations raised. Why had his son even told him? Why?

If he did nothing he would be as culpable as Gregor. If he informed the authorities, who knew what actions the Vishan Madris might take. And could he betray his son? These were strange times, dangerous times and loyalties were being constantly tested on both sides of the Universe. Archies head slumped and he felt his fingers reach for the ancient fountain pen he kept close to hand. There was something genuine, sincere and honest about crafting words with a pen. Each letter, every word was a work of art that the author had created, not a key stroke producing identical small black alphabets. He wrote slowly, methodically, he could not stay on and remain silent. He was tired, he was old and the conflicts and politics raging around him, so well hidden from the blindfolded humanity they served, had taken its toll. He ached for the end.

16 Years Ago

Angkor Wat, Siam Reap

Cambodia

Gregor could sense the impending Opening. It would be soon, sooner than even Mary thought, very close too. He checked off on his comms link to the Swords and Haks, each officer reported back their positions and readiness. He quelled the habitual feeling of pride in the soldiers of the Kran, an ancient and illustrious Guardian army, ‘pride comes before a fall.’ He would not fall today. And if he did, it would be in the defence of all humanity, Lantians and Earthlings alike. The last twenty years had thundered by, a whirlwind of recruitment and planning, fighting and manipulating. The Ayat of Earth had hidden in full view of humanity and become fat, greedy and lazy. He loathed their platitudes and dismissiveness. The enemy were here and in far greater numbers than he had ever imagined. The lax approach of the Redyn had allowed this. Focus, he reminded himself, there was a battle not minutes away and the enemy would meet the cold edge of his blade.

Mary felt the life growing within, her son, she knew it was a boy. She looked over to Gregor, he was on edge, more than usual. He did not want her here, risking two lives. But she insisted, they were a family and they would live and fight together until she was too fat to fit the armour. Gregor had laughed at that image and pretended to stroke a distended stomach. What had they done? Doubts filled her daily waking hours and occupied her dreams. Visions of a hundred thousand worlds would infest her nightmares, planets full of horror and on each one a small clutch of humanity struggled to survive. Maybe it was a million worlds, the images came so fast. She would awake exhausted. If the Sun touched her face, or if the clouds hide the magnificence of creation, she was continuously aware of the universal energy all around her. As a child, especially as the child of her mother, Mary had been taught all about the various forms of power within the cosmos. But this was different, it was as if she could see every single element of existence. Since the conception she was more..... Involved. Mary could think of no better word, she was intimately, intrinsically Involved with the totality of universal energy.

She felt the Gate. No wait Gates! Gates!

The night was hot, steamy and wet, the air felt heavy and too thick to breath. They waited, silent statues joining the myriad stone monuments of the ancient temples. Relaxed tension, they did not know exactly when or where the Gate might open and the enemy invade. The Tanan soldiers would be disorientated, naked and unarmed, easy prey. Gregor cast his keen gaze around the gigantic, antique, ghost filled city and wondered where the Earth Welcomers were? The Sayat’s soldiers already secreted on Terr at Sol, the traitorous Lantians and Earthlings that served them, should be here in numbers to greet the reinforcements. The new arrivals would need activation and weapons. Of course, a few of the more senior trained Tanans would self-realise immediately they emerged, but there would be few of these, highly prized scalps.

The molecules of oxygen vibrated and burnt with the familiar sweet spiced aroma, the night shivered and the Gate burst into being. From hidden nooks and crannies the Welcomers leapt with guns and swords, hundreds of them. They must have been here for hours before the Ayat Yomar had arrived. How could they have known and with such accuracy? The enemy was also streaming in vast numbers through a hugely engorged Gate. Gregor was stunned. The screams of the first death activated his neurons and his body blazed in muscular-skeletal unison, the battle programming, embedded in his brain from years of practice and war transformed him into a meticulous, masterful and astonishingly fast implement of annihilation.

Despite their adversary’s plans, the Gate Guardians swiftly threw back the torrent of bodies. Gregor’s bodyguards followed him into the heart of the battle and their fury was limitless. One was a diminutive figure close by his side shrieking her battle cry and slicing with the rapier, whilst letting off a constant barrage of bullets. Suddenly she stopped. Her head tilted as if sniffing the air and she span around.

