Zein: The Homecoming (8 page)

Kabel went through the deserted gates until he was in front of the infamous Traitors Gate of the Tower of London. Above Traitors’ Gate, set back was the Wakefield Tower and next to that was the Bloody Tower. The Tower of London, the building of which began in 1078 as part of the Norman Conquest of England by William the Conqueror, was a magnificent sight. Tyson always had a thrill when he saw it, yes, Kabel had chosen well. They turned to face their pursuers.

The Ilsid came at them five a breast, forcing the pair to fire a barrage of shots into the front line, but there were too many. Soon the Ilsid were close enough to use their seckles. Kabel’s hands were moving so fast he made no attempt to follow their movement; he just relied on his extensive training. He knew he could not be terminally hurt, except if he fell over his own two feet, but the press of the bodies was intimidating.

Tyson was slashing and parrying with ease, Ilsid after Ilsid warrior falling dead before him, but still they came. The brothers were pushed back to the edge of the railings outside Traitors’ Gate.

‘Tyson, this is madness, we can’t fight this many,’ yelled Kabel. In answer, Tyson turned to face Traitors’ Gate, using his shield to ward of the blows, and hooked one of his arms around Kabel’s waist.

‘Hold on tight, bro,’ said Tyson with a manic look on his face. ‘What the…,’ Kabel spluttered, before Tyson leapt over Traitors Gate taking Tyson to the top of the Bloody Tower. Before Kabel could say another word, Tyson released him and set off across the battlements towards the steps down to Tower Green, a patch of grass
beside the imposing White Tower, which stretched high into the sky. Kabel looked across and could see the Ilsid making their way to the main entrance below Tower Hill. It wouldn’t be long before they were flooding into the fortress. He chased after the energised Tyson.

Outside following the fight on the big screen, Gemma felt her heart racing as the action unfolded, the excitement initially causing her body to shake with anticipation but quickly turning to dread when she realised Tyson was out of control, acting as if he had drunk four Red Bull cans in quick succession. She heard footsteps behind her and was pleased to see Amelia half running, half walking and following behind her were Hechkle and Bronstorm.

‘How are they doing?’ said Amelia, gasping for breath. When she had stormed off it wasn’t long before she had sought her friends out and after explaining what had happened they all agreed they needed to see if Tyson and Kabel needed help.

‘What the heck are they doing?’ said the disbelieving Hechkle as he saw the Ilsid burst into the Tower of London fortress. Tyson and Kabel stood back to back on Tower Green fighting wave after wave of attacks. ‘Can we not stop the programme?’ asked Gemma.

‘No, once started, the algorithms kick in and the only one who can override proceedings is the senior officer who set the scenario in motion,’ Hechkle said, looking thoughtful.

‘I am scared,’ said Amelia, staring at the screen worriedly. ‘I don’t think Kabel will back down and I think Tyson will not be able to hold back any longer, look!’ The companions all focused on Tyson. His face had lost the carefree wide-eyed look and the tension and fury were building within his face. Kabel was unable to see what was happening as his back was turned but
Tyson was now using one of his hands to spurt power directly into the midst of his attackers, reducing their numbers drastically. His force-field was building in strength and he seemed to be growing in height.

‘If he allows his magics to explode he could kill Kabel,’ said Amelia, noting the temper and lack of control in her partner, which she had spent hours managing.

Gemma began to panic and her heart rate was going off the scale. ‘We have to do something,’ she said pleading to her friends.

‘I have an idea,’ said Hechkle. He grabbed four bracelets and handed them to the worried friends. They didn’t hesitate, trusting the big Fathom warrior immediately, all snapping the bracelets on. ‘Grab a weapon,’ he ordered, pulling his seckle from his tunic. Bronstorm, following the instruction, did the same. The girls grabbed a photon shotgun each. Hechkle punched in some details then turned to the waiting companions.

‘Place your bracelet into the hologram and hold on as we enter the game.’ They all nodded. ‘Amelia you need to get to Tyson and calm him down and we will form a perimeter around you.’ Amelia confirmed she would. With dry mouths they each thrust their arms with the bracelets on into the hologram and to their shock they were pulled into the programme by a powerful force. Amelia felt a sickness to her stomach as her centre of gravity shifted and she felt herself catapulted to another dimension.

Kabel had felt the increase in Tyson’s power. It was so strong he could not fight back-to-back with his brother as Tyson’s force-field pushed him away. He heard a loud pop and his face betrayed the surprise he felt when he saw Amelia, Gemma, Bronstorm and Hechkle in front of him.

