The Future's Last Signal

Chapter 2: The Bastion of Iron

The black mass rising from Ronan’s shadow didn't have a face, but it had a hunger. It stretched upward, a jagged silhouette of oily smoke that seemed to drink the very light from the clearing.

"Move! Now!" Vaisha screamed, her spear erupting into a brilliant, searing white glow.

She didn't aim for Ronan. She thrust the weapon directly into the patch of ground where his shadow met his heels. There was a sound like glass shattering against iron, followed by a hiss of steam. The shadow-thing recoiled, dissolving back into the dirt with a guttural, non-human shriek.

"What the hell was that?" Ronan yelled, scrambling backward on his hands and knees. "Was that me? Did I just do that?"

"Keep your mouth shut if you want to keep your soul!" Aris barked, slamming a heavy, cold metal collar around Ronan’s neck before he could even stand.

The world went blurry. A sharp blow to the back of his head sent Ronan into a spiraling darkness, the last thing he heard being the frantic, rhythmic pulsing of the radio in Aris's hand.

*

When Ronan woke up, he wasn't in a forest. He was sitting on a cold stone floor, his wrists bound by heavy manacles that hummed with a faint, blue light. The room was small, damp, and carved directly into the heart of a mountain. A single, thick iron door with a barred slit was the only way out.

"Great. From a cockpit to a dungeon," Ronan croaked, his throat feeling like he’d swallowed a handful of sand. "Upgrades, people. Upgrades."

"You’re awake. Good. It makes the questioning less tedious."

Vaisha Noren stood in the corner of the cell, her armor now gleaming under the light of a flickering torch. Beside her stood a man who looked like he’d been carved out of old leather and spite. He was older, with a graying beard and a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. He held Ronan’s radio as if it were a live grenade.

"Okay, look," Ronan said, trying to shift into a more comfortable position. "Commander, right? I already told you, I don’t know what’s going on. One minute I’m flying a multi-million dollar jet, the next I’m being chased by my own shadow."

"A jet?" The older man stepped forward, his voice a low rumble. "Is that what you call your transport from the Void, spy?"

"The name’s Ronan. And no, it’s a plane. You know, wings? Engines? Goes fast?" Ronan sighed, seeing the blank look on the man's face. "Okay, clearly we’re having a bit of a tech gap here. Who are you?"

"I am Marius Solen, Shield-Master of the Bastion," the man said, leaning down until he was inches from Ronan’s face. "And I have spent thirty years killing things that come out of the dark wearing faces like yours. You carry a relic of the Old World, yet you claim to be a 'pilot.' You speak of dates that haven't existed for centuries."

"Centuries?" Ronan’s heart sank. "Wait, the radio said 2044. What year is it now?"

Vaisha and Marius exchanged a glance.

"It is the year 312 of the Shard Era," Vaisha said. "The Old World ended in the Great Collapse. If your 'radio' speaks of 2044, then you are either a ghost, a liar, or something much worse."

Ronan let out a long, shaky breath. "Three hundred years... No. No, that’s not right. I have a watch. I have a life. I have a tab at a bar in Nevada that I definitely haven't paid yet."

"Enough of this madness," Marius snapped, holding up the radio. "This device. It screamed. It spoke of 'bridges' and 'targets.' How do you trigger the weapon?"

"It’s not a weapon!" Ronan shouted, his frustration finally boiling over. "It’s a radio! It picks up signals! Voices! It’s like... like a bird that repeats what it hears from far away, okay? It doesn't kill people, it just talks!"

"Then make it talk," Marius challenged, shoving the device toward Ronan’s bound hands. "Prove it is not a tool of the Void-touched. Prove you are not signaling the Breach."

Ronan looked at the radio, then at his manacles. "I can’t exactly work the dial with my hands fused together, can I?"

Vaisha nodded to Marius. The older man begrudgingly tapped a rune on the wall, and the blue light on Ronan’s shackles dimmed, allowing his hands a few inches of movement.

Ronan took the radio. It felt heavier than it should. The casing was warm, almost vibrating.

"Okay, look," Ronan muttered, his fingers finding the tuning knob. "If I turn this, it changes the frequency. It looks for waves in the air. Right now, all you're gonna hear is static because whatever towers were broadcasting are probably dust by now."

He turned the dial. A harsh, white-noise hiss filled the cell. Marius flinched, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword.

"See?" Ronan said, trying to keep his voice calm. "That’s just noise. It’s empty space."

"It sounds like the wind in the Grey Wastes," Vaisha whispered, stepping closer, her curiosity momentarily outweighing her suspicion. "Why would anyone want to listen to the sound of nothing?"

"It’s not supposed to be nothing," Ronan explained. "It’s supposed to be music, or news, or... or someone telling you the weather. It’s how we stayed connected. It’s science, not magic."

"There is no science without the spark of the Shards," Marius growled. "You are playing with forces you don't understand, boy."

"I understand it perfectly!" Ronan snapped. "I was a Captain! I went to school for four years just to learn how to talk to people over these things while flying at Mach 2! I'm not a spy, I’m just... I’m a guy who’s a long way from home."

The static suddenly cut out. The silence in the cell was deafening.

Ronan froze. He hadn't touched the dial.

—crackle—

"...Automated Defense Network... Sector 7... status: CRITICAL..."