Another Gate! her voice tore through Gregor’s focused kill vision.

Two Gates in such close proximity, it was unheard of, it was impossible! Reality was making a mockery, as it so often did, of what the Universe considered possible or not. More enemy Welcomers surged from their concealment and raced across the open space to the dark air shimmering beyond a low wall. Sayat warriors tall and proud marched from the Gate, eyes blinking rapidly as their conscious mind awoke them to their new reality, a constant flow of officer level Tanan combatants.

The Guardians were already preoccupied with those from the original Gate and Gregor watched in growing trepidation as the numbers swelled from the new portal. His pause was unnoticeable, he had processed the situation, all possible outcomes and he was already in motion, the ten members of his retinue plunged after him.

This will be bloody, Maria growled over the comms-link, her small frame was blurred as arms and legs moved almost too fast to be visible. Gregor grinned inside the helmet and then cringed as he heard Maria’s death mantra, she had forgotten to sever the connection and he heard her words resonate in his head, the anger and hatred was awe inspiring.

The blurring miasma of battle diminished into a cold thin fog and scant seconds later the veils of horror rose and a strong sun cast long hanging shadows over Angkor’s myriad of towers and walls. The dead festooned the ancient city of temples and Gregor watched as Guardians stripped the enemy of any weapons brought by their Earth bound Welcomers. Those who had ‘come through’ and those who had ‘greeted’ were all dead. Gregor felt grim satisfaction at the defeat of the Sayat’s forces and nodded imperceptibly to himself. The low moan from the injured Guardians dragged him to the reality of conflict. Dealing with an enemy swordsman was simplicity, parry, dodge, thrust, sweep, kill. Handling the aftermath of his soldiers’ wounds was another matter. He was pleased Mary could cope with the dead and dying better than he.

They had been lucky, the enemy had planned well and had controlled the Gates in a manner that even the Ayat could not achieve. The cost in dead Guardians was higher than expected, but the cost of failure would have been far higher.

Maria Christos felt the pain searing through the neurons in her leg, she tried desperately to control the raging torrents of pain sensors firing off in her brain. Gregor had picked her up and she had allowed unconsciousness to sweep through her mind, shutting down the agonising riot of nerve endings screaming their own individual torment. She awoke at the Acadamae, smelling the jungle and the humidity in the hot air. Gregor and Mary were both with her, their hands exploring the devastation that had been her leg.

Maria was a Guardian, a bodyguard, she was Gregor’s bodyguard. The Ogre, was her disparaging nickname, packing a punch and sword, way above her delicate elfin like stature. Together they would save her leg. But inside the corner of her brain where cold hard reality sat on its haunches staring into the fantasies that she had created of her life, in that pitiless place, she knew, knew her leg was gone, her life was gone.

She could no longer be a Gate Guardian.

Mary knelt beside every one of the fallen and felt for their Aerunyar. For some the energy had already departed, for others the Individual Energy Signature hung on by a straggling, flimsy thread, one not worth her focus. The remainder, where the grip to this side of life was strongest, where the ‘soul’ still doggedly clung on to a belief in its existence, these were the ones where she would focus. She completed the triage as quickly as possible and ushered the healers, depending on skills and intensity, to those damaged beings who would benefit the most.

Tired by the travel, the battle and now the urgency of repairs, Mary saw Gregor still holding on to Maria’s hand. He treated them all as if they were his favourite, each one believed it to be true, his charisma and vibrancy were infectious and intoxicating. She knew how they felt, but at the end of every day, it was her bed to which he retired.

Amongst all the carnage, she smiled.

Gregor watched as Maria drifted into a troubled slumber, her features pinched as if the physical pain was matched by her mental torment and the entire story was being played out upon her face. He stood up and looked around the Acadamae’s canteen that had been taken over by the injured. The students were helping, bringing food, clean water and fresh sheets, their young faces lined with care and awe. He saw many furtively turn their heads towards him, daring to sneak a look at their Nation’s hero. His eyes turned to Maria, this was not valiant, this beautiful woman maimed for life, the stench of the dead was not gallant and their sacrifices were not daring. It was all simply essential to ensuring the freedom of humanity and to save the last remnants of his people, the Ayat.

