Transit to Thanossa

James Abraham Carter

The rhythmic hum of the air circulation system was the only sound in the cool, subterranean chamber. John Tayne, a man whose military bearing belied the civilian khakis he wore, shifted his weight, his gaze fixed on the colossal crystalline gears that dominated the space. They were a wonder, shimmering with an inner light even in repose, each tooth perfectly formed, and each angle scientifically precise. Discovered beneath the ancient ruins of Knossos, this machine had redefined history. It was a testament to the Minoans’ unimaginable advancement, a secret kept for millennia, now his to guard from the endless stream of tomb robbers and treasure seekers drawn by whispers of the astounding find.

John, a member of a six-man security team protecting the site, had been guarding the mysterious machine for many uneventful days. Boredom, a potent enemy, began to gnaw at him. Professor Kane, the expedition leader, had issued explicit orders: ”Do not touch the device, John. Its function is unknown. It could be dangerous.” The young man understood the gravity of the mission, yet curiosity was a powerful attractor pulling him closer to the enigmatic device. He walked slowly, reverently, toward the machine, his intention to simply observe its intricate beauty, to trace the lines of the unknown power with his eyes.

One step, then another. The polished stone floor felt smooth beneath his boots. His gaze was fixed on the nearest gear, a behemoth of violet crystal, when his foot landed on a faint, almost invisible actuator on the floor. A soft click echoed in the silence of the chamber.

Then, a low thrum vibrated through the ground, growing in intensity. The crystalline gears, dormant for millennia, began to turn and glow with an ethereal luminescence. The spinning cogs increased in speed. A deep, resonant hum filled the chamber, building into an unbearable crescendo. Electrical discharges, like miniature lightning bolts, leaped from gear to gear, crackling with raw energy. John stumbled backward, his heart hammering against his ribs. Alarm flooded his reeling brain. This was beyond anything he had anticipated. He tried to retreat further, but the air thickened, humming with an unseen force.

The whole machine now looked like it was composed of spinning Catherine wheels shooting sparks and fire. A blinding flash erupted, a thousand flares exploding simultaneously, searing his retinas with pure white light. The sound roared in his ears, an unbearable scream of energy. Then, nothing. Consciousness, like a fragile candle flame, was snuffed out.

**********

Awareness returned gradually, a slow, painful crawl from absolute blackness. John’s head throbbed, a dull ache behind his eyes. He groaned, pushing himself up on shaking arms. The air felt different – dry, sharp, with a strange mineral tang. He blinked, fighting the lingering afterimages, and slowly, his surroundings came into focus.

Fear, cold and sharp, lanced through him. He was no longer in the subterranean chamber beneath the Palace of Knossos. The familiar, oppressive scent of ancient dust and the sight of claustrophobic, enclosing stone were gone, replaced by the arid breath of an alien wind. He was sitting in a stony desert; stretches of arid earth studded with scattered clumps of tall, spiky trees presented themselves to his shocked gaze. Above him, two suns burned, one a familiar yellow, the other a searing crimson, casting long, stark shadows across the desolate landscape. And in the sky, immense and breathtaking, hung a colossal alien planet, marbled with swirls of sapphire and jade, a breathtaking, terrifying monument to his impossible displacement.

Utter shock rooted him to the spot. He wasn't on Earth. The crystalline machine, that ancient, enigmatic marvel, had transported him to another world. His world, his life, his very reality had been ripped away in an instant. John shakily pushed himself to his feet, eyes wide, and turned in a slow circle. The inhospitable desert stretched to the horizon in every direction, an endless expanse of ochre and rust hues. A chilling realization struck him: he needed water, and he needed it soon. This was not a world for unprepared visitors. His throat was already parched, his lips cracked. He had to move.

He started walking, his steps hesitant at first, then more urgent, toward a thick clump of the tall, spiky trees in the distance. The denser growth, he hoped, might indicate the presence of a hidden spring, a fragile oasis in this unforgiving barrenness.

As he neared the trees, he glimpsed a blur of movement. A figure burst from among the thorny growths, stumbling, then finding her footing. To John’s horror, she was not alone. Four humanoid, insect-like creatures—tall, chitinous, and with multifaceted eyes that glinted with malevolent intelligence—pursued her, their segmented limbs clattering over the stony ground with disturbing speed.

