Never Taste Death: Shatterrealm, #2

By Hannah Rose Williams

In the beginning, God created. Man destroyed. And the universe was shattered.

 

Carver hates that he still works for the Alliance of Dimension Travelers. But he's gone into debt to provide for his family, and deserting the army would also mean deserting the only home Carver has ever known: Kristi. As escape seems less and less likely, an old acqaintance contacts him with a desperate plea for help. Dimension Earth 12 is in trouble. So is a closed-off world called Lenovra. The Ex-D have a new ally with abilities that defy explanation.

 

For the first year, net sales went to benefit the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. The document also contains the URL for a secret page with glossary, short stories and behind-the-scenes sketches.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hannah Rose Williams
• Release date: Dec 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781329686670

Book preview

PART I

1

Smoky fingers brushed across the evening sky. The dark earth popped and crackled sporadically. Despite this, and the constant thundering on the horizon, moments of eerie silence still settled over the shadowy trenches. Silence, but for the hum of the portals.

Carvernon Winchester caught another crate as it emerged from the glowing gap before him. He hurriedly turned to hand the supplies to the soldier behind him. All across the trenches, similar assembly lines trailed from portals.

Carver had only been here for a few minutes, and already he cringed at the sound of falling missiles. One had landed nearby.

The gunfire started up again. This time, it beat a steady, insufferable rhythm across the battlefield. Something exploded. Mud and gravel fell like rain. Carver was still clearing debris from his eyes when he heard a choking sound above him, followed by a crash. A soldier, shot, had fallen onto one of the crates. The box had cracked open, but besides that the material held up, and the two dozen bottles of water inside were still intact.

Good, Carver thought. He didn’t know the wounded soldier. He only knew his Inter-D squad had gone through too much to obtain that water from Dimension E60.

The gunfire was getting louder. His communicator read, Cargo delivered. New portal.

Carver closed the delivery portal and reached for a cartridge clipped to his ammo belt, a blank one, and programmed it to open at Inter-D. He nodded to a nearby local. Minutes earlier, the man had shaken his hand with a lop-sided grin. Now he only had time to glance at Carver as he reloaded his weapon. Bon chance, mon ami!

Bon chance à vous tous, Carver returned.

Another ally peering over the trench screamed something Carver couldn’t quite discern. He and the other Inter-D soldiers were opening their retreat portals; from here, one could see their light erupting all across the battlefield. Carver hoped they were far enough below ground level that the charging enemy couldn’t see them – or fire anything through them.

Now Carver’s portal was wide enough for a man. He heard the commanding officer shout to them in English. Let’s get out of—

The noise grew more intense. The enemy had reached the trenches. One by one, Carver’s comrades leaped into the portals. Against the brown and pink sky, he saw the shadow of charging men peek over the ridge. The horde poured into the trench.

Carver dove through the now-shrinking portal.

The awful clamor was muffled. It was almost like being underwater. Then his ears were popping and all was bright. He was rolling onto a platform at Inter-D’s hub. The portal sealed behind him.

Carver’s hands were shaking. Then the mounting tension in him broke, and he hissed under his breath, cursed, shook some more. He had seen combat before, mainly ambushes, but what he had just now experienced was war, a real war with real soldiers in real armies. It was unlike anything he’d been through before. And he’d only been there for a few minutes.

Those he’d left behind were nothing like the young men and women before him. The people he surveyed now were poorly trained and inexperienced. Most were refugees from hundreds of different worlds. All they had in common was that they were lost, trapped here together. All they could do now was fight to keep the people of Inter-D alive.

They managed this in various ways. Some missions were simply exploration – led by sergeants like Citro over there, a skilled linguist/translator. Citro – who now was verifying that everyone in his squad had returned safely – had harvested the water from a wilderness which, as far as they could tell, had been previously unexplored. Humans did live elsewhere on that planet, though, and Carver couldn’t help but wonder if Inter-D had stolen from them. Darkened their future.

Citro paused to have a brief, tense exchange with Brink Nakamura. She, too, was essential to Inter-D’s survival. She always seemed to be at the computer terminal in the main hub, answering distress calls and helping to coordinate troops. She too was a linguist/translator. Every newcomer had to pass Brink’s work station, and anyone looking for a certain dimension was sure to turn to her. Hence the nickname. She was the edge of their world.