He glanced at Mary and the greenest purest jade stared back at him, the laser like intensity of her vision tore through the pathetic selfish shield he tried to maintain and she burrowed into his heart. He hated this, hated the blood and death. He hated the hypocrisy of the Redyn Council, hated their flaccid denials, their enormous wealth and their continuous denunciation of reality. But the rank and file Ayat, they knew or suspected the truth, there were many good honest folks, even those whose ancestors had ‘come over’ thousands of years before. They were worth every drop of Guardian Blood.

Gregor felt his dented and pierced armour. He had done all he could, he had used his energy to save those he loved. He could no longer retain his own body’s integrity and he knew he had slumped to his knees. The bullet wounds he had kept closed through overwhelming body control, the sword swipes and cuts he had managed to keep sealed all opened in an eruption of dried and fresh blood. He knew he had toppled forward on to his face. He heard the screams and shouts, all very far away, very far away.

The Head Master was beside her, his kindly face framing orbs that held the wisdom of a thousand sages. Mary smiled frantically at Don and they touched their hands together, a similar gesture to the human handshake, but so much more intimate, it opened the avenues for the transys. The physical connection was not necessary, but it did enable a more instantaneous and deeper connectivity. Don held her fingers in his and Mary laid her free left hand on to the brow of the injured Guardian. She had to think of him as such, to realise it was Gregor and that his life lay in her hands would damage the purity of the flow. The surge in cosmic energy flooded her system, she added her own power and the warmth in her hand increased exponentially. The heat was a manifestation of the universal vigour, being focused on the damaged Ayat soldier, Mary allowed the strength to build and envelope the three bodies. She did not stop until the Head Master uttered a small gasp and she knew she had demanded too much. Mary allowed the energy to diminish and she sensed the body beneath her grip pulse more emphatically, he would live. A tear caressed her check, her beloved husband would live, he would live for her and their unborn child.

16 Years Ago

Manchester, England

There was no pain, there was no time. From the first stirrings in her heavily oval stomach to her water breaking and to the emergence into this reality of her new baby boy, less than thirty minutes had elapsed. No pain. A rushing of energy, an almost inner explosion of power surged from her core along ever neuronal pathway and she felt high and elated, excited and thrilled. All the anxiety, apprehension and disquiet disappeared in an instant and the euphoria swelled her heart to galactic scale. No pain.

No pain and no crying from the baby, eyes opened, alert, inquisitive, searching. A tiny hand grasped her finger, strong, flexible and determined. Mary smiled through her waterfall of emotion and Gregor stroked her hair.

All would be well.

Everything was perfect.

His name would be Jack.

14 Years Ago

Birmingham, England

It was remarkable, the tests were off the charts, so far above the expected upper levels that they did not actually have any code. She wondered what she should put in. Obviously the child passed. She glanced at the computer and clicked onto the blood analysis and her eyes screwed up. What was this? She had never seen anything like this either. There was no interpretation in the main reference section. She moved the mouse to the Additional Information, segment and read the instructions slowly. Her body obviously gave away her mental state, the mother was becoming agitated.

She ignored the parents, this was too important for errors.

They refused to believe it, it was nonsense, mythology, such things did not happen nowadays. She had seen this before, denial of a child’s inadequacies was only natural, separation or removal from the Nation the only option. It was understood and despite the pain and heartache the parents knew the consequences. But this was different and not just for the beautiful sobbing woman and her distraught partner. She had never come across this either, she had never known of anyone who had. The whole evening was becoming a nightmare, a living, breathing and wakeful nightmare. The walk to her car was surreal, she opened the boot and lifted up a small section at the left side, in the recess was a small black case. She knew her hand had clasped the plastic surface, she knew she had returned to the house and she knew she was about to consign a baby to an awful fate. But how much more dangerous would it be to allow it to grow up unfettered.