The voice was different now. It wasn't the woman or the filtered man. It was a cold, synthesized voice, devoid of any emotion.

"Warning. Dimensional thinning detected at coordinates 46.2, 9.1. Local designation: North Gate, Bastion of Iron."

Marius stiffened. "What did it say? What is a North Gate?"

"It’s talking about your home, isn't it?" Ronan asked, his eyes wide. "The North Gate. Do you have one?"

"Of course we have a North Gate," Vaisha said, her hand tightening on her spear. "It’s the main entrance to the lower city. But how could a box know its name?"

The radio chimed, a high, piercing note that made Ronan’s teeth ache.

"Time to impact: Fifty-nine minutes. Threat level: Level 5 Breach. Entity type: Skitter-beast Swarm. All non-combatants seek shelter in the Geneva Bunkers."

"It’s a countdown," Ronan whispered. "In one hour, something is coming for your gate."

Marius let out a harsh laugh, though his eyes remained cold. "You think we are fools? You think this 'box' can predict the movements of the monsters? The Skitter-beasts move with the Void-storms, and the sky is clear today."

"I’m telling you, this thing is linked to something big," Ronan pleaded, holding the radio out. "It’s a military broadcast! My people—the people who made this—they had satellites! They could see everything from the sky!"

"The sky belongs to the Wraiths," Marius said, snatching the radio back. "Commander, this is a parlor trick. He is trying to sow panic so his allies can strike while we are distracted."

"Marius, wait," Vaisha said, her amber eyes fixed on Ronan. "What if he’s telling the truth? The radio spoke of the 'Void-touched' in the forest, and then the shadow rose. It knew."

"It knew because he commanded it!" Marius roared. "I will not have my garrison chasing ghosts because a prisoner’s toy made a noise!"

"It’s not a toy!" Ronan yelled. "If that gate falls, it’s on you! You’ve got fifty-eight minutes! Just send a scout! What does it hurt to just check?"

Marius turned toward the door. "What it hurts is our discipline. I’m going to the High Inquisitor. We’ll see how much your 'radio' talks when we start removing your fingers."

"Marius!" Vaisha called out, but the veteran slammed the iron door shut, the boom echoing through the stone chamber.

Ronan slumped back against the wall, his head thumping against the rock. "Well. This is going great. I’m officially the most hated man in 312... whatever the hell year this is."

Vaisha didn't leave. She stood by the door, watching him through the shadows.

"You truly believe it?" she asked softly. "You believe the North Gate is in danger?"

"My life depends on you believing it," Ronan said, looking up at her. "Back home, when the radio gave a Level 5 warning, you didn't argue. You ran. You hid. Or you got your guns ready. I don't have a gun, and I can't run. So I’m telling you: get ready."

Vaisha looked at the heavy door, then back at Ronan. She reached into her belt and pulled out a small, glowing stone, tossing it onto the floor between them. It bathed the cell in a soft, golden light.

"My brother is stationed at the North Gate," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "If you are lying to me, Ronan Eltair, I will personally ensure your death is the slowest event in this 'New Earth.'"

"Fair enough," Ronan muttered. "But if I’m right, you owe me a drink. A real one. None of this medieval moonshine."

They sat in silence for a long time. Ronan watched the shadows in the corner of the cell, half-expecting them to grow teeth again. He watched the way the torchlight played off Vaisha’s armor. She was young—maybe his age, though her eyes were much older.

"How did it happen?" she asked suddenly. "The Collapse. Your world."

"I don't know," Ronan admitted. "I was in the air. There was a flash. Everything went white. I thought I crashed. I thought I was dead until I smelled the grass."

"The Old World must have been beautiful," she mused, looking at the ceiling. "The Magisters say the sky used to be blue. Like the ocean."

"It was," Ronan said, a pang of grief hitting him harder than he expected. "It was bright. And loud. And there were so many people you couldn't count them all. It wasn't perfect, but... it was home."

"Fifty minutes," Vaisha said, checking a small hourglass on her belt.

"Keep your ears open," Ronan said.

The minutes ticked by like lead. The tension in the cell grew until it felt like the air itself was about to snap. Ronan found himself tapping his fingers against his knees in time with a heartbeat he couldn't quite hear.

Suddenly, a faint sound drifted through the barred slit in the door.

It wasn't a voice. It was a low, rhythmic thrumming, like a thousand insects beating their wings against a drum.

Vaisha stood up, her face draining of color. "Do you hear that?"

"The swarm," Ronan whispered, his skin crawling.

At that exact moment, the silence of the Bastion was shattered.

From deep within the mountain, a massive, brassy horn let out a long, mournful blast. Then another. And another.

The emergency signal.

Footsteps thundered in the hallway outside. Men were screaming, the clatter of armor and the ring of swords filling the air. The door to the cell was thrown open, and Marius Solen stood there, his face pale, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Commander! To the walls!" he shouted, his voice cracking.

Vaisha stepped forward, her hand gripping her spear. "The North Gate?"

Marius nodded, his eyes darting to Ronan with a mixture of terror and disbelief.

"The scouts... they didn't even have time to scream," Marius rasped. "The swarm is at the walls. The North Gate has been breached."

Ronan looked at the empty spot where his radio used to be, a cold shiver running down his spine.

"Exactly one hour," Ronan said, his voice grim. "Welcome to the future."