Then there were people like Carver, who spoke a few languages passably but weren’t career soldiers. Carvernon had deserted Inter-D in his teens and stolen some weapons for good measure. Now that he had nowhere else to go, he had re-enlisted, but as little more than a mistrusted and indentured servant. Inter-D literally owned (and recycled) the air that he breathed. Officially, he was working off his debt. But the truth was that he would never repay it, even if he worked eighty years. And he would never survive that long.

Carver would spend the rest of his life delivering supplies to ally worlds, who in turn provided the things that Inter-D couldn’t manufacture. Today, those things were advanced weapons.

Most of the soldiers in the hub were like him: lost, outcast, or otherwise incapable of returning to the dimensions in which they had been born. They had been rescued by Inter-D. And now they owed Inter-D. New refugees seemed to flood the smelly, overcrowded barracks every month, and most of them were children. Able-bodied kids were eventually pressured into joining the army – kids like Milo.

Milo had collapsed on Inter-D’s pretty white floor, hands clasping his profusely bleeding thigh.

2

Milo didn’t scream. He seemed shocked.

Get him to the clinic! someone shouted.

No! yelled Citro. Medics from the clinic were already racing into the hub. Do not move him!

Milo!

Milo’s sister, Kish, was running over from a different squad. Though a few other people were already applying pressure to his wound, she added her own, whispering something repetitively.

Carver added his own lame prayer. Lord, help them. He felt there were other, better words that might be offered, but they escaped him. This year, unlike other years, he half expected God to answer; but this year, like most years, God was silent.

Two medics knelt on either side of the wounded boy, pushing the others out of the way as they worked to find the shrapnel and staunch the bleeding. Feeling sick, Carver turned to count the rest of his squad, though this was his superior’s job. When he was finished, he counted again, imagining some poor kid abandoned in the middle of two warring armies.

He wondered, if someone had been left behind, would they go back? It would risk opening their base to an enemy. And if one soldier was lost, well, there were plenty of other potential soldiers growing up in the barracks.

His worries amounted to nothing. Everyone was accounted for. Carver breathed a sigh of relief. Just to be safe, he counted a third time, finding that it made him feel useful.

As the medics worked on Milo, Carver noticed another cluster of people watching from one of Inter-D’s lofty archways. It was his father, his brother, and one of his sisters.

Brionan Winchester’s silver hair hung long around his face. He still wore the faded, soiled tunic with the mandarin collar, the same one he had been wearing when they had freed him from an interdimensional prison. The teashade sunglasses were new. They hid the empty gaze of his glaucous eyes.

Bri leaned on the cane carved by Stefana, and Stefana leaned on Bri. Her layered thin shirts and ankle-length skirt were also worn and dirty, but she had always more or less dressed this way, and wore the rags with a sort of whimsical grace. Carver and Bri had both been adamant that she never join Inter-D’s army. So far, she had complied, but from the way that she was staring at Milo’s bleeding, Carver knew she desperately longed to help.

Tully, the youngest, was nearly a teenager – and staring intently at Milo’s blood on the floor, Carver realized. There were times that they thought Tully didn’t remember all of the frightening, violent, and horrific things he had witnessed. There were times he still seemed like a boy, a very small one. Then there were times when he was so morbid, self-important, and analytical that they honestly just wanted him to shut up.

Winchester.

Carver flinched at the sound of his name. The voice had been gentle, but he was still on edge when he turned to face his ex-girlfriend.

Kristi Bailey was resplendent in a pressed lieutenant’s uniform. She asked stoically, The mission went well?

Yes, ma’am, he said.

Kristi’s demeanor softened a little, and she asked, "Are you okay?"

Her dark skin shone with sweat. The light traced every contour of her face. She had gotten rid of her hair extensions, and he didn’t quite know what that meant, only that now her hair was shorn close to her head. It was vaguely masculine, much like the muscle she’d built onto her wiry frame. Her sweet gaze, full lips, and long, delicate neck were what reminded him of home, or what he considered home: driving through the desert with her, swimming in the creek, going to school surrounded by human kids who thought he was one of them.

He wanted to touch her. Instead, he said, I’m fine.

Yeah. You know what I l... what I like about you? she asked. I can always tell when the blood is yours.

He looked down at the flecks of red on his uniform. Wiped his face self-consciously. He laughed. It usually wasn’t such a relief to remember that his blood was green. It helped that she had nearly said she loved him.

