Yet Far Away: Shatterrealm, #3

By Hannah Rose Williams

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

 

The Proxima Terrestra Military has a problem. Someone, or something, is kidnapping citizens into another dimension. The military robot Amadeus knows just who to call: Camella Winchester, an inter-dimensional fugitive. Dimension hoppers have a legend about a being called the Miscreator who can pull people through worlds. Camella is certain her mother used to work for him. As the rest of her family begins to hope that their missing matriarch can be found, Camella's fear is that her mother is not dead... in which case, why did she abandon them? And why is she helping this monster?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hannah Rose Williams
• Release date: Feb 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224343553

Book preview

Yet Far Away

Hannah Rose Williams

© Hannah Rose Williams 2023

PART I

1

A fleet of silver ships fell from the stars.

The terraformed planet was under attack, and every available vessel had been called in. Though they continued to radio the people below, no response came. Now, the atmosphere ignited against the hulls of the rapidly descending starships.  All pilots found themselves panting through gritted teeth. All except one. He did not breathe.

Nor was he technically a he. The robot had never pretended to be anything other than what it was: an extremely precise machine that only resembled a man. Towering above the average soldier, its hefty frame was all royal blue trimmed with silver. It was the rest of the Proxima Terrestra Military who had assigned him a name, inspired by his penchant for playing soothing classical music in battle.

Amadeus? The co-pilot, a grayish-blue aquatic creature named Xel, addressed the robot. What is this noise coming from the speakers?

Mozart, said the robot, glowing red eyes fixed straight ahead. His deep voice boomed from the speaker hidden under his flat, white face. Padua No. 3 in G minor. Meant to soothe your nerves.

I see. And my earlier question?

I thought you were using sarcasm, explained Amadeus. He prepared to level off and enter battle. Yes, I believe the attackers are dimension hoppers.

Xel made a soft noise like a laugh, which Amadeus also took as a sort of sarcasm. It was difficult to tell with living beings. Adding to the confusion, Xel's tone often seemed as disaffected as that of Amadeus. Despite how dark his disposition could be under the surface, however, it hadn’t yet proved a liability. Mozart, he said softly.

They were still hot from entry when they blasted over a devastated fishing community. No enemy ships in sight, the robot noted. All combat appears to have been ground warfare.

He circled back to the shoreline.

What are you doing? asked Xel.

We are meeting the enemy on land.

Yes, captain. Is there any chance of exposure to germs from another universe?

Officially, there is only one universe. We are simply incapable of seeing more than three dimensions at once. Amadeus set the autopilot and strode toward the armory at the back of the ship. But you may be at risk of contracting an extra-dimensional disease, yes.

Amadeus clipped a shotgun to his belt and hoisted a multi-round RPG to his shoulder. He tossed a smaller but powerful rifle to Xel. They turned to face the door.

Xel ventured, I am guessing there is no landing strip.

No. The ship is intuitively linked to my computer. Jump on my command.

In a gust of salty, frigid air, the door opened, and they were confronting a rapidly expanding beach. The craft dipped close. A splash of brine rolled over their feet before draining back into the ocean.

Now.

Amadeus leaped through the hatch. Behind him, Xel followed, shouting something in Hydratellian. They both hit the water. The robot activated a buoyancy chamber to keep from plummeting straight to the ocean floor. The lithe alien glided deftly around him. Xel was a special kind of amphibian that had not existed on Earth, back when there was an Earth — the gilled kind with a resilient mucus invulnerable to the stinging salt of the sea. Doubtless he would have found the dive refreshing under different circumstances.

They reached the beach. As excess water poured from his hollow chambers, Amadeus scanned their surroundings for threats. The shore was littered with bodies, all civilian. The nearest living people appeared to be low-level law enforcement. Their breath was shallow, and they barely responded as Amadeus pounded down the beach. He stepped over them, his attentions on the devastated settlement ahead, but he noticed Xel slowing down.

We cannot help them, said Amadeus.

Xel still hung back. Wait, Captain.

A survivor was wheezing unintelligibly. As Xel knelt to lift the man's head onto his lap, they made out only two syllables: Ven... mus...!

Amadeus lost his balance, one of his systems glitching. Someone had shot him from behind. In the second it took him to drop to one knee, he assessed the damage: a dented shoulder. The blast had nearly hit Xel, too, and Xel was now flat on the ground with his weapon trained on the attacker.

Amadeus turned. The two of them shot the enemy so thoroughly that it was difficult to estimate what he'd looked like.

Forward.

