“What do you mean?”
“Our advice is always that a species retreat into the space between stars. It is in that emptiness you can live for millennia in peace.”
“That’s not us,” Dellian said firmly. “What would be the point? So ten generations live a peaceful life in a habitat. So what? They can’t go anywhere, they can’t do anything. Then decadence or entropy claims them, and they die out. It would’ve been better to be captured and taken on the Olyix pilgrimage to the end of time.”
“I do not think you mean that.”
“Oh, Saints, but I really do! Just waiting here is frustrating enough. Think how we’d feel after a hundred years of doing nothing, a thousand, ten thousand…”
“Living safely provides you the opportunity to evolve. Especially with your scientific abilities.”
“Evolve into what? We want to be free!”
Yirella held up a hand, giving Dellian a cautioning look. “This is what you can explain to us. How do you see that evolution? Is it one that will end with us having a technology so powerful we can face the Olyix and end their tyranny? That is difficult for us to comprehend; our technology essentially plateaued in the centuries after we left Earth. Or are you talking about spiritual evolution?”
Dellian tried not to groan at that, but his lips betrayed him. Yirella of course picked up on the sound that escaped and scowled a warning. He just hoped the metavayan didn’t know enough about human psychology to notice.
“I believe we may need stronger or more nuanced interpretation to answer fully,” Fintox said. “However, I question your belief that a society that has evolved into maturity will decay. We have not.”
“That’s something Jessika and the others never told us,” Yirella said. “How old is Neána civilization?”
“I do not have that information.”
“In case the Olyix capture you?”
“Correct. We determine that there is more than one abode cluster in this galaxy, therefore the Neána must have dispersed widely from our home star.”
“You mean you don’t know for sure there are other Neána abode clusters in the galaxy?”
“No. As I do not know the location of the one that dispatched our insertion ship. Nor do I have any knowledge of what it is like. Myself and my colleagues were only issued with basic facts.”
“Well, there has to be more than one,” Dellian said. “We’re over six and a half thousand light-years from Earth, so there’s no way your abode cluster is the same one that sent Jessika and the other metahuman Neána to Earth.”
Fintox straightened his neck and looked directly at Dellian, who found the eight-eye stare somewhat unnerving. “How long has your Morgan ship been traveling?”
“I told you, five years. That’s internal ship time.”
“I don’t understand. Are humans capable of traveling faster than light?”
“Only through portals. We also have the technology to generate negative energy for wormholes, which your colleagues helped us extract from the Olyix.”
“But we don’t use wormholes,” Yirella said. “We’re not sure how well we understand the science, which may make us vulnerable to Olyix detection.”
“Negative energy has some good weapons capabilities, though,” Dellian said cheerfully. “As the Olyix will find out.”
“How long have humans been traveling?” Fintox asked.
“We abandoned Earth ten thousand years ago,” Yirella said.
“You traveled in the Morgan for ten thousand years?”
Dellian let out a short laugh. “Saints, no. A generation starship arrives at a star system with a planet we can bioform to Earth-norm, then we stay there for four or five hundred years. It’s all the time we can risk exposing ourselves. It’s enough to allow a society to grow and enjoy life as it should be lived. But for that whole time, hundreds of portal-carrying ships are flying onward at a fraction under light speed. Then when five centuries are up, the entire population leaves on a fresh fleet of generation ships, each one going in a different direction. They’ll all settle in a new star system, and the cycle repeats.”
“Then once they’re clear, it’s us that leaves,” Yirella said.
“You?”
“A squadron of warships. Every settled planet produces a generation of fighters at the end. It’s our job to engage the Olyix in battle and hopefully defeat them.”
“How many humans are there in the galaxy?”
“Impossible to know. But if we’ve been successful, there should be trillions of us, riding outward along a wavefront twenty thousand light-years from edge to edge.”
Fintox said nothing for a long moment. “That is a fifth of the galaxy.”