Without conscious thought, John’s training kicked in. His right hand instinctively went to his hip. His sidearm, a Colt .45 automatic, felt reassuringly solid in his grip. The woman saw him, her large, fearful eyes widening further. She cried out in a language he couldn’t understand, her voice raw with terror, and veered toward him, a desperate plea written large upon her frightened face. Just as she reached him, she stumbled, collapsing in a heap at his feet, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

The Chirr, as he would later know them, paused for a fraction of a second, assessing him. Their mandibles twitched. John didn't give them another moment. He raised the .45. Three shots cracked, loud and sharp against the desert silence. His aim, honed by years of practice, was true. The first bullet struck the lead insectoid in its chest, shattering its chitinous armor with a sickening crunch. It crumpled, a dark ichor oozing from the wound. The second and third shots found their mark on two others, dropping both mid-stride, their segmented legs twitching in death throes.

The fourth Chirr, however, was faster, smarter. With a guttural shriek, it snatched up a jagged rock, surprisingly large, from the ground. Its arm, disproportionately strong, whipped forward with incredible speed. John barely registered the incoming projectile before it struck the automatic from his hand with jarring force, sending the weapon skittering across the stones.

He didn't hesitate. Survival instinct overriding everything, John engaged the creature. It lunged, its multi-jointed limbs ending in razor-sharp claws. John dodged, throwing a hard right hook to its head. The blow connected with a dull thud, but the Chirr simply recoiled, its tough integument acting like natural armor. He followed with a flurry of strikes—kicks to the legs, punches to the torso—but his fiercest blows seemed to have no effect, merely deflecting off its hardened carapace. Frustration flared. This wasn't a human opponent.

The Chirr countered, its claws raking his arm, tearing the fabric of his shirt and scoring his skin. John roared, pain sharpening his focus. He realized brute force wouldn't work. He needed to find a weakness. He feigned a retreat, drawing the creature closer; then, ducking under its striking limbs, he locked his arms around its torso. With a desperate surge of adrenaline, drawing on every ounce of strength he possessed, John heaved. The creature, caught off balance, was lifted from the ground, its legs flailing. He pivoted, using its momentum, and body-slammed it down, headfirst, onto a prominent, jagged rock. A sickening crack echoed. The Chirr’s multi-faceted eyes went dim, its body went limp, and its skull, once so impervious, shattered, ending the fight.

Gasping, his muscles screaming, John turned his attention to the woman. She lay still, her chest heaving, her blonde hair matted with dust. Her short robe, embroidered with intricate gold patterns, was torn, revealing the curve of her large breasts. As he approached, she slowly pushed herself up, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe. Then, to his surprise, she bowed deeply, her head touching the stony ground, her whole body trembling.

John realized: she must think he was a powerful sorcerer, wielding some incomprehensible magic that had instantly slain her pursuers. The .45, a common product of his world, was a mystical weapon in hers. He knelt beside her, keeping his movements slow and unthreatening. He spoke gently, his voice low and soothing, "It's alright. You're safe now." The words were meaningless, gibberish to her, but his soft tone and open posture were universally understood. She slowly raised her head, her trembling subsiding, and a tentative smile touched her lips.

From an embroidered belt pouch, she produced two small, smooth crystals, one slightly larger than the other. She pressed the smaller one to her forehead, where it adhered, then looked at him, miming the action and gesturing for him to do the same with the larger crystal. John, bewildered but seeing no threat, and in his desperate situation, trusting her, complied. He pressed the smooth, cool crystal to his brow.

The moment the crystal touched his skin, its purpose became obvious. A strange, almost electrical current coursed through him, not painful but startling. Then, a voice, not auditory but pure thought, flowed into his mind, clear and precise. He understood her!

“They are called langori stones,” the thought-voice resonated in his mind, carrying a feminine inflection. “They allow us to bridge the chasm between tongues and share thoughts directly.”

John gasped, not aloud but in his mind. “Incredible!”

“My name is Vaynis,” her thoughts continued, a whisper of relief and gratitude underlying them. “Daughter of Ulor, ruler of the city of Kori. We were attacked three days ago. These… Chirr… they took me during the battle. I escaped from the main party, but these four tracked me. Truly, you are a powerful one to slay them so swiftly.”

“I am John Tayne,” he projected, feeling the odd sensation of his own thoughts being shared. “I am no sorcerer, Vaynis. My ‘magic’ is merely the technology of my world.” He then succinctly explained his unexpected arrival and the machine beneath the palace of Knossos.