The car was strangely overfull, even though only a small basket rested on the rear seat and the baby within was subdued and silent. The horrendous screams from the mother still resonated in her brain and she wished she could erase the memory of the woman’s eyes shifting to deranged and dulled.

But this was her Purpose.

She hated it.

Part 1

The Lost

Chapter 1

Twelve Years Ago

North Manchester, England

‘Cause and Effect, my dear, it is all just Cause and Effect.’

The Book of the Nang.

Fortune is your constant companion, Mary spoke softly, the words brimming with sarcasm, as her husband manoeuvred their new SUV into the only free parking space. Gregor edged in quickly as a white transit van pulled out. They were conveniently nestled beside the Bank on a quiet side road.

Luck, a human word for positive projection, he smiled at her and raised his eyebrows knowingly.

She laughed gently and glanced at the ATM queue. You’ll be going inside to see your girlfriend, she teased.

He turned, kissed her quickly on the cheek, at least she doesn’t ask too many questions. Gregor leaned round and grinned at his four year old son, sitting attentively in his young person’s chair, behind the driver’s seat. His son beamed back, look after your Mum, Jack.

Mary touched his face and watched as Gregor climbed smoothly from the car and jogged languidly up the steps, through the revolving doors and into the darkness that enveloped the Bank. The last few years had been the hardest, the impending isolation was the worst possible punishment. What had they done? What was their son? Were the Redyn and the Vishan Madris right? Her surety had dissolved after the first test and each day since her personal torment had grown. Gregor felt the same, how could he not, yet he was so proud of their son.

She unbuckled her safety belt and turned round to gaze at her boy. Reaching out she gently tweaked his nose, he laughed loud. Jack looked so perfect, mousy blonde hair, steel grey green eyes with prodigious strength and intellect. He could already speak fluently and was learning French, Chinese and Spanish. What caused the three consecutive failures? At her request the last test had been postponed for six months. They would not willingly have done that for anyone else. She and Gregor had taken the utmost care, given Jack every opportunity. Their child should be so much more.

And he was!

Mary knew, as only a mother can know, instinctively, unquestionably, Jack was so much more. So why did he keep failing the tests? She would never give him up. Gregor knew that. The tests were at fault. The manuscripts were inadequate. What about Gregor’s insinuation that the examinations no longer held the integrity of the Ayat’s ancient knowledge? Maybe they were not designed to measure someone of Jack’s talents. At her core, at a genetic level beyond understanding, at the very insertion of the Aerunyar, that Mary swore she had felt occur during the conception of her pregnancy, Mary knew Jack was remarkably extraordinary.

Was she fooling herself? Was her belief blinded by maternal adoration? Had all the planning and research been for naught?

There was no time to answer.

The scream of rubber on tarmac became the only sound in the entire world. Mary turned round staring through the windshield.

Time contracted.

She accelerated her mind and body, demanding the entirety of her neurons respond in glorious precise millisecond unison.

And the world slowed, crawling at a snail’s pace.

There was instantaneous sensory acquisition of the approaching danger. Pinpoint focus on the red Citroen coming towards her from the side road opposite. The vehicle unswerving, straight across the main street, gaining speed, was less than two seconds to impact. She took in the petrified look on the driver’s face, a frightened young man. The hands were bound by masking tape to the steering wheel. She could see the passenger door flap open. Her eyes glanced backwards. Mary glimpsed the figure that had thrown itself from the car, unfurl and stand erect. She had seen these creatures before. Immediate dread threatened to flood her cognitive processes.

‘Has it come to this,’ she thought? ‘Not like this? Not now?’

She stamped hard on the negativity.

She whirled round. Hands tore the child seat from the restraints. Jack looked confused. He opened his mouth, saying nothing. She was turning the chair over with her right hand, grabbing for the door release with her left. The child lock was on. Mary summoned her strength to force the door.

The car leapt upwards and shunted back. Her hand pushed Jack’s chair further round. Mary’s left hand lost its grip. She could have leapt from the car to safety, but Jack would have been alone, exposed, lost and the moment had passed. Her eyes flicked round seeing the head of the young man smash through the glass. His hands were tight to the wheel and his body jack-knifed in mid-air, his face a mask of blood, pain and fear. Arab, she thought, that would cleverly divert attention.