They strode up the rocky shore to a cramped neighborhood of quaint, wooden houses, most of them caked in an indigo blue paint made from local crustaceans. Amadeus fine-tuned his sensors. The first house was empty. So was the next. Some unidentified species was waiting around the next corner. He silently signaled to Xel.

They took this one alive. Xel shot its right pectoral and Amadeus simply struck it to the ground and pressed one powerful foot down on its throat.

Tentacles? Xel wondered, kneeling out of the long tendrils' reach. They protruded from under the creature's helmet. No suckers. And not in symmetrical pairs.

Something like panels lined the inside of the enemy's arms and legs, even decorating its ribcage. Amadeus could see its pulse, neon green on black, and wondered why any armor would be designed to betray such vulnerabilities. Decoys, perhaps. They glows as veins did under a black light. Careful not to put too much weight on his captive, he knelt closer and found the panels were well reinforced, though they were thin as the rest of the creature's dark unitard.

A P.T.M. ship hovered over the houses above them. It seemed to be empty, but not set to autopilot. It drifted, then careened, crashing into an inferno that sent a wave of blistering heat surging toward them. The paint on the houses peeled. Amadeus turned to see whether his co-pilot was adequately sheltered, but found he was gone.

Xel, he shouted.

No answer. Again, Amadeus fine-tuned his sensors. As he continued turning, cinders raining down around him, other ships crashed here and there. Traces of his skin cells in the air. No trail to follow. P.T.M. craft all failing, but appear undamaged.

The enemy under his foot twitched. It arched its back as if in pain, struggling to remove its helmet. When it succeeded, a face distorted by rapidly growing tumors stared up at him, bulging, distorting. The rest of the enemy's body, as well, suddenly seemed ill-shaped for the uniform.

Life signs failed.

Another enemy staggered out of hiding. Amadeus trained his weapon on it, but saw no reason to fire. It collapsed, suffering a similar ailment.

Amadeus scanned his immediate surroundings. Still connected to his ship, which was now the only airborne craft, he took in the entire settlement. The farther his instruments looked, the more he became convinced that there were no survivors here. Yet there seemed to be very few bodies.

P.T.M. citizens and service members have apparently disappeared from this plane of existence. Only one military force that can help us, Amadeus wagered. It is unlikely they will be interested.

2

Inter-D. The headquarters for the Alliance of Dimension Travelers.

It was important to hit first, hit hard, and keep on hitting. Wasn't always easy to see a hit coming, though. That was how Camella ended up with that familiar copper taste in her mouth. As she wiped the blood from her face, leaving a smear of dark green on her alabaster skin, she remembered that she had several handicaps in this fight: She had no weight to throw into her punches, no clan to back her up, and no fingers on her left hand. And that was how she found herself running.

The barracks at Inter-D had been housing directionless, inter-dimensional refugees for so long that it had become a tent city complete with subcultures and gangs. Judging by the patterns on the blankets strung across the aisle, and the smell of lamb and dates, Cam was in one of the Muslim corners. Possibly Saudi.

’Scuse me! she chirped, jumping onto one person’s shoulders and vaulting onto another. She skipped across the crowd of people faster than they could figure out what was happening. One man saw her coming and reached for her, which was how she lost her sneaker. Oh well. It had been falling apart, anyway.

She could see the door to the ambulatory. Jumping to the floor, she kicked off her other shoe. Then a Saudi boy emerged from the tent city to her right. He was only about twelve, but taller than her, and he had a lot of friends. Shouting in melodic Arabic, he pointed right at her.

The tents rustled. An army of little kids swept past him, screaming gleeful war cries. These were the most feared inhabitants of the barracks — lonely kids with seared consciences. They wore whatever they could steal. Their mouths and noses were stained from huffing something (if Cam knew what, she’d be huffing it, too). They were destined for the draft and death (like her). They didn't know murder from a football match.

The smirking Saudi boy’s little friends rushed around him like rapids around a rock, all charging straight at Cam.

She shot him a dirty look and turned to run. "Ughh, it wasn't even a good mango!" She chucked the half-eaten thing over her shoulder.

The only escape route was out of the barracks, into the pristine ambulatory that stretched around Inter-D’s hub. This was bad. Rules were rarely enforced in the barracks, but if they caused enough ruckus in the main corridor, soldiers got involved. Cam just had to stay ahead of the mob until that happened.

She had forgotten about the other door to the barracks. More boys were rushing her from that direction. Slag, she whispered.

A sharp whistle cut through the din. The shouting died down a bit. Then several of the children exclaimed, Ondrej, ¡Andres! or Andrew!