Vaynis listened, her thoughts flickering with wonder and a nascent understanding. She confirmed his guess: her people called this world Thanossa. She then shared a legend, an ancient tale passed down through generations: “We have legends of Daedalus, a great and powerful sorcerer. Our ancestors say his magic brought them to this world, long ago, to escape a terrible volcanic eruption on an island near their homeland. The machine that brought you here… perhaps it was his creation.”

A connection snapped into place for John. Daedalus, the mythic craftsman, inventor of the Labyrinth, who fled Crete. The machine in Knossos and the catastrophic volcanic eruption on the nearby island now known as Santorini. It fit. The implications were staggering.

He offered, “I will help you return to Kori, Vaynis. Perhaps your people can help me find a way to return home.”

Vaynis’s gratitude was immense. “You are truly a gift, John Tayne! But in fairness, I must warn you that by aiding me, you place yourself in dreadful danger. The Chirr are desperate. They are experiencing a terrible famine and see us as food. We barely drove them off in the latest raid. We are more vulnerable than the other metropolises, as Kori is closest to their territory. If they attack again in greater numbers, I fear my city will be overwhelmed and my people butchered.”

The young man was horrified, but undeterred. “Nonetheless, I will aid you, and perhaps I can think of some way to help your people in their fight against these horrible creatures.”

John retrieved his automatic, checking it carefully. It seemed undamaged. With Vaynis leading the way, they set off across the alien desert. As they journeyed, Vaynis became his instructor in the harsh realities of Thanossa. She showed him how to tap the thick, fibrous trunks of the tall, spiky trees for their milky, life-giving fluid, a surprisingly clean and palatable liquid. She taught him which of the low-lying, scrubby plants possessed edible tubers, bitter but nourishing. In turn, John told her more about Earth, its sprawling cities, its diverse cultures, and its vast oceans. Their bond deepened with each shared hardship, each new discovery, each silent understanding transmitted through the langori stones.

On the third day of their trek, the faint outline of Kori appeared on the horizon. John’s heart lifted. He had grown fond of Vaynis, her resilience, her gentle spirit beneath a warrior’s resolve. He recognized a growing affection, a deep warmth that transcended language barriers. He suspected she felt the same, but there was a hesitation in her, a subtle barrier he couldn't quite place. Perhaps it was his status, or lack thereof, in her world; a commoner could not simply aspire to the hand of a ruler’s daughter.

As they neared Kori, John was amazed by what he saw. The city was impressive, surrounded by a high, formidable stone wall. Its buildings were low-set, cubical structures of white stone with flat roofs, arranged in a neat grid pattern. A single, massive gate, guarded by stern-faced warriors, stood open slightly, permitting their entry. The captain of the gate, a burly woman with a no-nonsense demeanor, recognized Vaynis instantly, her stern face breaking into a wide, relieved smile. She escorted them directly to the palace, which was merely a larger, more embellished version of the city’s other homes. John observed this, noting the lack of ostentatious displays of wealth common to rulers on Earth. This society, indeed, seemed remarkably egalitarian.

They entered the palace through a wide doorway that led directly into the throne room, a chamber of elegant simplicity. Instead of elaborate tapestries and golden statues, it boasted clean lines, smooth stone, and a single, unadorned throne. Ulor, a man whose strong features mirrored Vaynis’s, was in consultation with his ministers, his brow furrowed with worry. The moment he saw Vaynis walk through the doorway, his face transformed. He surged from his throne, a cry of joy escaping him, and rushed forward, embracing his daughter with a fierce, loving grip, tears streaming down his face. He had feared her lost forever.

Vaynis, still in her father’s arms, began to speak, her voice brimming with praise. John understood her words, for the constant use of the langori stones had imprinted her language in his brain, and the crystals were no longer needed as an aid to communication. “Father, this is John Tayne. He saved my life. He is a warrior of incredible skill and a man of great honor.” She then elaborated, telling her father about his origins.

As Ulor turned to John, his eyes filled with gratitude, a young man stepped forward from the group of ministers. Magan was his name. He was of similar age to John, but his eyes held a subtle craftiness, a calculating glint. John immediately sensed his jealousy, a possessive desire for Vaynis that was ill-disguised.

“Revered Leader,” Magan’s voice, sharp and laced with suspicion, entered Ulor’s ears like the hissing of a venomous serpent, “this stranger cannot be trusted. He is an unknown, an outsider. His tales of ‘other worlds’ are surely deceptions. He could be a spy from the city of Athios, a trick to gain our trust!”

Ulor’s expression clouded. John saw the poisonous doubt taking root. His opportunity, his hope of returning home, was hanging by a thread. During his journey to Kori he had been thinking of ways to help these people, and now an idea, daring and immediate, crystallized in his mind.

