The Spirit of Vengeance

By Christopher Mac Lairn

So, this is my first venture into science fiction, at least for writing it. I've been a huge sci-fi fan all my life: I've seen every Star Trek episode ever made, many of my all-time favorite movies are sci-fi Alien, Predator, A Clockwork Orange, 2001: A Space Odyssey, et. al..
However, I never thought I'd write write it. I've always written fantasy, and fantasy is all I've ever written until now. I have finally entered the arena of sci-fi as a writer, although there are those who think this is more fantasy in space than true sci-fi.
Not that that's a terrible thing...
So, in any event, Garm ap Avanon is the third and final (?) mortal incarnation of the Spirit of Vengeance. His first was in ancient Rome. In the second, he was a rogue adventurer who lived in the 19th century and traveled all over Asia, Africa and Europe. And now, in his 29th century incarnation he is a rogue adventurer yet again, a world-class martial artists with few if any equals. But, impressive as that obviously is, it's going to take a lot more than that. For he must face not only the unforgiving realities of Vulturnus a savage, primal world that could be a near duplicate of Earth in the Mesozoic Era, dinosaurs and all on the one hand but also, on the other, the forces of a powerful, merciless monarch hell-bent on carving out in the cosmos an empire like that his ancestors, the Conquistadors, carved out on Earth centuries before.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469186146

Christopher Mac Lairn

Christopher Mac Lairn I have been a devotee of mythology and adventure-fantasy my whole life, and writing came naturally to me from the age of 12 on. So, it was only natural that I become a fantasy/mythology author.

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Copyright © 2012 by Christopher Mac Lairn.

ISBN:            Softcover      978-1-4691-8613-9

                      Ebook           978-1-4691-8614-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

Epilogue

The Spirit of Vengeance Trilogy:

Blade of Vengeance

Red Vengeance

Spirit of Vengeance

The Saga of Falkron, Warlord of Kerth:

Oars of Olympus

In the Shadow of Krakatoa

the Ishtar Gate

Thakar Vun

Bavarian Axe

Kingdom of the Green Dragon

Dedicated to the many excellent judo instructors I’ve had over the years:

Master Kim, Robert F. Byrd, Bruce Toups, Leo White,

Dennis Scheib, Gary Berliner, and many others.

I

Rayn of Terror

A craft moved through the dead silence and infinite cold of space, a craft that, from a distance, would appear to be three large cylinders, one slightly thinner than the other, all seamlessly placed end-to-end. Three cylinders of shiny metallic silver, dotted all over by squares and rectangles of blinding light.

Within, the atmosphere could not have been more different. While the vastness of space is cold to a degree that the human mind is barely capable of imagining, the atmosphere within was a steady 27 centigrade. While space is vast, empty and silent to a degree that the mind cannot truly comprehend, within, this very concept was pure nonsense. For this was a pleasure liner, a contemporary equivalent of the pleasure craft of the ancient world, or the yachts of the pre-Interstellar age, and so, on the interior the reality of the virtually infinite vastness and isolation of space meant nothing.

Within, the atmosphere was one of utter festivity and contentment. The main dining hall was filled to capacity, just as it would be in any major city back on the Home World. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik filled the air, just loud enough to be audible over the many voices of the many patrons. Men in 800 credit suits and women with equally outrageously priced dresses and purses laughed and chatted the incessant, mindless chatter that, to them, is conversation as waiters dressed like fat penguins walked all over the floor with silver trays and towels. As the feast of the ultra-ritzy was indulged without a thought, pate’, fois gras, Iranian caviar and lobster tails, all authentic, none of it reconstituted, was indulged and the champagne fountains flowed, the Evening progressed, and the patrons indulged in these things as well as in their endless chatter.

Again, just as it would be at any ultra-ritzy party back on the Home World.

How’s the view there, guys? the voice over the intercom came through loud and clear, barely the slightest trace of static. It was difficult to believe that the speaker of those words was in a communications’ tower in Texas, and that Texas was 4,000 light years away.

Incredible! the captain of the space yacht answered, genuine enthusiasm ringing his tone.