And the tide shifted away from Cam. Other kids from other cliques seemed to appear from nowhere, mobbing the young man in the hallway.

She ducked into a niche and watched in safety as the ragged children swarmed Andrew Lucado. Barely any taller than Cam, and only towering over some of the little people, he had been working hard at building muscle. He must not have gone on an Inter-D mission for some time, because his glossy black hair had grown out again, long wisps falling over his dark eyes. With an uncharacteristically stern look, he waited, and the kids gradually fell silent, dropping to the floor with their legs crossed and their hands in their laps.

Bendígamos a Señor, Andrew said firmly, and a dozen little voices joined in unison: y estos tus regalos, que estamos a punto de recibir de tu prima, por Cristo nuestro Señor. Amén.

It was then that he reached into the bag he was carrying and produced a tamal. The scent of pork, garlic and jalapenos instantly made Cam’s mouth water. Hands reached out. Voices cried out. But another glance from Andrew quieted them. He walked from one to another and dispersed the food. The children ate ravenously.

Andrew spoke softly with them for a while. This was his true personality, reserved, but never cold. In fact, she had never seen him more social than he was with this crowd. He made jokes. He looked confident, even. When everyone had eaten, he kicked a ball around with them. Then he sat where all of the boys could see him and read them a book about pirates. It looked too advanced, and there were no pictures, but Andrew spent most of his time looking up from the pages and simplifying the story. Cam didn't wonder long how the boys kept still. She soon found herself just as intrigued by the story.

Finally, he pulled a handful of rubber balls out of his bag and tossed them down the hallway. Screaming, the children chased after them, about half claiming to be pirates.

Only one boy hung back. He showed off a wiggly tooth.

Andrew pretended to be concerned. ¿Que pasó?

The boy laughed and explained that his grown-up tooth was coming in, ¡estupido!

When this last child ran off, Andrew strolled over to the niche where Cam was hiding and gave her the last tamal. As she peeled back the corn husk and wolfed down the food, she sensed him watching her as he so often did. It made her angry. It made her afraid.

I should see the other guy? he asked presently.

He must have been referring to all the blood on her face. She could taste it in the tamal. Gulping a mouthful of food, she managed, He thought it was his mango. I disagreed.

Next time give 'em what they want. I'll bring you something from Earth 7.

"Thanks, but I can get food from Ron, if I want help. Why are you teaching them Spanish? You know all their drill instructors are going to use English."

They learn Spanish faster. Rules are more consistent, and it's more like Arabic than you might think. I have a theory it will make English easier to learn, too.

Cam shrugged in acquiescence and continued eating.

Besides, Andrew stammered, now that Kanata is padding out our forces, I'm not so sure these kids will end up in service.

So what'll happen to them? She smiled humorlessly. "Wait, I don't care. What'll happen to us?"

Andrew turned aside, shaking his head. She squinted at him. Even after all the working out, he was hardly an ideal soldier. Much larger men couldn’t depend on him to carry them to the medic. And then there was her unimposing physique. And her hand...

He reached for her. Wildly, she slapped him away, taking a step back, eyeing him. She realized he had probably only been trying to wipe the blood from her face, but her heart would not stop racing. Who just touches someone’s face like that?

Andrew winced. Sorry. He turned as if to go. But a young woman with a much younger girl had been closing in behind him, and now they stammered, "¿Señor? ¿Tiene más comida?"

Regretfully, he explained that, no, he had no more food. He asked whether Inter-D’s cafeteria had been restocked lately, as if he didn’t know the answer, and the woman launched into how she had been thrown from her home world, how the father of her child had been forced to join Inter-D’s army, and how the Ex-D had killed him.

The girl, meanwhile, was gaping at Cam’s disfigured hand.

¿Qué tal? Cam quipped with a crooked grin.

Emboldened, the girl demanded, ¿Donde estan tus dedos? Where are your fingers?

The child’s mother slapped her leg, ranting at her crankily for asking prying questions. As if Cam’s disfigurement was some source of shame. Cam had no reason to be ashamed. She had faced Parker Alton, general of the Ex-D, twice, and lived.

No, esta bien, she told the woman. Sinking to the girl’s level, she explained sweetly, Un demente los cortó. A madman cut them off.

Ay. The woman gave Cam a death glare and ushered her horrified child away.

Andrew suppressed a smile. Slowly, he turned to give Cam a look.

Shut up. Since when are you Papa Noel, anyway?

He shrugged. I get to go home. Eat. They’re stuck here, eating whatever the allies give them and dreaming about scary men who cut off people's fingers. And in a few years they’ll end up like...