“Your Majesty,” John said, addressing Ulor, “I understand your minister’s concerns. But I pledge to you, I can help defend Kori against the Chirr. I can provide you with a potent weapon, unlike anything you have ever seen.”

Magan scoffed, his voice dripping with disdain. “Another trick! What weapon could a single man bring that our warriors do not already possess?”

But Vaynis, stepping forward, placed a reassuring hand on her father’s arm. “Father, John saved my life. Trust him. Give him a chance to prove himself. He speaks of technology, not magic. It would be foolish to dismiss him.”

Ulor, torn between his minister’s caution and Vaynis’ fervent plea, looked at John. The thought of his daughter’s safe return and John’s role in it swayed him. “Very well, John Tayne,” Ulor’s voice resonated, now tinged with cautious hope. “You will have your chance. What is this weapon?”

“It is called gunpowder,” John replied, his mind already racing, calculating. “And it will turn the tide of battle.”

Vaynis, her eyes bright with curiosity and a desire to help, immediately offered, “I will assist you, John. Tell me what is needed.” He accepted, grateful for her unwavering belief, and they set to work.

John, with Vaynis’s invaluable assistance, began the arduous process of producing gunpowder. They found sulfur deposits in the city’s mines, charcoal from the blacksmiths' forges, and, after much experimentation, discovered a unique mineral salt that, when processed, yielded the necessary potassium nitrate. He taught Vaynis the delicate chemistry, the precise ratios, and the careful mixing of the ingredients. Together, they filled brass containers, each slightly larger than a man’s fist, with the explosive black powder, adding loose shards of rock as shrapnel. Primitive hand grenades detonated by fuses.

But the process of manufacture was not without incident. Because of the dangerous nature of the activity, the workshop-laboratory had been set up in one of the isolated outbuildings adjoining the city’s administrative complex. One evening, John, unable to sleep, made his way to the workshop to complete the latest batch of grenades.

All was restful. Three moons shed their pale light upon the quietly sleeping city. It was a peaceful scene, but John tensed as he drew near the workshop-laboratory. The door was slightly ajar, and the dim light of a flickering oil lamp seeped through the narrow opening. Quickly but silently, he stalked toward the entrance and thrust the door wide open.

He saw a man hunched over the workbench, unstoppering a large jug of volatile oil. The fellow spun around at the sound of the opening door. It was Magan. For a moment, the minister’s face showed the shock of someone caught in the act of being somewhere and doing something he knew he shouldn’t be.

Magan’s guilty expression was quickly hidden behind a mask of bluster. “I’m investigating what you’re doing,” he snapped. “You may have fooled Vaynis and her father, but you don’t fool me.”

“Really?” replied John, his face hardening as his eyes glanced at the unstoppered jug, whose volatile contents now filled the room with a pungent odor. “Why does your so-called investigation require you to bring a large amount of aribis oil with you? No, you’re not here to investigate. You’re here to sabotage the project, to burn down the workshop in an attempt to discredit me.”

Magan cursed. Caught red-handed, his lies had been exposed. In desperation, he snatched the jug from the bench and hurled it at the Earthman. John ducked. The jug flew out the door and smashed on the ground as Magan drew his dagger and swiftly lunged.

John sidestepped the stabbing blade, and with the weight and power of his rugged frame, drove his blocky fist against the would-be killer’s chin. Magan staggered back, the dagger falling from his hand. John quickly closed in, hammering his adversary with punishing body blows that sent him crashing to the floor.

The Earthman, fists clenched, stood over his bleeding, gasping opponent. “Get up and get out,” he snarled.

Magan staggered to his feet and stumbled to the door. He leaned heavily against it for a moment, giving John a final, hate-filled glare, then lurched off into the night. John stood at the entrance, watching him go and worrying about what acts of revenge Magan might be planning. He was Ulor’s favorite, and the Earthman was reluctant to make accusations that might backfire. He did, however, inform the night watch of an attempted break-in by an unknown person, and the commander agreed to have warriors guard the workshop night and day.

But there was no time for his enemy to develop further schemes, for another threat swiftly came upon Kori. Early in the morning, the city’s alarm gongs sounded their strident clamor. The Chirr were attacking again, their numbers greater than before, a black tide swarming across the desert toward Kori’s walls. They were more determined, more vicious, and driven by starvation. Their segmented bodies, largely impervious to Kori’s conventional bladed weapons, allowed them to climb the city’s ramparts with the unnerving ease of ants. The battle was desperate. Kori’s warriors, despite their bravery, were being pushed back.