“Roughly, yes. And we’ll keep on expanding at close to light speed. The planets in the galactic core are uninhabitable, of course; there is too much radiation to allow bioforming in there. So the wavefront will sweep around it and merge again on the other side. But there’s a historical faction, call them coreists, who believe that the core is the safest location for human civilization. It won’t be a planetbound society; we’ll live in orbital habitats that don’t move on every few hundred years. That way we can finally build something substantial. Coreists believe that society will develop into something capable of challenging the Olyix threat directly.”
Fintox emitted a long stream of whistles. Dellian waited, but the translator said nothing. “Convert,” he told his databud.
“Not possible. It is not a language I have a translation routine for.”
“That’s not right. We invented every Vayan language.”
“Fintox did not speak in any of them. His call might not be a language. Just an emotional emission.”
“What kind? Is he happy? Sad? Impressed?”
“Unknown.”
“Well, fuck.” Dellian exchanged a nonplussed look with Yirella. He guessed her databud was giving her the same replies.
“If you ask me, I don’t think sheltering in the core is any different from a habitat skulking in interstellar space out here,” Dellian said briskly. “However you look at it, we’d still be hiding in fear. And if we were going to have superweapons that could smash the Olyix enclave in one shot, we’d have built them by now. Face it, we’ve had ten thousand years.”
Fintox finally spoke again. “What happens to a bioformed planet after you have left it?”
“The Olyix destroy them if they find them,” Yirella told him. “We have copies of data files a generation ship picked up over three thousand years ago, which we think came from high-energy broadcast stations left to watch our abandoned worlds. Broadcasts powerful enough to span half the galaxy, so generation ships and new-settled worlds can detect them. They show planets with terrestrial-style biospheres being struck repeatedly by large asteroids. Extinction events.”
“They’re frightened of us,” Dellian said. “As they should be. Our generation ships have spread so widely now that our species will always remain outside their grasp. There are simply too many of us.”
“We hope,” Yirella said. “Ironically, we’ve become so good at staying silent as we flee, we don’t have any contact with other humans. Statistically, there are so many generation ships that some will meet at new star systems, especially on the other side of the galactic core. But how would we ever know?”
“If I understand correctly,” Fintox said, “your generation ships seed every star system they encounter with terrestrial life, then dispatch more ships onward to do the same.”
“We don’t seed every star system we reach,” Yirella said. “It’s selective. Those that have proto-biospheres, or planets with indigenous life, we leave alone. To do anything else would be unethical, obviously.”
“I am relieved to hear that.”
“Well…we wouldn’t,” Dellian said. “Who knows what some strands of humani
ty do these days?” He grinned, only to receive an angry glare from Yirella. “What? We’ve got to be the most diverse species there’s ever been by now.”
“I’m sure,” she said stiffly. “But any starfaring species will have a basic level of decency. All human societies need that to maintain cohesion. They wouldn’t be able to function effectively, otherwise.”
“The Nazis functioned pretty efficiently.”
“That concept came before our current civilization took shape,” she said. “And it died out quickly.”
Her icon bloomed in Dellian’s optik, unfurling text. Stop talking about our flaws. We have to get them on our side.
Sorry, he sent back.
She smiled effusively at Fintox. “Would you like to go to the meeting room now? Your colleagues should be transferring up here soon. Captain Kenelm will be eager to know your opinion of what we are doing.”
“That would be welcome. Is it possible to have refreshments?”
“Of course. I’d appreciate knowing what you think of the food we’ve synthesized for you.”
“Ah. This will be like the music. It was never truly real until we arrived.”
“Indeed, yes.”
Dellian gave the metavayan a half bow, which brought his head down level with those eight unnerving eyes. In such a context it seemed mocking to him, rather than a show of respect. “I’m going to go now, but I hope it all goes well for you.”
“Are you not attending the meeting?’
“No. I’m scheduled for a training session.”