Incredible doesn’t begin to describe it! the co-pilot put in. Have you ever seen the Core?!?

I have yet to venture out of the solar system. he answered. ’Course, the kids have been bugging the hell out of me to see the Rings of Saturn . . .

I’ve seen the Rings. the captain put in, sounding like a kid himself in his wonder. Spectacular a sight as that certainly is, it can’t begin to compare to this!

Well, the voice over the intercom came again, I’ve seen the Core through the lens of Hubble XIX . . .

Who hasn’t? the captain interrupted. But you can’t see it from home . . . I mean, you can’t really see it!

Right! the co-pilot agreed. From the Rim, it just looks like a hump at the center of the Milky Way; but from here, it’s a monolith of pure light!

I’ll see if I can . . .

There the conversation was interrupted. A loud buzzing blared throughout the cockpit.

Hold on, Bill! the captain cut in.

Something wrong?

The alarm just sounded.

Christ Almighty! the intercom voice exclaimed. I told you taking a pleasure ship in that far from the Frontier without military escort was a bad idea . . .

Save the lectures, Bill!

Right. the co-pilot added. You can gloat all you want once we get home.

I’ll inform the military right away. I know they have several ships patrolling the Frontier. They can probably be there in a few hours, if need be . . .

Don’t jump the gun. the captain urged. It could just be a stray comet . . .

It could be a lot of things! But that’s an unknown sector, and we can’t take any chances.

Agreed. Inform the military. If it is just a natural phenomenon, I’m sure they’ll understand.

I’m sure they will. Houston out.

Should we inform the passengers? the co-pilot, a rookie, inquired of the much more experienced veteran.

You have a lot to learn. he said in a very condescending tone.

He looked away sheepishly. I just thought it may be a good idea . . .

Never alert the passengers on a maybe! he explained. That’s the first rule of operating a cruise-liner. Inform them if and when danger is imminent; and only if it is absolutely imminent.

I’ll remember that.

A craft glided through the infinite vastness, the infinite cold and emptiness of space as a ray glides through the ocean.

And, indeed, were one to see this craft from a distance, it would appear to be exactly that, a ray, Swimming through the reaches of the Frontier just as true rays swim through the oceans and rivers of the Home World.

But as one got closer, one would see that this entity was actually made of metal, a dark blue metal, the perfect camouflage for deep space, and that this ray moved not through the machinations of its wing-shaped fins but through a power source, similar to electrical current, and this would be made all the more apparent as one noticed the trail of blue streaks that was the legacy of its passage.

Within this ship, designed so perfectly to not only resemble but indeed move like one of that representative of the order Batoidea, many rooms could be found. One of these rooms, a gymnasium/dojo, a vast area covered in mats, punching bags and exercise equipment, currently had only one occupant.

Bam! Thwack! Wham pow wham!

A song entitled Symphonic Destruction, a hard, heavy, brutal, thunderous heavy metal song by a band known as Massive Death, blasted over the area at 130 decibels as the man stood before the sandbag. Drenched in sweat and dressed in nothing but some boxing trunks and boxing gloves, he was in the latter stage of his daily workout. He drilled a combination of punches: jab, jab, cross jab cross, jab cross jab, uppercut, double uppercut, jab cross jab, elbow, elbow, knee strike, knee strike, kick, kick, over and over again, on and on and on.

He had been here for hours, as he was just about every day. Muay Thai was today’s workout regiment, although it was something different each time: judo, jujutsu, kick-boxing, Western boxing, savate, kali, escrima, arnis, kendo, yoga, some days he’d just do calisthenics and weight training . . .

Destruction ended, and he paused for a few seconds’ break to take in a few long, slow, deep breaths before the next song came on. He had the system set to random, so of course he had no idea what would play next. He found anticipating the next song to be a fun little game.

Then it began: Purple Armadillo Cult’s On Fire For You, and as soon as the first note sounded, he started back to his punch/strike/kick like your life depended on it (as it someday might) flurry.

But his workout got cut a little short. The song was about halfway through (the lead singer was on the note And I live to give the Devil his due . . .) when the buzzer sounded. It could not be heard over the music, but he saw the red light start flashing.