John, a large woven basket filled with his hand grenades strapped to his back like a rucksack, rushed to the wall, his .45 blazing at the foe. Vaynis, similarly burdened, was by his side.

The racing Earthman saw the horror in the eyes of Kori’s defenders, the futility of their blows against the creatures’ tough integument. He shot a charging Chirr. The thing went down, and then the gun clicked empty.

“Fall back! Clear the wall!” John boomed, his voice carrying over the din of battle as he doffed his basket of grenades. The warriors, confused, hesitated. He didn’t wait.

With a powerful yell, John cast the first grenade. It soared in an arc, fuse hissing, and landed amidst a cluster of Chirr swarming over the ramparts. A flash, a deafening roar, and a shockwave ripped through the air. Chitinous fragments and billowing smoke erupted. Bodies were flung, mangled beyond recognition. The Chirr’s advance faltered, their alien minds unable to comprehend the sudden, devastating force.

He threw another. And another. The explosions were chaotic, terrifying, unlike anything Thanossa had ever known. In but moments, the wall was cleared of invaders, and then grenades began to rain down upon the creatures massed at the base of the city’s ramparts, detonating thunderously. The Chirr shrieked, a sound of pure terror, their disciplined advance dissolving into panicked confusion. Many were killed, but more were terrified by the sheer, concussive force, their segmented bodies recoiling, their will to fight shattered by what looked like sorcery. The remaining invaders, their primal fear overriding their hunger, turned and fled back into the desert, leaving piles of their mangled dead behind them.

A stunned silence fell over the wall, broken only by the moaning of the wounded and the distant, fading cries of the retreating Chirr. Then, an eruption of shouts and cheers rose from Kori’s warriors. John had saved the city.

Magan, who had been fighting valiantly on the wall, witnessed the entire astonishing event. He saw John, the foreigner, stained with dust and sweat, being hailed as a savior. He saw the adoration in Vaynis’s eyes as she looked at him. The victory was immense, undeniable, and with it, Magan knew John would now be able to ask for Vaynis’s hand in marriage – a prize Magan had coveted his entire life.

A cold, insane jealousy consumed him, further exacerbated by the humiliating drubbing he had received from the hated Earthman. In that moment, reason fled. His hand went to his blade. As John turned, scanning the horizon for any lingering threat, Magan lunged, aiming for John’s back.

“John! Behind you!” Vaynis’s shout ripped through the cheering, sharp with frantic alarm.

John spun, his combat instincts honed, sidestepping Magan’s wild, desperate thrust. Steel scraped against his arm, a shallow cut. The Earthman struck with the speed of a darting cobra. His knife-hand blow slammed against Magan’s wrist. The noble howled. His sword fell from his grip, and John kicked it away. The two men faced each other, their eyes locked. Magan, his face twisted with hatred, launched another furious, unhinged attack. John, though wearied by the battle, was methodical. He blocked his mad opponent’s wild haymakers, dodged, and then found an opening. With a brutal uppercut, he stunned Magan, then grabbed him, lifting him bodily. Magan struggled, a desperate, animalistic cry caught in his throat.

With a surge of strength, John threw him. Magan sailed over the stone wall, a black silhouette against the twin suns, plummeting to the stony ground below. The distant thud was barely audible but unmistakably fatal.

Ulor, having rushed to the wall to witness the retreating Chirr, had seen it all – Magan’s betrayal, Vaynis’s warning, John’s swift, decisive action. Silence hung heavy between them until Vaynis stepped forward, her hand finding John’s.

“Father,” her voice resonated, filled with feelings that could no longer be contained, “I love him. John Tayne, the man who saved Kori, is the one I choose.”

Ulor looked from his daughter’s shining eyes to John’s steady gaze. The man had saved his daughter, saved his city, and proven his loyalty in the most undeniable way. He was an outsider, yes, but a hero. A Daedalus of their time.

A slow smile spread across Ulor’s face. “Then it is so,” he declared, his voice ringing with authority and joy. “John Tayne, warrior of two worlds, I give you my blessing. My daughter, Vaynis, is yours.”

John looked at Vaynis, her eyes brimming with tears of joy, and a wave of profound relief and happiness washed over him. He was a long way from Crete, from Earth, but looking at her, he knew that the old saying, "Home is where the heart is," was true and that he was definitely home.

The End