“It has been damage limitation since then,” Sharmila says coldly, concluding her report. “We have done what we can to contain them. Ordered the grounding of all aircraft, the pulling out or destruction of boats. Established a watch to stop the demons spreading any further. But we are fighting a losing battle. Within a couple of weeks – if it has not already happened – the exodus will begin. Once they have complete control of the country, they will move on to the next. And the next. We will defy them. Shoot down the planes and boats they commandeer, as well as those demons capable of flight. Send soldiers to stall them so we are not rushing around madly all the time. But there are already far too many for us to deal with, and more crossing every day. Unless we can stop them at the source…”
Sharmila falls silent. Beranabus is chewing his right thumbnail, frowning.
“We could attack from their side,” Kernel suggests. “Cross universes, find the other end of the tunnel, hit them there.”
“They’ll be expecting that,” Beranabus mumbles. “They’ll have left a guard. Also, every demon within a million-world radius will be rushing to the tunnel, eager to squeeze through and get their claws on some humans before they’re all gone. We wouldn’t have a hope. We’re too late to do anything from that side. We stop them at Carcery Vale or nowhere.”
“Then Carcery Vale it is,” Kernel says and stands. “When do we go?”
“Yes,” I say, taking my place beside Kernel. “When?” I expect him to say something cutting, but he only looks at me calmly, then nods approvingly.
“Soon,” Beranabus mutters. “We’ll catch some sleep first, then–”
“Sleep?” I explode. “We can’t waste time–”
“Let me make this as clear as I can,” Beranabus cuts in. “Mankind is in its death throes. The war has come and gone — we lost. We’re going to give it one last try, hit Carcery Vale with all we have, go down fighting. But go down we certainly will, bar a miracle. And while I believe in miracles, I don’t think we’re going to experience one this time. When we go to the Vale, we go to die. And once we’re dead, the rest of humanity will soon follow.
“But we have to pretend that we do stand a chance. For the sake of our sanity, we must act like we believe we can pull this off. That means going in fresh and feisty, at our physical and mental best. So I’m going to sleep, fully aware that it will probably be my last ever snooze – bar the never-ending slumber – but desperately hoping it will make the blindest bit of difference. I highly recommend that the rest of you follow suit.”
With that he stumbles to the rug which serves as his bed, lies down, closes his eyes, mutters a spell and falls asleep.
“He is right,” Sharmila says softly. She looks at me and I see nothing except negativity in her eyes. “I hoped he would be able to offer hope, that he knew some secret way to stop this. But I could not believe it. We should sleep. Once we start, there might not be any later opportunities for rest.”
“I’ll find a blanket for you,” Kernel says.
“My thanks.”
While Kernel searches for a spare rug, Sharmila studies me. “What I said earlier about your uncle… I did not mean it. I just wanted someone to blame. I am sure it was not his fault. There are some things you cannot stop.”
“No worries,” I mutter, though part of me doesn’t agree with her. Dervish had been hoodwinked by Juni. He was probably frantic with worry about me. His mind was elsewhere. He wouldn’t have been focusing, doing his job. Maybe part of this is his fault – and mine – for not seeing through Juni Swan in the first place.
Kernel prepares a bed for Sharmila. She lies down as soon as it’s ready and repeats Beranabus’s sleeping spell. Her face goes smooth and I can tell she’s having pleasant dreams.
“How about you?” Kernel asks. “Want me to teach you the spell?”
“I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel right, sleeping at a time like this.”
Kernel shrugs. “If you don’t, you’ll only brood about what’s happened and what lies ahead.”
I think about that, then sigh wearily. “OK. Tell me.” Moments later magic sends me under and I tumble gratefully into the arms of a deliberately dreamless sleep.
VALKYRIES
→ In Sharmila’s personal jet, streaking through the skies. I’d think that was cool any other time, but I’m hard to impress right now. Versatile Sharmila is the pilot. There are six other seats. Beranabus has taken up the rear pair and is making a series of phone calls — we could have used a window to get to Carcery Vale and saved some time, but he wanted to talk with the Disciples first and manoeuvre them into position. Kernel is on the middle left, staring down at the clouds. I’m on the front right, flicking through newspapers.
Tales of mayhem and terror. Splash photos of demons and their victims. An array of monsters never dreamt of by most people until now. Long, sprawling lists of victims. First-hand accounts from survivors. Speculation and theories — where are the Demonata from? What are their motives? How can we kill them?
That’s the most burning question — how to destroy the invaders. Mankind’s never had to face an unstoppable enemy before. There have been countless movies and books about such encounters, and the aliens or monsters have always had a weak spot, an Achilles’ heel which some clean-cut champion has discovered and exploited in the nick of time. But that’s not the case here. The reports are from the early days of the invasion and there’s a hint of optimism in them. But even in these columns I can sense desperation as the realisation seeps in — we can’t kill them!
There are a few reports about the Disciples, but they’re vague and patchy. Rumours of a group of experts with knowledge and experience of demons, but no mention of magic or names.
Some of the older papers still have ordinary sections, sports coverage and gossip columns, the usual padding. An attempt to maintain normality. But the later editions focus solely on the Demonata. Nothing else, just page after page of horror and catastrophe.
I stop reading after half an hour. I’ve had enough. Humanity has hit a brick wall. We’re facing our end, like the dinosaurs millions of years before us. The only difference is we’ve got journalists on hand to document every blow and setback, cataloguing our rapid, painful downfall in vibrant, vicious detail. Personally, I think the dinosaurs had the better deal. When it comes to impending, unavoidable extinction, ignorance is bliss.
→ We set down hours later on a private landing strip outside a small town close to the border where humans and demons are locked in battle. There are several other planes and helicopters parked at the sides of the strip. A large, grey, square building occupies one corner. We head for it once we’ve disembarked, Beranabus leading the way with the stride of a confident, commanding general.
Inside the building are eleven men and women, a mix of races. A couple aren’t much older than me, a few look to be in their seventies or eighties, while the others fall into the thirty-to-sixty bracket. Most are neatly dressed, though one or two could compete with Beranabus in the scruffiness stakes. They all looked tired and drained.
“Hail to the chief!” a large man in military fatigues shouts ironically, saluting Beranabus as he enters. There are letters tattooed on his knuckles and a shark’s head covers the flesh between knuckles and thumb. Like when Sharmila turned up at the cave, I know his face and name, even though we’ve never really met.
“Shark?” Beranabus scowls. “Sharmila thought you were dead.”
“When you broke contact, I feared the worst,” Sharmila says, shuffling