Where were they?

A torrid moment of silence and calm, less than half a second, in her attuned state, it seemed to go on forever. Mary made to hit the door beside Jack when the thunder became a storm.

The unwilling assailant’s car filled with petrol and other accelerants, and containing hundreds of iron ball bearings and a few kilos of long thick nails, exploded. The air sang with flames and projectiles. The rolling heat washed over her, engulfing her in sheets of yellow fire. The windshield imploded. She felt her body crisp and burn immediately. She sensed abstractly the penetration of the nails and orbs. Shield Jack, her brain functioned logically despite the excruciating agony. Jack, she had to open the door, Jack had to live.

Around her cars and walls were lacerated by the bomb’s contents. The windows of the Bank were obliterated. Nearest and in direct line, five people waiting by the ATM were flayed mercilessly to a mass of blood and bones, their remains pooled as colourful excrement. Pedestrians as far as the High Street were hit, two more died as long unforgiving pointed steel tore inside their bodies, ripping open the heart of one and the lungs of another victim. Three more people waiting patiently, obliviously, in cars for the traffic lights to change, were torn to shreds and mixed in with the mess of steel, glass and upholstery of their vehicles.

Jack’s door, she had to open it.

The heat enshrouded her in an envelope of pain. Mary moved to turn Jack even further away from the touch of the orange glow. She smashed on the door, it would not yield. One more time, she hit the door and it sprang off its hinges. She tried to push Jack out.

She knew was dying.

‘Not like this, oh Jack I am so sorry, today is your birthday,’ Mary thought and it struck her as bazaar and funny that she would die on her son’s birthday.

‘Gregor, my love, I wish we had more time,’ but her husband was not there.

At last alone and surrounded only by the final memories of excruciating hurt, Mary burnt slowly to death, her body already shattered and shorn beyond recognition.

Chapter 2

Twelve Years Ago

Oxford, England

‘I have no love left. It died a hundred thousand times over a hundred thousand years, as all my family and friends were torn from me by the most despicable monsters this universe has ever created; the Ayat. Who else has suffered so?’

Samdros - The Longest Journey.

Lawkter barely knew the woman, though the potency within the self-assured female being was obvious to those with only one eye. This had been a good choice, the Creator must have approved, probably he had been consulted, Lawkter did not know, it was no longer relevant. Even had they been on the same world, the Master was beyond, out of reach and remote, and there were light years separating them. Lawkter was one of the first, moulded in the great vats of genetic soup, deep in the bowels of the Tanan fortress compound on Lantius. A Degnerate, the original, an incomparable destructive soldier, faithful, intelligent, powerful, devoid of morals except obedience, oblivious to pain, though an expert in the delivery of torment. This formidable lady was the new Mistress and Lawkter would serve just as loyally. The majestic creature was from the antiquated and decrepit line of the Nang. To be sure the ancestral lineage was the enemy and she would have living relatives who would be sworn adversaries, but this floating vision of achingly dangerous femininity was the unquestionable leader of all the Sayat’s forces on Earth. It hardly seemed possible that the enemy maintained such ancient and worthless traditions, such as the warrior Priestesses, though symbolically it might be important. Did this woman, who looked so often downwards at her own feet, derive her strengths from this bloodline?

Lawkter, her Mistress’s voice broke into her thoughts.

Mistress, her own voice was feminine, but deep, guttural, an almost repressed roar.

We have confirmation that only the mother perished. The Boy still lives. Her Mistress’s voice gave away no hint of displeasure or recrimination.

Lawkter stiffened, she was not used to failure and it hurt at a cellular level. She could feel the eyes of the other occupants of the oak panelled drawing room turn on her.

This is not the first attempt on his life. Her Mistress spoke with a velvet tongue, words like silk filled the air.

I wonder if the failing is our doing. The big man was not to Lawkter’s liking, something about him reeked. Lawkter knew the stench of fear, the smell of fury, the stink of death and the reek of the putrid. This man had none of those, his odour was far worse, something unknowable. He would be a fearsome enemy, she was not sure he was a trustworthy ally.

