that too, he realized, was his own form of rationalizing things. The fact was, he wanted to be out there with his people right now, not stuck behind in this glorified tin can, watching an AI run the data link switchboard and holding the collective hands of the command staff still on planetary approach.
His noumenal awareness was crowded with images, feeds, and downloads. With a thought-click he could tune in on the helmet sensor array of any of his Marines. At the same time, he was aware of several members of the command staff “riding his link,” looking over his virtual shoulder from the Derna’s CIC. Majors Anderson, DuBoise, and Ross were all there, as were Lieutenant Colonel Harper, Colonel Ramsey, and both General King and Admiral Hartman. The electronic ghosts of a dozen other command staff officers and technicians were there as well, sifting through the flood of incoming data. Theoretically, they were there to offer advice and watch to see that he didn’t miss anything. In practice, it was a micromanagement cluster-fuck waiting to happen. Warhurst concentrated on doing his job and ignoring that particular unpleasant possibility.
An aerial view of the LZ was spread out beneath him in his noumenal awareness. Robotic drones, battlefield management probes, and the sensor feeds from the Marines outside all contributed their data streams to build up a more or less coherent picture of the engagement as it unfolded. Four landing modules—one hundred Marines—were on the ground now and advancing toward an apparent door in the side of the mountain. Two more were angling in from opposite directions, north and south. Enemy resistance was heavy—twelve Marines dead so far, plus fifteen HK-20 robots knocked out—but the troops were advancing. The worst danger at this point of the assault was that the Marines would be pinned down, unable to move; instead, they seemed to have momentum enough to carry them into the mountain, despite sleeting small arms fire.
“We’re taking heavy fire from the mountainside,” Warhurst said, uploading to the Derna CIC. “We need air support!” The Marines on the ground needed firepower, and they needed it now.
“Major DuBoise,” Ramsey said. “Scrape that mountainside clean!”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Warhurst heard the orders being given over the air support net. All that remained was to wait for them to be carried out.
Kikig Kur-Urudug
Deeps of An-Kur
Third Period of Dawn
It was called the Abzu, a word constructed from aba, the sea, and zu, to know, and meaning, roughly, “the Sea of Knowing,” or possibly “the Sentient Sea.” Ancient Sumerian texts had spoken of the Abzu as a land beneath the sea, or as the “Lower World,” the place where the god Enki ruled. Perhaps, Tu-Kur-La thought, the Abzu had once been a physical place on far-off Kia, one of the scattered Anu colonies on that world before the coming of the Hunters of the Dawn. The old records read that way.
Or perhaps it had always been this, an artificial construct representing the collective unconscious of all of the gods. The records, even the Memories passed down across the ages, often broke at key places, with information forever lost or rendered corrupt. Sometimes it was hard to tell what the old memory texts truly meant.
Rarely, though, was an exact interpretation of the records necessary. The spirit of what was meant, of the information transmitted across the centuries—that was the heart and soul of the thing.
Interpretation of the records was best left to others.
Tu-Kur-La relaxed as the Sea engulfed him. Physically, he was within one of the lower chambers of the Kikig, the command center for the Mountain of the Gods. The Abzu-il, the Gateway to the Lower World, oozed slowly from the cavern walls around him, enveloping him, penetrating him, its artificial nervous system forging billions of connections with his physical brain on countless levels, drawing him swiftly under.
To Tu-Kur-La’s senses, the Abzu seemed to be a physical place like any other, a kind of green-lit cavern with dim and far-off walls all but lost in soft fog. Reality coalesced itself from that fog. He saw images … other Ahannu … and heard voices, as the battle in the world above raged. Information was here for the asking, within a kind of library of the mind. And he could see whatever he willed himself to see. …
“Welcome, Tu-Kur-La,” a voice said within his mind. “We welcome your soul to the Circle of An-Kin.”
“Thank you, Lord,” he replied, startled. The voice, the towering figure before him, was none other than Gal-Irim-Let—Kingal An-Kur, the Great Commander of the Mountain of the Gods. An-Kin was a council of the gods, a meeting to determine the future course of the gods’ will. Why would the Kingal itself want the advice of a mere second-level god-warrior?
“We desire the advice of all those who faced the Zah-sag-ura two cycles ago,” the voice said, answering his question before he could voice it. “Your experience will help us decide how best to bring them down.”
“To that end,” another voice said, “we bestow upon you the rank of uru-nam, that you may take your place with us.”
This second speaker was Usum-Gal, a title that was both name and rank—the Great Dragon, the Lord of All. The Sag-ura of Kia referred to it as the High Emperor, a strange and meaningless term.
“I … I thank the Great Lord,” he stammered. “I will strive to be worthy of the honor.” Uru-nam! It meant Guardian of Destiny; this made him a minor kingal in his own right.
“You are one of the gods,” Usum-Gal replied, “a Guardian of Destiny by nature. It is no honor to do what is your nature, but simple personal responsibility. Now, Uru-nam Tu-Kur-La, tell us how we might destroy the invaders.”
Within his inner vision, a scene unfolded, a view of the city the invaders called New Sumer, which the An had always called Shumur-Unu, the “Stubborn Fortress.” Strange how the invaders had such trouble with the proper pronunciation of language. Much of the city was burning, as hordes of Anu god-warriors and Sag-uras burst through and over the walls, storming toward the Pyramid of the Eye.
A handful of offworlder warriors gathered at the base of the pyramid steps, holding off the onslaught for long moments as survivors of the attack loaded on board one of the alien flying machines at the pyramid’s apex. One by one the defenders fell, as heaps of burned and torn god-warrior bodies piled up in a semicircle about the plaza. At last, like a black sea, the Ahannu god-warriors surged forward, overwhelming the few surviving defenders.
“Our victory two cycles ago,” Tu-Kur-La replied, “was one of superior numbers. There were not enough armed Blackheads to withstand our full might.”
“These Sag-ura sky-warriors,” Gal-Irim-Let said, thoughtful. “What are they called?”
Tu-Kur-La plucked the alien word from the Abzu’s knowledge stores. “Marines,” he said. “They call themselves Marines.”
“These Marines possess a weapons technology that gives them a considerable advantage in combat. Their body armor … their weapons-of-power …”
“All true, Great Lord,” he said. “And there are many more of them this time than last. Victory will not be easy.”
“We will suffer terrible losses,” Gal-Irim-Let observed. “We have lost twelves of sixties already, simply defending An-Kur.”
“But consider,” Tu-Kur-La said. “Our god-warriors number sixty sixties of sixties or more. Only a handful of these Blackhead Marines have landed so far. There may be more on the vessels now approaching Enduru, but … how many? A sixty of sixties?”
“Half of that,” Gal-Irim-Let replied. “According to what the prisoner-slaves told us, a thirty of sixties. No more.”
“Exactly. However many god-warriors we lose, we can afford to grow more, as many as are needed. The Marines are a long way from Kia and reinforcements. If our information from the Sag-ura we took two cycles ago is accurate, it will be a cycle and a half before news of their need can reach