“I hope it succeeds,” Fintox said.
Yirella came over and touched his arm. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Sure. Have fun in the meeting.” He stood on his tiptoes and kissed her, enjoying the mischievous glint she flashed him.
* * *
—
Dellian went through three hubs to reach the habitat’s gym. “Disconnect from the network,” he told his databud and used his squad leader code to authorize it. Being constantly connected to the network was the norm in Bennu for everyone all the way up to the captain hirself.
“Confirmed.”
He paused while his optik graphics furled up, giving him perfectly clear vision, then made his way down several flights of stairs, into the sub-levels. This part of the habitat was a redundant underworld of unused rooms and interminable corridors. All of it was completely empty, waiting to be assigned a purpose that would never come. Its endless repetition geometry was designed by a genten, one to which nobody had ever explained that Bennu’s human population would never grow.
The room he arrived at was no different from the countless others, its door distinguished only by an irrelevant serial number. There wasn’t even a lock to keep out the uninvited; its anonymity was its security. In any case, they used a different one each time.
More than thirty people were already there when Dellian entered. He didn’t have the exact numbers without network tracking pings, and not knowing gave him a curiously edgy sensation. Welcome to Earth’s barbarian age, where nobody knows anything for sure. Those who had come to watch the fight were mainly men from the squads, though he wasn’t entirely surprised to see that six or seven omnia from the crew had turned up. They towered over everyone else, but their faces held the same anticipation and excitement. Boredom affected omnia just as much as binaries.
Xante and Janc greeted him warmly.
“I brought a med-kit,” Janc said.
Xante laughed, his arm around Dellian’s shoulder to shake him. “It won’t be our boy that needs it.”
Janc’s face registered a degree of concern. “You sure you want to do this?”
“Oh, yeah,” Dellian said. He thought it best not to tell his friends just how long he’d been waiting for this moment. I’m not really a vigilante stalker—but hey, if the opportunity’s there…
“Just…keep it together, okay?” Janc said.
“Don’t worry.” Dellian grinned, projecting reassurance. Privately he hoped he wasn’t being too confident.
He started to strip and ran a quick check through his nerve induction sleeves, gauging the feedback from the slender threads woven into his musculature. He could feel his combat core cohort at a reflexive level; since the boosting operations back on Juloss, they had become a truly flawless extension of his own body. The six ex-muncs were somnolent now, a state he beefed up with a status lock. The last thing he needed was for them to come hurtling to his rescue halfway through the fight.
When he was down to his shorts, Xante started wrapping tough cloth strips around Dellian’s left hand. “Okay, go in fast and hard. Understand?”
“You’ll need to,” Janc said. “That is one tough-looking fucker.”
“Oh, encouraging,” Xante growled.
Dellian looked across the room, where Tomar was getting ready in the middle of his friends. The man’s hands were already bound and seemed to be bigger than Dellian’s. He threw a few mock punches, generating whoops of approval from his own bunch of supporters.
“Watch your balls,” Janc said stoically. “He’s the kind who’ll go for them.”
Xante winked. “Don’t we all?” He bound up the right hand and gave Dellian a quick kiss. “This isn’t to the death, remember.”
“Got it.”
“Oh, Saints,” Janc groaned. “Go for a knee slam. If you crunch his mobility, you’ll have a better chance.”
“What do you mean, chance?”
Ovan, another squad leader, walked into the middle of the room. “All right,” he called out. “Everyone, back against the walls. No help to either of these two dickheads except for medical. Clear? We don’t want to replay the Uret-Balart war. The captain will have to notice if we all wind up in the clinic.”
Dellian smacked Xante on the shoulder. “That means you.”
“You’re just lucky Yirella isn’t here,” Xante countered. “Now shut up and open your mouth.”
“That’s what you always say.”
Xante’s expression hardened, part worry, part exasperation. “This isn’t a fucking training sim! Get serious. Now!”