Before Carver could joke back, she told him, You’re dismissed, and walked away.

He watched her go. Tried to glimpse her feminine figure through her uniform. Then he just stood there, feeling creepy and lonely.

Major Ron Schuster rushed past him, heading straight for – Tennfjord? Carver was fairly certain that the man’s name was Tennfjord. Carver watched them kiss briefly. It was during their hug that they scanned the room to see if anyone had reacted. The random subcultures of Inter-D had varying levels of acceptance for public displays. Fortunately for Ron and Tennfjord, nobody violent seemed to have taken offense at them.

Camella had to comment, of course. Gross, she quipped as she skipped past them.

Carver doubted his little sister cared about anyone’s sexuality except to say that it was gross. She and Ron were fiercely loyal to one another, more than they were to their own blood relatives. That was fine with Carver. He found Cam most tolerable in small doses.

Camella!

Brionan had noticed her. Though retinal scars had taken his eyesight, he had inherited his Shee mother’s ability to sense when people were near, and even guess what they were feeling. He, too, was most tolerable in small doses.

Camella, where have you been? Bri shouted.

"She is wearing her uniform, Ahair," said Tully, using the Shee for father.

Cam’s body stiffened. Shut up, you turd-sucking—

Schuster! Now Bri was shouting at Ron, and the blue blood in his veins made his face a chilling image. "You still don’t have permission to enlist me daughter!"

Ron pretended not to hear him. Holding Tennfjord’s hand, he walked away. Light glinted off the Shee gauntlet fused to Ron’s wrist – a gauntlet he did not want and could not remove.

Camella headed in the opposite direction.

Camella! her father roared.

She gestured lewdly.

Stef whispered comfort to the enraged Bri. Tully smirked self-righteously.

Carver decided to leave before he was noticed. He stepped into the ambulatory that circled the hub. Immediately, he found a tent blocking his path. Skinny children ducked in and out of the flaps, chased by skinny mothers who didn’t seem much older than they. An elderly man playing drums shouted something at Carver. Carver kept walking.

Next was the entrance to the barracks, apparently filled to overflowing. The stench was wafting into the hallway. Carver wasn’t in the mood to navigate the maze of clans to get to the showers in the back. Not yet. Soon. He kept walking.

To his left there was a niche in the wall. The curved white bench was nestled under a window to the expansive aquarium. It was running low on fish, he noticed, although something like a lobster lazily ran its antennae against the glass. He moved on.

To his right was Rabbi Loem’s shul. Near the door was a cluster of Jewish people who refused to worship within it. Carver kept walking.

Up ahead, he could see the doors of the clinic. A small crowd had gathered and spoke in low voices. As he approached, Kish whirled on him, her loose, neglected jata falling around her shoulders.

A new world, she whispered. We are deserting as soon as Milo recovers. Will you come?

His heart drummed. Inter-D careerists would always regard him as a traitor. Part of him believed they were right to do so, and he dreaded the thought of abandoning the cause yet again, of disappointing the group. Yet the individual in him was sick, beyond sick, of living at Inter-D, of fighting its battles, of swallowing its propaganda, of feeling trapped. And aside from Camella, the rest of his family was sick of it, too.

"What new world? he asked softly. Non-inhabited?"

No. There are people. They speak Afrikaans. They are colonizing and they need workers.

He hesitated. What exactly did colonizing mean?

Kish grasped his hand and gazed up at him. "They know we are from foreign dimensions and they do not care."

Really? Nothing good could come of this, surely. But he had to get out. Maybe...

What if the Ex-D find it? asked Carver.

She said meaningfully, Patel works in the armory.

Somebody whistled. The crowd scattered and tried not to look guilty, which of course made them look spectacularly guilty. Peering past them, Carver saw what had them spooked. It was Kristi, walking around a bend in the ambulatory. And she was squinting at him.

Locking eyes with her, he pressed forward, pressed through the crowd, bore down on her. What is going on here? she asked, but he’d grasped her hips, backing her around the corner and against the wall.

Carv, she began. His hands were caressing her slender neck. For a moment, he simply looked at her. She looked back. He kissed her. Her soft lips responded fervidly. It was with a growing sense of triumph that he realized she still loved him as much as he loved her. And resented him just as much, too.

