Legacy of the Argus Read online

  Legacy of the

  Argus

  By

  E. R. Torre

  The novel contained within this volume is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

  Corrosive Knights, B'taav, Inquisitor Cer, Nox, Becky Waters, Paul Spradlin, Inquisitor Raven, and all characters within this novel were created and are Copyright © 2018 E. R. Torre

  Legacy of the Argus is Copyright © 2018 E. R. Torre

  All Rights Reserved

  Book cover design by ebooklaunch.com

  Interior Artwork by E. R. Torre

  Please visit my website: www.ertorre.com

  Comments or questions? Email me at: [email protected]

  BEFORE

  1

  The Blue Mountains, Arizona

  1925

  Sheriff Paul Spradlin gasped and released his grip on the stone figure.

  He was no longer in the dark cul de sac within one of the dusty mountains of Arizona.

  He was no longer in that place or that time.

  Ancient memories invaded his mind and he saw visions of fearsome war machines floating in outer space. He saw spacecraft so advanced, so large, they overwhelmed planets and their inhabitants. The invaders used their machines to rip open planet crusts. Precious metals, technologies, and organic material were used for food and fuel while technologies were stolen and, if deemed worthy, adapted for their use.

  How many alien cultures met their ends to these invaders?

  By asking, Spradlin was provided an answer.

  Before him were the faces of hundreds of thousands of alien beings. No. More. Millions. Many millions.

  He saw their faces and felt their fears. Their suffering. Their deaths.

  Tears rolled down Spradlin’s cheeks.

  Even as the invaders –this locust plague– attacked, they searched for their next target and, once fed, they moved on to it, then the one after that. Then the one after that.

  Their next target was Earth.

  “They have to be stopped,” Spradlin screamed. “They have to be—”

  How am I seeing this?

  Another question, once asked, was answered.

  In his mind’s eye he saw a robot. It had a sleek, metallic hexagonal shape. It looked like a crystal and it moved like a fish. But it wasn’t in water.

  He saw more of those hexagonal machines. They were above and below the original machine. To its left and right, in front of and behind. Interconnected. Billions of them.

  In such quantities they would overwhelm any city, any country…

  But they were tiny. Microscopic.

  “What are they?”

  Nano-probes.

  “They were inside the statue—”

  The figure before him looked like the statue of the upper half of a man.

  It is not a statue.

  Hardened sediment and stone encased the figure’s lower half. It took many thousands of years for this sediment to build and harden around—

  “The stat —that thing— it had the nano-probes…”

  Yes.

  “They were… they were injected into my body?”

  Yes.

  “They’re showing me…”

  We hold all this information. It is now a part of you just as you are a part of us.

  “Get out!” Spradlin yelled.

  We mean no harm.

  “GET OUT!”

  Draw a breath.

  Despite everything, he did. The panic eased. A little.

  Better. Take another breath. Let it out.

  The world no longer spun around Spradlin. The information was there, but it was locked away. Spradlin opened his eyes and someone spoke from the other side of the cul de sac.

  “We have much work to do.”

  Paul Spradlin could see, even without looking, the thin and very grimy Prospector who, through clever deception, brought him here. The man looked like he’d spent years lost in the desert. His hair was shoulder length and just as muddy as the rest of him. The clothing he wore was made of animal hides. He looked like the countless prospectors who spent their lives in these wastelands, destined to live and die alone and forgotten, their flesh picked apart by scavengers and their bones bleaches in the sun and buried, never to be seen again.

  The man’s appearance was deceptive.

  For Spradlin knew he was not human. He was a robot, a being just like the figure half encased in stone before him. The Prospector’s insides were composed of billions of the very same type of nano-probes now flowing through Spradlin’s body. In the Prospector, these nano-probes linked together, individually and as a whole, gave shape to his body. A malleable layer of organic material, effectively a flesh mask, covered those insides and allowed him to appear human. Underneath, the nano-probes could switch position and alter his appearance, age, body type, and even sex.

  “You’re,” Spradlin began and stopped. He thought some more. “You’re Elias Vulcan. Original designation One of Three. The first of three Sentinels sent by… by them. To Earth.”

  “Yes.”

  Spradlin took a step back. He stumbled.

  One of Three. The statue that infected him also had a name at one time: Two of Three. In his mind, he caught glimpses of someone not present. A third creature designated Three of Three.

  “You were sent to watch this planet by this… Locust Plague,” Spradlin said. “To make sure we never become strong enough to fight them.”

  “Yes,” Elias Vulcan acknowledged. “My masters will reach Earth soon.”

  “Soon?” Spradlin repeated while holding back laughter. “They’re three hundred years away.”

  “The blink of the eye,” Elias Vulcan said and Spradlin realized this was true.

  A wave of nausea hit him and he once again shut his eyes tight.

  “I see their machines,” Spradlin said. “I see the destruction they’ve caused. You came to me. You forced me to take these… these nano-probes. Why?”