‘Help Tyson,’ screamed Gemma to Kabel, laying down a concentrated blast of gunfire. Kabel turned and had to
raise his hand to partially cover his eyes as the brightness emitting from Tyson was blinding.

Tyson hardly noticed the arrival of his friends. Inside him the magic was twisting this way and that, he felt it grow and consume his every movement, sound diminished. He didn’t use either of his seckles but power was cascading from his fingers. The same thought came to him over and over again.
Kill, Kill, Kill
. Just like an Ilsid warrior.

Amelia fought against the force-field, using techniques taught by Lord Southgate to position her body to circumvent the powerful magic. There were three rules. Get close. Move slowly. Establish contact. Tyson felt soft arms wrap around him, a voice murmuring in his ear. The warm words began to seep through him. An Ilsid warrior launched himself at Amelia who was now at one with Tyson. He stretched out a hand and pure energy streamed from his outstretched fingers, tearing apart the programmed initiated attacker. Tyson felt calm return as the soothing words, like tendrils of smoke, curled around his thoughts and the tension eased from his body.

Amelia, it was Amelia
.

Suddenly the Tower of London and the attackers disappeared. The battle was won, the algorithms calculating that the tipping point had been reached and switching off the game. The group stood gasping for air in the centre of the Coliseum, which was now just an empty box, the environmental programme no longer active.

Tyson felt Amelia’s body against his and snapping out of his adrenalin fuelled battle state he looked down at her gentle brown eyes that shone with concern and love and he pulled her to him in an all-consuming embrace.

‘What is going on here?’ The sliding doors to the Coliseum had opened and in stalked General Corder, anger spilling out from his broad frame. Flanking him
were twenty of his personal guard of US Marines. ‘Who gave you permission outside prescribed hours to use the training programme? You know this is against regulations, don’t you?’ he snapped.

Tyson, who had felt the anger subside, now felt it surge forward, much to Amelia’s and his other friends’ alarm. He pushed Amelia away from him and before General Corder could react he had taken a few steps forward and placed his hand round his throat. The general’s personal guard reacted swiftly with all the soldiers’ weapons raised and pointing at Tyson’s head. Not that this bothered the focus of their attention. ‘Don’t tell me what to do, Grandpa, you got that?’ Tyson hissed.

‘Let him go Tyson,’ said Kabel, shocked, hastily stepping forward and placing a hand on the hand gripping Corder’s throat, Tyson ignored him.

‘Tyson, we should not have been in the game, please let the General go,’ said Amelia, softly, her words enveloping him in that sweet manner that soothed his soul and the anger left him as abruptly as it had fired up. Tyson’s shoulders slumped and he let go of Corder. The soldiers moved in but General Corder put a hand up to halt them as he clutched his throat, trying to catch his breath. It was Kabel who took charge.

‘Stand down, let him go, put your weapons up,’ said Kabel. The soldiers glanced across General Corder but he could not speak as he still had trouble breathing. They hesitantly and reluctantly dropped their weapons to point to the floor. Tyson flung a furious look at Kabel and then marched out of the arena, closely followed by Amelia. The rest watched them go with a sense of foreboding.

Prime Minister Charles Hamilton settled back in his chair, his hands creating a steeple for his chin to rest upon.

‘Good move Charles,’ Lord Southgate said, reaching forward and moving his bishop to build his attack on the expensive looking chess set. He then reached for another sip of the incredibly smooth and strong Mee wine that had now taken the unsuspecting palates of the Earth’s wine drinkers by storm. The Zeinonians could not produce enough to meet the growing demand. The wine was now a must at every civilised dining table.

‘You are not going to sucker me with faint praise Edgar,’ said Charles, as he moved his queen to threaten his opponent’s rook and knight at the same time.

‘Hmmm, I don’t think I am over doing the praise,’ said Edgar. He shook his head and moved his rook. Charles immediately took his knight.

‘Check,’ he said. Lord Southgate laughed.

‘And it is checkmate in two moves.’ With that he toppled his king and stood up from the chess set. ‘You beat me again Charles. Don’t you find it uncomfortable carrying such a large brain on those shoulders?’ he asked jovially.

