Terminus Rising

by T. R. Harris

  “That is little consolation.”

  “If J’nae arrives at the head of a fleet, we will engage the asteroid defenses and seek retreat. However, if she comes alone, let her land. There are more defenses within the facility than without.”

  “Why would you not destroy the ship in space with the asteroid defenses and then salvage the body afterward, as you have ordered us to do so in the past?”

  “It is as you have stated. If she comes in the same ship as before, I would wish to preserve it. It is a remarkable vessel and would be a valuable asset. Surely, that is obvious, even to you.”

  TeraDon bristled at the insult. “Not if it has the potential of destroying my squadron.”

  “All will be fine. And recall, I can detect her location far in advance. Now make your preparations. At the rate of approach, she will be here in six days.”

  3,219 years ago

  …at a Wormhole Communications Station

  The instantaneous wormhole communication device he’d invented had the effect of shrinking the galaxy. And at the time, the galaxy was definitely in need of shrinking.

  The Sol-Kor now ranged throughout their home galaxy, having harvested one thousand, forty-eight planets to date. The yield sustained the Colony for a while, but with more food came an ever-growing population. They needed a new food source, and as usual, the Queen turned to Panur for a solution.

  At first, he tried substitutes. He modified various lifeforms and came up with a line of sustainable livestock. But nothing satisfied the Sol-Kor. It had been easy for so long that the Colony wished to continue doing what it had always done. Fresh brain and developed flesh—harvested from compliant populations dulled to a stupor—was what they desired. Nothing else would do. It was at this point that Panur realized this was more a cultural manifestation than a nutritional requirement. The Sol-Kor loved the idea of the harvest, which meant Panur would have to find more places for the Sol-Kor to satiate their needs.

  For his part, Panur was surprised at the scarcity of advanced life in the galaxy. After all, there were billions of planets with a wonderous variety of life upon them. But as far as finding advanced life forms similar to the Sol-Kor, this was a rarity, defying all the calculations.

  The solution to his problem lay a million light-years away, in the nearby galaxies. There were four of them within that distance; however, even with his most-advanced gravity-drive, it took hundreds of years to reach them. The Sol-Kor didn’t care. They were of a single mindset and were willing to invest the time it took if it was for the good for the Colony. Panur organized massive expeditions which reached into the void between galaxies to build huge gravity generators in stages until the great star islands were linked. After that, fleets of beamships and harvesters invaded these foreign galaxies. Unfortunately, just as it was with their native galaxy, advance life was rare. Within another six hundred years, entire galaxies were stripped of their advanced life and left barren, until the slow crawl of evolution could replace that which was lost.

  Beyond the four local galaxies, the distances were too great to provide a viable solution to the problem. Even so, multi-generational caravans of Sol-Kor currently moved through the void. Eventually, they would reach their destinations. Panur did the calculations. By then, the Colony will have starved to death.

  Panur now stood before a large monitor in the control room of a wormhole communications station, scanning the lines of data streaming by. His Sol-Kor assistant—a tech named Yinnish—stood patiently nearby. He couldn’t keep up with the information displayed, but he knew Panur could. At some point, the tiny grey mutant would issue orders, and Yinnish would obey.

  “There, bring the focus in two degrees,” Panur announced suddenly. Yinnish went to work. “The wormhole has expanded. Readings are stable.”

  On his screen, the tech could now decipher the data. He nodded to Panur.

  “Success!” Yinnish exclaimed. “The opening is large enough for passage of a starship.” He then frowned and leaned in closer to his screen. “However, the interior, it is … shallow.”

  Panur saw this in his data, as well. He was confused. The hole was open, but it was leading … nowhere. There was a secondary screen nearby that showed the three massive towers outside the control building. Symbolically, Panur looked above the towers, to the region of space far above that now stood open, but open to what? The experiment was designed to create a navigable wormhole between comm stations many thousands of light-years apart and capable of transporting starships instantly across such distances. Theoretically, it should work. Panur’s communications system worked this way, yet on a microscopic scale. By enlarging and stabilizing the wormhole, Panur would open the universe to the Sol-Kor, negating the mind-boggling distances involved and enriching their food supply without limit.

  So far, the experiment was only half a success. The gate was open on this end, but not the other.

  “Are we in alignment with the receiver?” Yinnish asked.

  There was a matching comm station fourteen thousand light-years away working a similar experiment. Panur nodded. All indicators showed the systems were in alignment; to be sure, Panur sent a test signal through the comm relay. Using the traditional equipment of the station, the signal came back a moment later. If an electronic message could pass through the link, then why couldn’t something more substantial?

  Something wasn’t right.

  Panur leaned back in the seat, his tiny grey body dressed in the light brown uniform of the technical class of the Sol-Kor. He had to think, to study the void above them, to learn of its properties. Already a possibility was nagging at the back of his mind.

  “Place a pressure monitor on the void,” he commanded of Yinnish.

  There were four techs at other stations. Yinnish set them to work aiming laser beams at the opening. A moment later, the readings came back.