  Elias Vulcan didn’t say. He didn’t need to.

  “You hope I’ll work with you,” Spradlin said. “You hope together we can stop them.”

  “Yes,” Vulcan said. He smiled, revealing teeth that were incredibly white and straight. His blue eyes shined through the darkness. “Will you help me? Will you help save your race?”

  Paul Spradlin felt the rock wall beside him and gripped it. The ancient memories and visions were back, pounding at his mind.

  “Stop,” he said.

  They did.

  His nausea faded. He felt an incredible clarity of mind.

  “If you are what you say you are, how can I trust you?” Spradlin said. “You’re just a machine.”

  “I’m a free being.”

  “You’re a machine that thinks it’s free,” Spradlin said. “What happens when your Masters get closer to Earth? What happens if they get in touch with you? You may be free at this moment, but what’s to say they won’t take control over you?”

  “I’m free—”

  “How the hell can I ever know that?”

  “You’re human,” Vulcan said. “But now you’re also a part of us. You can feel what it is to be me. I brought you here so you can help me stop my Masters. I want to defeat them but I don’t know how. I need your insight. I need your knowledge. I need—”

  “How do I know you won’t take whatever I give you and use it against us? How do I know you’re not still a part of them, even if you think you aren’t?”

  The Prospector was silent for several seconds before saying:

  “I’m not.”

  The Chameleon hoped Paul Spradlin would ai
d him in finding a way to fight its masters.

  The Chameleon was wrong.

  Paul Spradlin could not trust Vulcan, even with his promises and assurances.

  But Paul Spradlin would find a way to save the human race.

  Eventually.

  2

  Bad Penny

  80 years later

  The British nuclear submarine The Avenger floated idle in the sunny Caribbean waters and some two hundred yards from the island’s coast.

  Tied to it was a rubber dingy and on the submarine’s deck stood two men. The submarine’s fin was empty and closed. The rest of the crew were inside their vessel.

  One of the two men standing on the submarine’s deck was dressed in a U.S. military outfit. He was a General, though at one time very long ago he carried the title of Sheriff in a small town in Arizona.

  With one noticeable exception, Paul Spradlin looked just like he did all those years before.

  That exception was his right hand. It was gone, violently torn off. The injury was fresh and the stump was a bloody mess that, incredibly, no longer bled. In any other normal person such an injury would cause agonizing pain. While General Spradlin felt pain, he was able to turn it down, like the volume on a too loud radio. He did so until the pain was little more than a minor irritation.

  In time and thanks to the nano-probes in his body, his injury would heal and a new hand grown.

  Before General Spradlin stood another man. He was clean shaven and sported short gray hair. His eyes were radiant blue and his teeth brilliant white. Despite the many changes to his outer look, Paul Spradlin recognized him as Elias Vulcan, the Prospector who in 1925 guided him into that dark cul de sac in the Arizona Mountains where he was injected with nano-probes.

  Paul Spradlin’s opinion of Vulcan hadn’t changed.

  “You’re dealing with things far beyond your capacity,” Vulcan said. “I gave you the gift, Spradlin. I did so because I thought we could work together for the common good. I want to save this world.”

  “The planet is gone and you know it,” Paul Spradlin said.

  “You’ve given up?”

  General Spradlin didn’t reply.

  “No, you haven’t,” Vulcan said. “It’s not in you to do so. You fight my Masters’ scouts and continue devising weapons to kill them… but all you’ve done is rid the world of strays while the Locust Plague continue their approach. You’re up to something. What?”

  “That is my concern.”

  “Let me help. Please.”

  “I can’t do that Vulcan. You still belong to them.”

  While waves gently lapped against the submarine, they spoke of the past and present, one trying to convince the other.

  It was a stalemate, one that would not be resolved. Not today or, perhaps, ever.

  After a while, they stopped talking. The lapping of the waves filled the void left behind by their conversation and Vulcan said:

  “This is a beautiful world. I hope it stays that way for as long… as long as possible.”

  Elias Vulcan reached into his jacket and produced a regular white envelope.

  He handed it to General Spradlin and walked to the submarine’s fin. He climbed to its top and opened the pressure lock. He then disappeared inside.

  General Spradlin returned to his rubber boat. After a few short minutes, the submarine’s propellers spun and the vessel moved, gently, back to the island of Bad Penny.

  When the submarine and the rubber boat were less than a hundred feet from the island, General Spradlin released the rope holding his boat and rowed the rest of the way back to shore. He then deflated his boat.

  The Avenger was still there, in the distance, the crew no doubt watching him to make sure he reached the island safely.

  Having done so, the vessel made a slow turn and moved off toward the east. It sank below the waves, disappearing behind a quickly vanishing wake.

  3

  ENGLAND – Two weeks later

  It walked off to the west with almost no control over its movements.