He paused the music, went over to the intercom on the wall, pressed a little red button, and said Yes . . . what is it?

Sorry to interrupt, but, you said you wanted to be notified right away as soon as the target was spotted . . .

I know what I said! he cut in. How long?

10 minutes, maybe a little more.

Be right there.

He stopped long enough to remove his boxing trunks, slide on a tank top, then put on his one-piece, silvery-blue uniform, zip it up, slide into his socks and basic black shoes, drink an enormous gulp of hydration formula # 743 (lemon-lime flavor, standard sodium content, high potassium content and heavy on electrolytes) and, of course, a good amount of good old-fashion aqua vita before heading for the main deck.

In he walked, and without speaking to anyone he made his way very hastily over to the main control panel. There was a 75 x 98 centimeter standard view screen, and upon it could be seen, against the backdrop of the hub of the Milky Way, which from the Home World appeared to be nothing more than a bulge somewhere near the center of the galaxy but from this distance was a veritable monolith of light. So, against such a background it was a little difficult to see; but see it he did, with vivid clarity, a huge silvery craft that appeared to be made up of three huge silver cylinders, the center of which was a little more slender than the other two, all seamlessly pieced together, end-to-end.

Fun time! he announced.

The others present smiled a predatory, almost malevolent smile.

Please identify yourself! the captain verily screamed into the intercom. He was trembling with a mixture of rage and fear, his blood-pressure spiked and he was drenched in sweat. He had began with the standard greeting; this had received no reply. He seriously doubted that it was a problem with the communications equipment. That was possible, of course; but somehow, on a basic, instinctive level, he somehow just knew that that wasn’t the case.

And so he had tried, numerous times, and never received a reply—at least not a verbal reply, but they had received a reply of sorts: the vessel had continued to close the distance between the two craft. He knew he couldn’t possibly outrun the other, so he tried the diplomatic channels.

Unidentified vessel! he tried for the sixth or seventh time, I repeat: this is the captain of the pleasure liner Cleopatra’s Barge. We are unarmed, and we pose no threat of any kind. So please identify yourself!

Still there was only a very faint static on the intercom; but, as the captain looked at his view screen, he saw a glowing blue blip, which bore a strange resemblance to a stingray, at least in its overall configuration, and he saw that it was still closer.

Unidentified vessel! he was, by this point, on the verge of coronary collapse, "listen up and listen good: I don’t know what your plan is, but if this is someone’s sick idea of a joke, I guarantee you: no one over here is the least bit amused! I’ll have you know that I have informed the military, and they have dispatched two vessels headed for these coordinates. They’ll be here soon, and if you have any foul intentions, I guarantee you, you’ll answer for it. You are warned!

So, for the last time, I ask you to either identify yourselves or change course . . .

The green light on the control board started flashing. That was generally an indication that a message was coming through.

Finally! the captain said, breathing as he did so an enormous sigh of relief. The redness in his flush face receded, and as he calmed his blood-pressure went back down considerably and his breathing gradually returned to normal. I knew that’d get their attention. Just mention the military, and that makes them behave!

With that, he flipped the switch opening the communications channel. He was nearly knocked out of his chair by a blast of the most ruthless, the most insane, craziest motherfucking heavy metal music he could have imagined—and he hated heavy metal.

Quickly he closed the channel. He was back to sweating profusely and trembling in rage. They’ll pay for that!

They’re within visual range. the co-pilot, who all this time had been sitting there quietly, unsure as to what to do but in any event keeping a cool head while the captain had his meltdown, suddenly announced.

Great! Let’s see it.

The co-pilot flipped another switch, and upon the screen it appeared: against the backdrop of space and the glaringly bright Hub, what looked like a gigantic metallic stingray, only unlike true (biological) stingrays, this craft had a series of spikes protruding from its back.

Pirates! the captain yelled, now worked up into the absolute pitch of frenzy.

Then both captain and co-pilot were sent flying across the cockpit to crash into the control panel and then drop to the floor as the whole liner was rocked like an ancient wooden ship would be rocked by a collision with a coral reef or an iceberg or what-have-you.

Only they had not collided