  “Steady pressure, yet slightly elevated from the space surrounding the void,” Yinnish reported.

  “The pressure should be the same,” Panur mused.

  Yinnish suddenly leaned in closer to his screen. “The monitors have measured the depth of the opening. It is only microns thick. This cannot be correct. Even wormhole communications create openings through space light-years in length, although of microscopic width.” He pulled away from his station. “I regret to say this, but it appears your experiment has failed. Even with the size of the void, there is no link.”

  Panur continued to study the data. On the surface, Yinnish was right. They had not established a link with their brother station. But still, there was an opening in the fabric of space. Why wasn’t it allowed to go deeper?

  A thousand possibilities flashed through Panur’s genius mind. It would do no good to feed his hypothesis into the computer for analysis; his mind worked faster than the hardware. A moment later, he sat up in the chair and began isolating lines of data on his screen to confirm his conclusion. He smiled when the calculations verified his belief, not from the satisfaction that he was correct, but from the fact that only he would realize the full consequence of the discovery.

  Remote cameras highlighted the thin white boundary of the void in space, itself a confluence of incredible energies that held the gap open. There was nothing to see in the dark void, not even the distant stars that had been in the background before the void was created. Panur sat mesmerized, locked on the monitor, and staring into the darkness. Yinnish stood nearby, confused at the mutant’s unblinking trance.

  “What … what are you looking at?” the tech finally grew the courage to ask.

  A thin smile stretched across Panur’s near-featureless face.

  “What I’m looking at … is the surface of another universe.”

  In his enthusiasm, Panur did something he didn’t normally do with the Sol-Kor: He tried to explain what he meant. Now—as in the past—most of what he said went over the heads of the techs. After rambling on for a few minutes, spouting calculations and hypothesizes, he made the declaration.

/>   “The experiment was not a failure. We did open a portal, but not to another relay station. Instead, we have created a tear in space, revealing the membrane of a neighboring universe.”

  The Sol-Kor techs were familiar with the concept of the multiverse, although few believed it. Even if it was true, how was this knowledge applicable to the Colony and their quest for food? In their opinion, it wasn’t.

  “If that is true, then why are we not linked?” Yinnish asked, humoring the mutant.

  “I suspect it is because there is a buffer zone between the universes that prevents unilateral puncture. There would have to be another portal on the other side for the universes to link. And then there is the matter of pressure. The membrane is exhibiting a slightly higher pressure differential than our universe. That was my first clue. Also, I see a danger in links between dimensions with radical variances.” Panur’s mind wandered off.

  Yinnish took a deep breath before returning to his console. “Shall I inform the other station of the experiment’s failure and dismiss the staff? You will need another idea for the wormhole concept to work. Your discovery of a dimensional membrane is interesting, yet of no direct benefit to the Colony. What is needed is a modification of the original experiment.”

  Panur looked up at the much taller alien, nodding his head. “Yes, a modification,” Panur agreed. “I shall work on that immediately. And in light of your astute observation, I now agree that the experiment has failed to achieve its desired goals. You and the others may leave. I have much thinking to do. Assign your assistants to the trans-stabilization problem for long-distance wormhole links. Increasing link time will allow for better communications over greater distances, and that would be of benefit to the Colony.”

  Panur sat patiently, waiting for the room to clear. The techs would be of no use to him at this point, not for the next set of experiments he was about to run. Possibilities were exploding in his mind, and he was anxious to get to work realizing the true potential of this—his greatest discovery.

  4

  …at the lost Aris base in the AD-14 star system

  Seven days later, Te’moc stood before a mirror in one of the utility rooms of the Aris base. It was a start, but not enough.

  With the help of a small army of Aris maintenance robots, he had managed to replace the external scaffolding that connected the segments of his legs with biological joints constructed from the remains of several dead Aris he’d discovered in a vast hibernation chamber within the complex. When the Sol-Kor reconstructed his body, using metal parts, they had no idea what it meant to his abilities. Te’moc was able to merge his body with others, to either infuse life essence—something Panur was fond of calling lifeform embryos—or to extract it. To do this, he had to fuse completely with the host body. In his current state, he could fuse with the subject, yet when he withdrew, his body would fall apart, having left the metal attachments behind when he entered the body. The Sol-Kor couldn’t be blamed for this since they had not resurrected him to do infusions and extractions, but simply to locate and return J’nae to the Colony.

  However, Te’moc had other plans, and unless he could become whole again without the use of metal attachments, his goal was unattainable. By replacing the scaffolding with flesh and bone, his regenerative properties would eventually integrate the connections into his being. It would just take time. So far, his legs were complete, even if the flesh had not fully meshed at this point.

  During the painful work on his legs, Te’moc often grumbled, wondering if this was Panur’s plan all along? Had he foreseen this happening? If not, then why the dissection? One day he hoped to ask the mutant that question directly.