  Its outward appearance was that of a middle aged woman. But below her skin were billions of microscopic nano-probes. Unlike Vulcan, she was a very recent arrival and was incapable of achieving full autonomous intelligence.

  During her three decades embedded in London, she assumed many identities. Her mission was like all other Chameleons sent to Earth: To watch the people of this planet and make sure they didn’t develop technologies which might hinder her masters’ plans of conquest and annihilation.

  She completed her mission without any difficulties.

  Until this day.

  A group of humans arrived at the creature’s flat and, before the Chameleon could act, incapacitated and altered her programing. Her new programming forced the Chameleon to abandon its current home and mission and walk from London to the Snowdonia National Park some three hundred kilometers away. It was there the creature hid its spacecraft.

  Her new programming ordered her to fly back to her master’s invasion fleet and deliver a message. The message warned them Earth was aware of their presence and would stop them.

  The message, the Chameleon knew, would have no effect.

  The Locust Plague would continue their journey.

  They would not stop, they would not deviate.

  As the Chameleon walked along the highways, drivers in cars and trucks spotted her. Some slowed. Some asked her if she was lost or in distress and if she needed a ride. Most sounded genuine in their concern, though there were some whose tone suggested otherwise.

  To all of them the Chameleon politely refused. It was all she could do.

  When darkness fell, the roads emptied out.

  At a little past two in the morning, the driver of a cargo truck spotted her pale figure.

  The vision of this woman was, to him, a dream come true. His heart beat hard while blood rushed through his adrenaline filled body. He slowed his truck down and checked his rear-view mirrors. The ghost of a smile appeared on his face while his eyes turned very black.

  The woman was alone.

  The driver reached under his seat and pulled out a knife. He examined the blade and remembered all the other times he’d used it.

  Time to use you again, sweetie.

  His truck crawled along before passing the woman. He held his breath and watched her in the rear view mirror. She didn’t run.

  Good.

  The driver hid the knife in his jacket pocket and stopped his truck. He got out.

  The woman continued walking toward him.

  “What are you doing out here, love?” he called out.

  “I’m fine,” the woman said as she neared. She did not make eye contact and this excited the driver all the more.

  “Night stroll?”

  “I’m fine. Go on.”

  The truck driver’s right hand slid into his jacket pocket and gripped the knife’s handle.

  “I can’t do that,” he said.

  She was within reach. He could have her on the ground, his knife at her throat, his other hand under her skirt. The driver could barely contain himself…

  Lights appeared in the distance and the truck driver froze.

  The woman walked past him and his truck. The driver remained where he was as the lights from the car grew. He bent down before one of his truck’s tires and pretended to examine it while his eyes remained on the woman. She moved away from the edge of the highway and into darkness. With any luck, the approaching car’s driver wouldn’t see her.

  The lights grew even brighter until, finally, the car whizzed past.

  The moment it was gone the truck driver was on his feet and running toward the woman.

  “We haven’t finished our talk, beautiful,” he muttered under his breath.

  Abruptly, he stopped.

  A man stood before him.

  He was lean and had brilliant blue eyes and very white teeth.

  “Well then,” the driver said. “Who the fuck are you?”
<
br />   The man didn’t say anything and something about his gaze proved unnerving.

  “Is this some kind of trap?” he said. “You think you found yourselves a pigeon?”

  The man provided no answers. He just stood there. Still.

  “Fuck this,” the driver said.

  He pretended to take a step back toward his truck, then rushed forward. His knife was before him, thrusting at the man’s midsection. He’d take this man down, then deal with the woman.

  How he’d deal with that bitch.

  But the stranger was quicker. He grabbed the man’s hand and the trucker found himself off his feet and twisting in the air. He was slammed hard against the hood of his truck.

  For a moment all was black. The trucker felt himself being lifted and heard the sound of his cab door opening. He was placed in the driver’s seat and ropes were tied across his chest.

  The darkness receded and the trucker tried to move. He could not. He opened his eyes and let out a groan.

  “What the… what did you…?”

  He felt the grogginess lift and his strength return. He was in his truck’s cabin and his knife lay on the dashboard behind the steering wheel. It was just outside his reach.

  “What the fuck?” he yelled.

  He couldn’t tell how much time had passed since the attack. The woman he so desperately wanted was nowhere to be seen. Neither, he realized, was the man who attacked him.

  He pulled against the ropes and swore.

  “Let me go!”

  He thrashed about but the ropes held.

  Take it easy, he thought. We’ll get out of this and when we do…

  The driver heard a distant siren and looked in his side mirror. He spotted flashing lights. They were approaching his truck.

  “No,” he muttered.

  Desperation took hold of him. He pulled, harder than before, against the ropes. All he needed to do was get his knife and throw it into the bushes. That’s all he needed to do.

  “I’ll tell ‘em I’ve been set up,” he muttered. “That’s what I’ll do.”