Explain, her Mistress was intrigued.

This is the fourth assault on the child. He paused for longer than necessary, the potential for a hint of a smile flickered around his lips. Their actions had been thwarted so far, Lawkter had been made aware and the big man simply gave them a moment to reflect on their inadequacies. They needed him far more than he needed them, he was reinforcing that message. She understood his motives, but liked him less. Lawkter had ‘come over’ less than three months previously, already she had one failure on her record and it stung.

Poison, fire, a plane crash and this car bomb, He smiled at the five people facing him. The Boy survived every time. I know initially the aim was to evidence the strength of the Yit Varti by assassinating the first son of the Ayat’s two great heroes, but now it has taken on new meaning.

This is obvious, what is your point? The tall thin man spoke, his voice too high pitched for his stature and age. He was the husband of her Mistress, but she would not deal with him. He was undoubtedly deadly but nothing she could not handle. It was his arrogance Lawkter detested.

The Boy is protected. The big man said simply, The Universe itself protects him. He paused and she saw him scan the faces to allow his words to sink in.

Rubbish. The tall man said without conviction.

I am not sure you are right, but what would you suggest? Her Mistress spoke slowly, surely and her smile barely hid the venom beneath.

Violent actions have been ineffective. Either you have not been extreme enough in your onslaughts, or quite simply Evil protects its own. The big man grinned broadly, Leave him be. Give him room to grow. He will be cut off soon. He has failed their tests. He will be orphaned out, or the father will keep him and be expelled. Either way the boy will be isolated. He will have no loyalty to them. Perhaps when he has grown we can make him ours. Why waste the power? The big man spoke with authority.

Will he be that strong? The thin man asked hesitantly.

No one will know until he comes of age. Her Mistress said quietly, thoughtfully. After a few moments, the graceful neck rose up, her Mistress’s head and solid jade green eyes stared at the big man. He will not be harmed. We will spare him, until his sixteenth birthday. Then he must become ours or he will be destroyed. I can act extreme in ways you cannot imagine. Her voice left no room for discussion.

With the slightest movement of her hand, her Mistress motioned and Lawkter followed her from the room.

A lot can happen in twelve years. The thin man hissed conspiratorially, when everyone else had left.

Some things are worth waiting for. The big man said, but he was thinking on a far grander and more cosmic scale than the thin man would ever be able to contemplate.

Chapter 3

Eleven Years Ago

North Manchester, England

‘I wish there was a God, then I would have a real excuse!’

Ragen Vaupen.

Jack’s determination to live, the tight hold he retained on his Being, was all that had enabled him to survive. His body on the left side had been covered in deep burns. He had been punctured through his right leg by three nails. A ball bearing had shattered his hip, another had broken a rib and many others had ripped muscles and tendons. Jack’s father, much to the fury of the Doctors rejected blood transfusions and plastic surgery, Jack would survive. He convinced most of them.

And slowly Jack repaired himself, a miracle the Doctors said. Others wanted to test him, take blood, Jack’s father consistently refused. For four months Jack was in a coma, living off the IV drip. Every day and for hours on end his father’s hands clung with agonising desperation to Jack’s head and body. Gregor would seek refreshment and return as quickly as possible to the constant, emotive, energetic vigil. Jack clung on to life, at first tentatively, then desperately and finally with childlike determination and vigour. On the hundred and twenty second day, his eyes opened. The solidity of the Volvo SUV and the safety seat, had partially contributed to Jack’s survival, but it was his mother who truly saved his life. Over two hundred small lumps of melted nails and balls were removed from her charred remains. No one could explain how so few had passed through, her body had become a rigid protective barrier. The rear passenger door had been thrust from the main structure with such force that the frame had been torn off and in the centre, where the pressure had been exerted, the metal had buckled and Jack’s continued existence had been given another chance.

The perplexing physical exhibits of strength by the dead mother were attributed to the innate ability lying dormant within the human form and only revealed during moments of acute desperation. Despite himself, Gregor had had to suppress a knowing smile when the Doctors and police confronted him with their hypothesis.