Like me?

He hesitated.

Yeah, genius. She licked the salt off her good hand. Licked the blood off her lips.

How’s your hand? asked Andrew.

It fuckin’ hurts, thanks.

Still? I thought phantom pains went away.

"Great news! I'll let you know when that happens."

He made soothing noises, fanning his hands out as if she were a spooked horse. I’ll go home. Research treatments.

Ha! So now you’re my doctor?

Looking everywhere but at her, Andrew crumpled the now-empty bag that still smelled like tamales. She felt suddenly guilty for giving him such a hard time. He really was trying to be nice, as always. Why was she like this?

He changed the subject. I remember when I was proud of Inter-D.

Yeah. Cam frowned. Commander Arons was my hero. And I was a hero for joining his army.

I wanted to be just like you when I grew up, he laughed. "I don't hate Arons, but... Did something change? Or did we change?"

Cam looked at him point blank, and he cringed, backing off. That was her favorite part of being half-human, the way her absinthe green eyes unsettled people. "Arons built this place. He owns this place. Nobody ranks higher than him. All the 'therapy' is run by his wife. What do you think she does? She just brainwashes us to be grateful. So if he is doing something wrong... whether he means well or not... who’s going to stop him?"

You? asked Andrew nervously.

When second shift starts, Ron is holding a secret meeting at the boy’s club or whatever in the toilets. Behind that wall where they all smoke hookah? You should show.

Andrew looked worried. What are you guys gonna do?

She kept grinning. Don't know yet!

3

The second shift began, but Andrew did not make himself present at the meeting, which was just typical of him. Cam pushed her way to the front, where she seated herself next to Ron. Hi, Dad, she sneered.

Nice face, have you been fighting with the other boys? he jibed.

Cam stuck with Ron because he had known her longer than anyone still living; it had been his influence that had refined her archaic, overly deliberate English into American sarcasm, but most of his crowd consisted of European progressives these days.

More people arrived. Though they had all served and lived together for some time, they tended to self-sort into like-minded groups. The Latin Americans, who sometimes had a surprising amount of trouble communicating with the Spanish and Portuguese Europeans, had their own subgroups. Meanwhile, the Chinese, Japanese, and Korean soldiers all had an uneasy relationship, but they seemed somewhat unified in their mystification over the shameful behavior of Westerners. Nearby where a handful of Africans, Christian and other. The African Muslims felt they gelled better with the Arab Muslims, who disagreed; they and the South Asian Muslims made up another clique. Sgt. Citro sat among them and often muttered quick translations (or held up the conversation with semantics; he was a linguist and fascinated with words). Despite Citro's best efforts at being polite and inclusive, the Jewish soldiers always sat opposite from him and a good distance away from the Christians, too.

When groups this diverse lived in close proximity, bad blood was more than a matter of history, which varied a little in each person’s home dimension, anyway. The latest offense might have taken place earlier in the same day. And with fewer Ex-D encounters since the last war, and rumors swirling that General Alton might be dead, Inter-D was losing its one unifying element: a common enemy.

It wasn't long before the space became crowded. Ron called the meeting to order.

Inter-D is officially its own state now, he announced. Recognized by other worlds. That's more obvious thanks to our relationship with Dimension Earth 12, which just made our alliance public last year. So what are our rights as citizens of this state? How is this state run? Did anyone think of our needs? It's starting to look like our fearless leader Dex Arons is dictator-for-life. He brought most of us in as kids, and now he's throwing us out like garbage.

Cam felt a pang in her chest. He was talking about her. He was probably right, though, she was garbage.

It was Kristi Bailey who interrupted. It's obvious he always tried his best to do the right thing.

The right thing, said Ron, according to you and all the other moralists who want a theocracy.

We will not bow to a Zionist regime, blurted one of the Muslims, and Citro hurried to say more diplomatically, You can't expect everyone accept the religion of the Jews.

"Christians, a Jewish man corrected him. Dex Arons is not a real Jew and his rabbi is not a real rabbi. It's an offensive farce! These people are playing make-believe, and real Judaism doesn't get a voice. Nor does any other religion."

The irate Muslim took the opportunity to add, Their blasphemy about Isa ibn Maryam teaches that they can do whatever they want and be forgiven. That is why there is so much sexual immorality in the barracks!

The African Christians began to protest. Ron raised his voice. "Too Jewish or not Jewish enough. Either way, he's used us little guys to build this place, and what do we have? Stinking toilets for a meeting place. A reeking