  There was a room within the underground base designated the command center by the Cartel soldiers which contained a variety of monitoring and control stations. As mentioned, the ancient Aris had no true enemies at the time the base was constructed, presiding as they did over a near-lifeless galaxy, and over time, the need for upgrades had never become a priority. The Aris had nothing to fear. Therefore, the room was more an operations facility rather than a military command center.

  Te’moc was in the room, watching a monitor as the alien spacecraft neared the planet. TeraDon was there as well, along with four other Cartel members, each of different races. Two ships sat vacant outside the entrance to the base, in plain sight, willing to be sacrificed if need be. Another three warships were stationed in a nearby asteroid field as a backup force.

  Only a single starship was detected entering the system, and according to its transit signature, it was the same trans-dimensional vessel that Te’moc had monitored before. This excited Te’moc, while TeraDon was nervous. The ship was also on a direct course for the planet, bypassing the other two semi-habitable worlds in the system. J’nae was coming here specifically; she knew Te’moc was at the base.

  But how was that possible? As far as Te’moc knew, she did not have the ability to detect his presence as he did with her. And his identity wasn’t widely known, even within the Cartel. Te’moc could speculate all he wanted. In a few minutes, he could ask her directly—or more correctly—he could ask her new host, the Human known as Summer Rains.

  Although six hundred years had passed since last he and J’nae were in a room together, Te’moc had spent nearly all that time in a state of frozen unconsciousness. He had no true understanding of the passage of time, so the memories were still fresh in his mind.

  His most recent hibernation period was not like his first, when for almost five thousand years, he maintained a flicker of awareness throughout the millennia, haunting him with persistent dreams. He wasn’t sure if his semi-consciousness had been intentional or not. It did not matter. He still suffered, continually questioning what he had done to the Eternal Queen to deserve such punishment? It was one thing to be locked away in a canister for millennia. It was quite another to be aware of each passing hour.

  Even after he was revived, the answer was never revealed. He was sequestered away in Panur’s secret pyramid to work on the J’nae project, with no contact with the Queen. As far as she knew, he was still a locked away in the suspension pod, forgotten, which only made it worse. How long did she expect him to suffer? Even to this day, when he speculated on the answer, he felt angry and betrayed.

  “Let them land,” Te’moc said. His command was unnecessary. Even if the Cartel soldiers wished, no one in the room except him knew how to operate the asteroid defense system. He made the statement to calm their nerves. He’d learned long ago that Cartel soldiers weren’t the bravest of creatures. They came to the organization primarily out of desperation, as a way to escape whatever Hell they were currently living. They would do their jobs, but only as long as things didn’t get too dangerous. After that, their loyalty was in question. They would fight, but not for a cause, which limited their courage in times of stress.

  Senior personnel—such as TeraDon Fief—were a little more reliable, but not much. Even they were subject to moments of second-guessing their decision to join the Cartel. Te’moc had to be constantly on guard.

  He checked the other monitors, scanning through those displaying the entrance corridor into the facility. Along this path, he set other defenses, utilizing some of the remarkable technology of Aris. He was familiar with the Sol-Kor suppressor beam yet was truly impressed when he discovered the Aris interphase field. Unlike the pulse beam, interphase went far beyond simply turning a target into a mental vegetable. It had the effect of removing the target from normal space altogether. Although they would remain fully conscious and able to communicate with this dimension, subjects would be completely isolated and ineffectual. Even J’nae couldn’t resist such a weapon.

  He felt sadness at the thought. He should have no fear of J’nae. However, after six hundred years—along with her recent assimilation into a foreign host—he couldn’t trust that she was the same J’nae he had known before. Their prior affiliation had been intense and built over a series of infusions and extractions. When full
y integrated, they shared more than any other pair of individuals was capable. He helped form who she was, as well as who she would become. There could be no closer bond.

  He thought back to Panur. That had been different. All Te’moc did was serve as a vessel, first to receive the essence of the mutant’s old body and then infuse it within a host. Panur had not been built from scratch, but J’nae was. And it all happened within Te’moc.

  The fact that she was coming to him meant she remembered. But until he could verify exactly what the memories entailed he would be cautious.

  The sleek, one-of-a-kind vessel landed near the camouflaged entrance to the base, guided there either from foreknowledge or the presence of the Cartel ships sitting on the grey, barren landscape outside. There was evidence that the host had been here before. She had introduced herself through a video link with Te’moc on Sasin as a Human named Summer Rains. J’nae had also been at the base at the time, yet in a different state of existence. How familiar the Human was with the facility was an unknown.

  To his surprise, only one space-suited figure left the ship. Where were the famous Adam Cain and the others he helped escape from Sasin? Te’moc reasoned that if they were aboard, they would not have allowed the tiny Human female to venture forth on her own. She would have come with an escort. So, what happened to the others?

  Te’moc noticed the Cartel soldiers around him relax. He’d heard their discussions regarding Cain and the Humans. They had well-established reputations throughout the galaxy, and none of the soldiers seemed shy about expressing their fear of these creatures. However, with the ship on the ground and only a single figure approaching the facility, TeraDon and his crew felt more secure. After all, how much trouble could one tiny Human cause?