He was home.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders. He was expecting the slap when she pulled away. But then they were kissing again. Hating each other for letting anything come between them. And hating each other for still trying.

He had to stop. Pushing her one last time, he let go and turned away. There was no need to look at her. He knew she was furious at herself for allowing this to happen again, just as she was furious at him for refusing to embrace Inter-D’s ideology. Just as he was furious at her for choosing Inter-D over him.

Underneath the anger, he knew, was guilt, the constant guilt of having failed to be what everyone wanted him to be.

Pardonne-moi, Lieutenant, said a voice. Looking at them with near-tangible condescension was Colonel Balzac, his powdered wig a strange contrast against his Inter-D fatigues. Kristi blushed and straightened her jacket as he beckoned her toward the officers’ wing. Over her shoulder, she sent Carver a burning look.

No time to feel sorry for himself. Kish and the others were waiting for him.

Walking as quickly as he could without looking suspicious, he headed back toward the clinic. Locating his father, Stef, and Tully would be easy enough; they had managed to lay claim to a tiny corner of the barracks. They would come with him easily enough, too. Locating Cam would be the hard part. She could be in any world by now, and she would certainly fight the idea of leaving Inter-D. He was half-inclined to leave without her, but his father would never allow that.

A new world. Friendly to aliens. Ready for Ex-D attacks. It sounded too good to be true. It couldn’t be worse than what he had now. There would be fresh air. Natural light. There would be wilderness to run to, if it came to that.

The clinic came back into view. He halted. Milo was already being released, a tight bandage around one leg as he hopped on the other, leaning on his sister. Wildly, Kish looked over her shoulder at Carver.

It was happening now. They would raid the armory and flee within minutes.

No time to find his family. If he wanted to escape, he would have to go now. He swallowed. Hesitated. In that moment, he remembered a brief lifetime of loneliness. He remembered all the people from other worlds whom he would never see again. And for some reason, he remembered his father’s hands. His own hands were so similar.

Carver looked at the other deserters. He signed for them to go. They didn’t think twice. Kish and Milo struggled after the others on their way to the armory.

He never saw them again.

3

Lenovra.

Valyar was alone. Straining to see through the midnight shadow, he shivered a little; he was about to meet Secondfall.

Humans, they called themselves. Valyar wondered what they called his kind. Those who were druids, he was sure, would say he was a corrupted spirit. The soldiers that the druids had brought with them... well, he had no idea what they stood to gain from this war, much less what they would think of his delicate frame, green skin, long ears and sleek, green-black hair. But they would want him dead, he knew that.

He paused to shake the nervous tingling from his fingers. He had to do this. He had no choice. Valyar had broken a law of his people, and was working off his guilt as a thrall to Lord Rendyn. It was Rendyn who had sent him here, in the black of night, to carry a message to the human invaders.

Valyar had traveled through the earth for most of the journey. The majority of his people still had this ability, though later generations didn’t always seem to inherit it. The elders had gone on about gene pools and heredity, nothing the rest of them understood. It was widely believed that the village’s rampant sin was to blame for their dwindling ability to phase through the elements. When all Gaiskosk had been immortal, none of them had had limitations in this area. Now, Valyar’s people couldn’t phase through stone, and some were losing the ability to phase through anything at all. Valyar prided himself in being able to move through earth.

Having surfaced and made himself solid again, he crept through the tangled branches and tried to get a good look at the enemy camp. He glimpsed nylon tents and a line of soldiers practicing swordplay. They weren’t very good. Feeling slightly better, Valyar slipped into the earth again.

He moved forward blindly for a while, until he sensed that he was at the edge of the clearing. Then he ascended.

Hello, Valyar.

The voice had come from behind him, and he jolted, tripping onto firm ground in a panic. Valyar turned to see a man with pale skin and long waves of brown hair. The colorfully-embroidered robe said he was a druid; the crown of oak leaves, golden snakes, and crystal orbs said he was the druid, Finnian Byrne, anointed one of the White Planet and would-be exterminator of Valyar’s kind.

Valyar stared at him for some time, and Byrne just smirked back. Are you surprised that I know Elvin? he asked. Or that I know your name? Or are you just surprised that I knew where you were going to surface?

Valyar supposed it was all of those things, but he was too frightened to speak. Byrne laughed a little, a confident laugh, but not malicious. Why didn’t he seem malicious? Was this a trick? The man exuded strength and confidence. No wonder he had an army at his back.