Dellian did as he’d been told and opened his mouth wide. Xante shoved a mouthguard in. Imagination provided Dellian the sensation of his glands pumping away inside his skull like rogue hearts, squirting out neurochemicals. They bumped up his focus, his speed. Banished fear.
“Okay, you two dickheads,” Ovan yelled. “It’s over when you know it’s over. Begin!” He scurried back to the wall.
Dellian dropped into a crouch, fists ready, and padded forward in a big-cat hunting stance. Tomar was doing the same thing. Guttural, testosterone-fueled cheers from the spectators rang out. The room and racket vanished, and all Dellian saw was the Juloss orbital arena, with the two teams of thirteen-year-old boys from Immerle and Ansaru bouncing around the hurdles in fluctuating gravity as they chased the flagballs. Boys and one girl. And the Ansaru’s number eight deliberately going for a bone-breaking tackle on Yirella.
He yelled the old Immerle game call and pivoted fast, leg shooting out, going for a strike on number eight. But Tomar was bigger and quicker now. He spun in counter, arm slicing down. Pain shot through Dellian’s elbow as the man’s fist connected. He whirled away out of range, but Tomar used his own momentum to follow. Another blow, to the ribs this time. Dellian lashed out with his right foot. Knee kick, but not accurate enough. His heel slammed into Tomar’s upper thigh.
“Loser then and loser now,” Tomar taunted.
So he does remember! Dellian lunged forward. A fist crunched into his nose and blood spurted, but he got in a dangerous blow to Tomar’s left ear, sending the man staggering back, momentarily disoriented from the pain. The spectators howled approval.
Two minutes later Dellian was limping badly on what he suspected was a fractured ankle. His chest was slick with
blood, and he couldn’t see out of his right eye. Tomar, with at least two broken ribs, was struggling to draw down a full breath, and there was blood coming out of his mouth where his cheek was torn and swelling. More blood from cuts and impact wounds trickled down his body. They shared them almost equally.
Dellian went for a zero-style caveman tackle, head down, arms wide to vice crush. A knee slammed into his chest, but he managed to ram his head into Tomar’s damaged ribs. A third one cracked, forcing the last air in the man’s lungs to come out in a mangled scream. Dellian went over backward, trying to roll smoothly. Somehow the coordination was lacking, making it more of a sprawl and scramble for balance. Tomar was coming for him again. Respond with a kick to the vulnerable knee. Precision off, but hard heel contact on upper thigh anyway. Saints, so nearly a balls kick. That would have won it. Impact knocked Tomar sideways, not before his fist punched cleanly into Dellian’s unguarded stomach.
Dellian was aware of being on the floor, not sure how he got there, bitter vomit splattering out of his mouth and taking the mouthguard with it. Instinctive rush to get to his feet—so vulnerable on the ground. Up and ready—difficult to balance on the bad ankle. And seeing Ellici in front of him, struggling as Xante held her back, shouting loudly, face furious, tears—Ellici? How does she know about this—
Tomar’s spin kick caught him perfectly. Pain vanished behind darkness.
* * *
—
“Idiot.” Spoken by Xante.
Dellian managed to open one eye. That small action brought a wholly unreasonable amount of pain with it. “Aww, fuck.”
Janc’s worried grin filled his blurry vision. “You’re alive. Does it hurt?”
“Fucking fuck!”
“I think that’s a yes.”
He tried to lift himself up. Far too painful. “What…?”
“Just don’t move. Your nerve shunts will block the worst pain.”
Liar!
“This’ll help clear the rest,” Xante said.
Small, hard circles were pressed against his flesh. Some of them stuck. A damp cloth wiped at his swollen right eye as cold, sharp tendrils wormed their way progressively through his veins, sucking out the pain. “What happened?” This time when he tried to lift himself he succeeded in getting his head off the ground. He saw Ellici standing behind Xante and Janc, tear streaks still fresh on her face.
Salvation Lost Page 9