The attack left Jack with a grotesque array of corporeal deformities. His left hand was burnt to the bone and the plastic of the seat had meshed to the molten stump. The same was true for much of his left arm and shoulder. It became a mass of muscle and hardened skin, like that on the heel or sole of a foot, cracked and bitten. Jack’s body had mutated to protect itself and became exceptionally strong. The body’s torso responded by creating a tough outer coating that was part skin, part muscle and part bone. He retained a normal shape, encased in a super hardened shell.

Most of the body defects did not affect Jack, he was strong and healthy again. He was alive and his father was with him. Though the ache over his mother’s loss was constant, a nagging headache buried deep inside, rooted to the anguish within his heart.

Jack was overtly conscious of two things, his left hand and the left side of his face. The thumb was twice normal size, brown and wizened like a big hazelnut. The index and middle fingers were fused at the bone, as were the other two fingers. The hand itself was painfully sun burnt pink forever after. There was little feeling in his hand, the nerves responded at normal speed, but dully as if they did not care. Initially, Jack wore a mitten to hide the disfigurement.

Despite his father’s unremitting support, encouragement and love, it was hard not to recognise the differences with other children, especially ones as stark as Jack’s. Young children ignorantly combine honesty and cruelty and he knew the words that were used to describe him. In particularly depressing moments he would see his reflection in the bathroom mirror, it could not disguise reality, the looking glass was, as always, candid and sincere. Jack hated it.

On one occasion, he had lashed out at the wall, hitting it with his left hand below the gilt framed Victorian reflector, holding back none of his strength or anger. He broke the tiles, plaster and shattered the brickwork. He felt the faint sensation of pain, but kept his hand buried in the concrete and stone letting the blood trickle out, running a perfectly straight line down the grouting between the old yellow flowered tiles. He examined his hand and the ravaged rutted skin was stained bright blood red.

His father kissed Jack’s damaged left hand and cheek. This hand, this cheek are part of you, they make you what you are, never be ashamed of what you are. His father’s words washed over Jack like the cool waters of a soft autumn rain, refreshing, pure and cleansing. His father grabbed Jack’s perfectly formed right hand and said, I love this hand too, just as much, but can this hand break bricks? His father would chuckle and Jack would reluctantly join in, at least not yet! Slowly with his father and growing band of friends, Jack learnt to laugh more freely and eventually he would throw the glove away.

The face we show to the world, it is the first expression of who we are, it can be instantly loved or loathed, feared or fancied, but often it says so little about what truly lies within. Of our own face, we become accepting of its slight or even serious imperfections, except for those extremely vain. Ugly, beautiful, indifferent, it is our face. As a child, there is no comparative to the media imposed concepts of beauty, unless the face is very very different. The skin on the left side of Jack’s neck was devoid of hair and was covered in what looked like melted brown pink candle wax, that had dripped down until the candle had burnt out and solidified into a random mass of lumps and ripples. The congealed mass covered his ear, which only existed as a deformed circle, then branched out into a ‘y’ shape, one arm curling in a narrowing band towards the corner of his left eye, the other broader section circled to the crown at the back of his head. He became accustomed to wearing a reversed baseball hat, mainly to cover the bald patch, no hair would ever grow on that area, the rest he kept short. The event had a monumental impact on his life echoing every day from mirrors and faces. Recalling what he could was a daily occurrence, dirty, painful, hideous and yet cathartic.

During the first year, after coming home from hospital, the house would be full of relatives, many more than before and there had always been a constant stream of people both old and new, who came to see his parents. And he and his father stayed at their home base. In the years before, Jack remembered continual visual and aural stimuli from a variety of places and persons. Solid young men now stood at the Gate, a tall blond woman seemed to be in a position of authority, Aunts fussed over him as if he were a somewhat simple child, Uncles with menacing stares and wide shoulders would sit in chairs and observe him. They spent long nights conversing seriously with his father and Jack felt left out and inadequate.

On the rare occasions they ventured out, there would be a cavalcade of cars, at least one lead vehicle and a backup van, as well as their own car with its huge driver Sammy and the enormous passenger Frank overflowing the seats. Sammy and Frank were larger in Jack’s memory than in reality, recalling them from