Charles gave a wry grin and joined his friend at the drinks cabinet. They were in No. 10 Downing Street, the
residence of the British Prime Minister, his family and the epicentre of the United Kingdom government. It had been a nailed on certainty that Charles would be made Prime Minister after the demise of Michael Dunstable at Zylar’s hands. Charles missed the younger man greatly. The funeral was a day he would wish to forget, memories of Michael’s tearful wife and distraught children hard to accept. He had also been struck by the sadness within Victoria Kirk. He knew that Michael was influential in her rise to prominence but the devotion she showed stripped away her political façade and showed how much he meant to her. Charles made a shrewd guess that the professional feelings were mixed with a deeper, personal connection.

On the day of his appointment the party members backed him nearly unanimously as the natural successor, a title he took with much regret. Since then he had worked non-stop to integrate the Zeinonians within Earth’s population, though he owed a lot to the man opposite him. Lord Southgate had kept up an incredible workload within the Inner Council. He had made many friends and the relationships Charles had seen him nurture made him realise he was working with a consummate political animal; even the tough, no nonsense, Victoria, had taken to him. After a busy day, Lord Southgate and Charles had decided on a quiet game of chess in his private residence which he shared with his wife, Patricia, who had built up a strong bond with Lady Lucinda Southgate. Holding similar values both Charles and Edgar loved their wives deeply and the friendship had flourished.

Tonight a doubt was nagging Charles. A growing concern he had but kept to himself. Lord Southgate saw the dilemma in his friend’s eyes and enquired as to what was troubling his chess companion.

Charles didn’t reply initially, he leant forward and poured a generous portion of Mee wine into his goblet. They both followed the deep red wine flow from the bottle into the crystal glass. Standing up from his chair next to the stylish chessboard with his glass in his hand, he pondered the question his colleague had asked. ‘The attacks by the Cabal are increasing all around the world,’ he said, lifting his full glass to take a sip of the wine. The Cabal was the name, derived from the graffiti littered around the capital cities of the world, of the mysterious organisation that appeared to be behind the anti-Zeinonian movement, driven by their mistrust fed from the devastation wrought on New York, the thousands of deaths in Manchester, England and the promise of destruction from Zylar’s own lips. Social media was riddled with scare stories like the one that rumoured the aliens would kidnap Earth’s children and turn them into zombie-like soldiers. Decent people ignored the most outrageous claims but New York, Manchester, Zylar had all happened and Charles knew that an argument based on a solid foundation was a compelling one.

He sauntered over to one of the comfortable chairs in front of the roaring fire; it was a cold early spring night outside. Victoria had briefed Charles earlier that day on this very subject, concerned that the overall media coverage was working against the Zeinonians. The reporters almost seemed envious or suspicious of the Zeinonian achievements – that it was all too good to be true.

Lord Southgate joined Charles in front of the fire. ‘I know but surely it is just misguided fools?’

‘Edgar, I am not so sure,’ said Charles, ‘today there were six demonstrations in the capitals of Germany, France, Spain, Italy, Brazil and India. It was said that the totals across all demonstrations amounted to a million people. That’s a worry.’

‘They are just peddling uneducated fears surely,’ said Lord Southgate, as he stretched out his legs to take in the heat from the fire.

‘Yes, in some ways they are, but I can see people are fearful that what happened at Old Trafford or New York could happen in their countries and through history the fear of the unknown has always resulted in kneejerk reactions,’ answered Charles.

‘But surely we have shown that it was Zylar who was the threat.’ Lord Southgate took a sip of his drink, ‘We have turned most of your deserts into flourishing grasslands and eradicated cancer and HIV,’ he espoused, drawing on the incredible progress made in the farming and medical worlds.

‘I know, I know,’ said Charles, struggling to hide the frustration he was feeling towards the negative elements within the political community, ‘but they continue to complain that we should not trust you and that you’re the aggressor.’

Lord Southgate gently placed his glass down on the table, noticing Charles’s dilemma and concerned by the inflection in his friend’s voice. A coldness swept through his body not related to the chill outside. ‘Charles
you
don’t think we have ulterior motives do you?’

Charles hesitated, only momentarily, but that was enough for Edgar’s anger to spill over, his force-field sparking out of his body making his fireside companion inadvertently shrink back into his chair. ‘You do, don’t you? You believe this drivel?’

‘Edgar, I don’t, it’s just…’

‘What, just what?’ said Lord Southgate, angrily, standing up.

‘Zylar is still alive and he could return,’ said Charles defensively.

‘Zylar! All I hear is Zylar this, Zylar that, on your communication channels. If you peddle that he is what Zein stands for, you and your kind are very mistaken.’ Lord Southgate’s face had turned an unhealthy puce colour. Charles stood up, so he could be face to face with a man he had just, some few minutes before, been playing a splendid game of chess in a socially relaxed environment, which had just exploded as if a hand grenade had been lobbed into the room.