Another human stormed into view, not a druid, but a soldier in black and red armor. One of his hands was somehow synthetic. His pale blue eyes were striking, both in color and in their wild look. Fortunately, he did not notice Valyar. He was looking at Byrne and furiously shaking two hunks of cooling slag.

Ruined, the soldier spat. Valyar didn’t understand the language, but the tone he knew well. The soldier spoke with a voice cool and deadly as midwinter ice. It grumbled with the threat of cracking. The rifle worked the first time. Then it split in two and melted.

Byrne only smirked. The Second Druid War was the last time the Shee saw death. Before they left this world, they set up a field that destroys any weapons built by humans.

You really expect us to fight with primitive swords and bows? My men aren’t trained for that. I like winning, Byrne. Now I find out we’re on the wrong side, and we don’t even know half the rules...!

Valyar could see that the soldier would have loved to do violence to the druid. Valyar could also see that this excited the soldier, so he took a step back. Byrne’s arm snaked out and drew him in. The Secondfall stank less than Valyar had expected.

Thrall, Byrne said in Elvin, what message does your master send?

Lord Rendyn sends a short answer. Valyar’s voice trembled, and he loathed himself for it. He spoke the English word that he did not understand: ‘Yes.’

He watched Byrne’s reaction closely. Byrne didn’t seem surprised in the slightest. His smile grew a little, and he turned his attention back to the soldier and their brutish tongue. You see, Alton? I’m taking care of you.

The soldier was dubious, maybe even disappointed. He gestured at Valyar. "This thing is going to fix it?"

Byrne reached into his sleeve for a roll of paper. It was the smoothest, whitest paper Valyar had ever seen, and in lieu of a leather string or waxen seal, it was bound by one small, transparent band. How could anyone forge such wonders? As his hand closed around it, Valyar shuddered, certain that he held something demonically imbued.

Give that to your master, Byrne told him. Valyar shot into the soil. The last thing he saw was the soldier’s startled expression and the druid laughing at the soldier.

4

An hour later, Valyar finally sensed that he was nearing home. He surfaced while he was still in the thick of the woods. The net of trees blocked even the full moon. Hidden in shadows, he sat down to think, think about his master, his people, and his fate. The knot of worry weakened him now.

He had traveled leagues that night, to the enemy camp and back, and the questions had multiplied in his mind all the while. Why had Lord Rendyn sent a message to their enemy, the druids? The White Planet wanted to destroy his people and colonize his world. Was Rendyn really trying to barter with them? Compromise with evil was unthinkable to a Gaiskosk of Urwyd!

Regardless, Valyar reminded himself, if he was to work off his sin, then he was to trust his master. Lord Rendyn’s family was in power because their deity, On Taharr Neefa, had ordained it.

No, Rendyn would not betray his world. This had to be a trick. Rendyn was young, not yet a hundred years old, and looked down upon by the other clan leaders. Of course he would particularly want to impress his father, Lord Beryln. He was probably trying to play an important role in the defeat of the druids.

Pushing through the branches, he saw he was at the crest of a rolling hill. From here he could see the huddled homes of his clan. The city of Urwyd had been built at the peak of the next hill, but as the people had multiplied, their domiciles had spread into the vulnerable valley.

Urwyd, may you stand forever, he thought, but a paranoid pang of guilt told him this was blasphemy. Of course it would fall someday, just as everything did now. The cattle would go wild. The apple orchard would be overgrown by wilderness.

Valyar, at least, might live to be old. He might do great things, be elevated above his peers and lauded as a pious man. He smiled at the thought of being at peace with God.

Valyar’s ears twitched. He looked back at the rustling leaves. It hadn’t been a deer or a rabbit, of that he was certain. For the hundred thousandth time he wished he wasn’t a thrall, wished desperately that he’d been permitted to carry a sword or a knife or even a little club to defend himself.

He had no time to make more wishes.

A white wolf exploded from the darkness. With crushing weight, the gargantuan monster’s helmet-sized paws knocked the breath from Valyar’s chest. Without so much as a cry, Valyar went down, slamming hard against a boulder protruding from the grass.

His first instinct was to sink, but he couldn’t move through stone. Hating himself, he reached up to push the wolf’s jaws away from his throat. It snarled as if laughing. It could