‘I am sorry, Edgar I didn’t mean to upset you. I am just worried.’ He hadn’t expected the conversation to deteriorate so rapidly.

‘Charles if you don’t believe in us then the Cabal have won, do you not see that?’ said Lord Southgate, picking up his thick cloak and attempting to calm his anger, fearing to unleash his magics. His face displayed the sadness he felt at the turn of events, regretting that his concern was now manifesting into an attack on his friend. It all stemmed from the frequent reports he was receiving of the intimidation his people were facing from a sometimes sceptical human race. ‘Charles, please don’t lose faith in us,’ was all he could muster before leaving the room. He left his friend cursing his own uncertainty.

Charles sat back down in the comfortable armchair and picked up the wine remembering the last debrief from Victoria. The most distressing element of the report was that the protests were turning violent with the demonstrators battling with the different police forces across the world. They had targeted Zein store owners and market stores where the previously popular clothes and goods of Zein folklore could be bought. The demonstrators’ banners called on all Zeinonians to be given a distinguishing mark on their clothing so no interbreeding could happen and to limit their business
expansion. They were the least aggressive suggestions. Others called for them to be locked up, moved into designated areas in the cities and segregated from the human population.

One particular distasteful episode was when a family of four from the Fathom clan, visiting Rome, had been cornered by the mob and the woman and daughter partially stripped and sexually assaulted, making the youngest child, a boy, watch. The father initially tried to stop the attack and was beaten to a pulp for his efforts and by the time the authorities were able to rescue them, it was too late for the man. The rest of the family were now in hospital with an armed guard.

In other cities stories of stalls being ripped down, physical intimidation and mob behaviour were more frequent but what happened in Rome ratcheted up the violence. In retaliation a platoon of Malacca troops had turned on a couple of hitchhiking students in the Eastern Quadrant and beaten them to within an inch of their lives. The two men were now both in a coma with their families angrily denouncing the “alien scum” across the media.

He slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair. As a historian he knew that he was facing a wind of change. Did they not see that over the centuries this had happened before, whether it was the Crusades, Spanish Inquisition, Nazi Germany or Apartheid and segregation in South Africa…that no good would come of this hatred or distrust?

Charles’s gaze rested on the burning embers of the fire. He had to find a solution and promised that he wouldn’t let all the good work go up in smoke. He didn’t rest that night as he pondered his options. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

The focus of his worry, the men and women of the Cabal, were on a video conference call, at the same time of the fiery meeting between Charles and Edgar. Their faces shrouded in darkness as they hid their identities from each other, a pre-requisite of their leader, the Speaker. They were listening to the update and pleased to hear it was all going to plan. The Speaker, the only one who knew each of the identities of those on the call, finished the events that had occurred that day and sat down.

One of the faceless members, with a strong accent that placed him in Asia, spoke. ‘How are we going to secure the flow of zinithium?’

‘Over the next few weeks we will be moving our assets around to each and every site where the raw material is mined. Before the end of the month all supplies of zinithium will be under our control,’ said the Speaker.

‘How about the remaining Zein forces, the Malacca clan army is still strong?’ an American voice asked.

‘They will be compromised and too busy protecting their own quadrant to be an issue,’ the Speaker answered assuredly.

‘The protests are going well but there are still many supporters of the aliens,’ a strong guttural Germanic voice uttered.

The Speaker rose and leaned against the desk. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, all will be taken care off. I have to ask, are you all still behind the vision?’

One by one they all confirmed their allegiance and when the last agreement was received, the Speaker raised hands to the ceiling triumphantly. ‘The Cabal has spoken. Soon we will become the most powerful force not just on Earth
but in the Universe,’ the Speaker concluded, envisaging that the silhouettes of the twenty or so people from the most influential families, organisations and military in the world wore smug and satisfied smiles.

The Speaker closed the call on the powerful laptop and settled back in the chair at the solid Regency table. All was going to plan, control of the zinithium mining was nearly complete, and manipulation of public perception, even on the Zeinonian achievements was inflaming feelings towards the aliens. The Speaker smirked. The Cabal could only see the riches available; however, for the Speaker this was personal, with hatred for the Zeinonians running deep. Satisfied by progress the Speaker was ready to twist the knife and the most critical part of the plan would be set in motion. Soon the alien race will be under the Cabal’s full control with nowhere to run.