by Barry Kirwan
Chapter 36
Sentinels
It had been a bloody day. Sentinel Master Cheveyo and his small team had racked up a death toll of twenty-six in the past twelve hours since he’d spoken to Gabriel – to secure transport, steal IVS identities and a nuke, and gain access to the IVS-found ship. They’d also cornered, questioned and then executed one of the Alician Inner Circle. The interrogation hadn’t lasted long – the woman had almost wanted to tell Cheveyo how he and the rest of an inferior humanity would perish. He now understood the Alician-Q’Roth strategy. He did not know how many Q’Roth ships there were, but he was going to make sure at least one of them didn’t return.
Cheveyo came from an Order that had been in existence almost as long as the Alicians, since the time a reptile-like Ranger had crash-landed in the Himalayas. Wounded, he’d been rescued by the local tribes people who worshipped all manner of animal gods. The Ranger later led them to the Q’Roth ship hidden beneath the glacier, where he knew he could get supplies to repair his own small craft. He – or she – took pity on the people of a doomed planet, and helped them understand the storm that was coming. The one thing the Ranger had impressed upon the original ten Order members, nine hundred years ago, was that when the Q’Roth came, it would be fast, the onslaught relentless.
He and Ramires, his last disciple, had replaced the Chief and First Officer of an IVS cargo ship laden with supplies. They stood on the bridge, Cheveyo at the helm, although the vessel was automatically piloted. They had just left the safety of Truk Lagoon, a natural shelter against the typhoon which had been hampering efforts to get near the Q’Roth ship, but was now dying down. Heavy rain pattered the ceiling as their jetfoil skirted over giant, lumbering waves to reach the site by nightfall.
Ramires interrupted his teacher’s reflections. "Master, do you – "
"Do not call me that – not here."
Ramires, fifty years Cheveyo’s junior, nodded at once, respectfully. "I understand the plan only to a point. We can board the Q’Roth ship – but the key – we do not have the key."
Cheveyo watched the rolling of the horizon, the spray spattering the bridge windshield, and found it calming. "The key will arrive. They want the ships to go to Eden – they serve no purpose if they remain here."
"I see," Ramires said, though Cheveyo detected the hint of doubt. That was good. He had never wanted acolytes to follow every word – that was the Alician way. A blindly obedient mind was useless to the Sentinels.
"Our paths must separate: you will head back to your part of the world, to the ship that was found yesterday."
Ramires was about to protest, but Cheveyo held up a hand. "We are very few now. I do not know if any other cells of the Order have survived the recent Alician purge."
Ramires frowned. "But what if –"
"What if?" Cheveyo rounded on him. "Have you learned nothing from me all these years? What if? That is the realm where resolve founders on the rocks." He handed Ramires a flight chip and a metallic object that looked like a thin metallic torch.
"Your apprenticeship is over. When we dock, take the IVS jet back to Manila, steal another and fly direct to Cocos. From there you are on your own. Board the ship by whatever means possible, and ensure it is appropriately loaded."
Ramires stared at the thin metal cylinder cradled in his hands. He bowed deeply. Cheveyo knew Ramires’ apprenticeship was ending prematurely – in truth he was not ready. But they were out of time.
The resurrected ship reared up on the horizon, growing larger as they crested each Pacific swell. Cheveyo had been inside one beneath the glacier, but had never seen one in its massive entirety. Charcoal in color, it looked like a metal cake with triangular portions missing, a tower extruding upwards from its middle. He did a quick mental calculation of how many people it could carry, and didn’t like the number. The huge, matt object had a distinct ‘other-ness’ about it, as if superimposed digitally onto the seascape. Barely moving despite the weather, and with the sun behind it, it resembled a barren volcanic island. The waves lashed against it, as if nature abhorred this harbinger of Earth’s destruction. As they grew nearer, he noticed that no sea-birds landed on it, or even approached it, instead remaining in flight or resting on the dwarfed flotilla of IVS ships rocking slowly in the Q’Roth ship’s shade. He was reminded by something his Master had once told him: nature’s instincts are less easily fooled than human intelligence.
The disconcerting aspect was that eighty per cent of the ship was still underwater. He presumed this vessel was identical on the inside to the one he had explored numerous times over the years since a child. He closed his eyes and visualized the conning tower, containing several rooms that controlled the ship, with a surrounding spiral ramp accessing all levels except a central core beneath the tower. This area was believed to house the engine that no one except the Ranger had ever seen.
Each of the seven main levels of the ship beneath tower level had a ceiling four meters high, forming a honeycomb of interconnecting rooms of various shapes and sizes. One of his childhood friends had gotten lost in the ship under the glacier; it had taken three days for the Order to find him, perished from hypothermia.
He now knew it would take people to Eden, but return full of strengthened Q’Roth. For a moment he wondered if people would really board such a behemoth – it was like persuading sardines to climb into a tin can. But rumours already abounded that people were flocking to the new-found ship encrusted in one of the Willow Pattern Mountains of Guilin, China, and another in Central Australia. The promise of Eden, and the current plight of humanity, had worn people to the point they could overcome their better judgment and see salvation in a vessel so hideously bleak.
As the autopilot steered them towards the docking barge adjoining the ship, they were boarded by officials to have their papers and cargo checked. Ramires turned to his Master of the past fifteen years, his face locked down to show none of the emotions Cheveyo knew churned on the inside.
"Die well," was all Ramires said, the obligatory Sentinel farewell, and without awaiting a reply he left to find the small boat that would take him to the IVS command ship.
Cheveyo smiled as he watched his last surviving student leave. I was wrong about you, Ramires; your apprenticeship is over. Live well. It would be good if at least one of the Order survives.
***
Jennifer squatted on her haunches in the makeshift bedroom she shared onboard the Q’Roth ship with Dimitri. Alone, having just finished an advanced karate kata, sweat glistened on her brow, the breezeless air clinging to her skin. She never showed this side of her character to Dimitri. She paused before the final kata in the series, recalling a conversation with him.
"I love the way you outsmart people, Jennifer – you see through the words to what they are really thinking, and you cut them up marvellously. Even people who are more intelligent than you" – she’d inwardly winced – "you outsmart, staying several steps ahead of them. It really annoys them!"
Yes, she’d thought at the time, that’s why I never get invited to parties, and have almost no friends. But she recalled the rest.
"I have had beautiful girlfriends, models… But I prefer you, your mind – and of course I love your physical assets, but it’s your mind I love. That will never fade."
She stood motionless remembering how she had felt: getting what she had wanted, but with barbs attached. Was she that unattractive? She launched into the seventh and final kata with renewed energy, finishing with a heartfelt kiai shout that managed to dredge an echo from the dank, dark walls.
She headed for the makeshift shower in the room next door, walking along the ship's floor that was the same mottled grey as the walls, and was like dead skin to the touch. The walls seemed to suck in sound. Although space heaters had been installed on two floors to house the thirty or so engineers and scientists working aboard the ship, as well as aircon units to protect the bio-computers they were using to understand how the vessel worked, nothing seemed to a
llay the relentless cold. The lack of corners anywhere on this ship, giving all the rooms an oval feel, made it seem like an insect’s lair; or maybe a nest. She turned the shower to very hot, scalding the sweat from her body.
She dried off and donned a purple IVS jumpsuit, and went to find Dimitri. But as she neared what had been designated the main control room in the tower, she heard raised voices. Not listening to the words, instead she searched for Dimitri’s signature Greek accent. Sure enough she found it – his was the only voice that remained quiet, though she was sure he was infuriating the other engineers. She peeked into the room.
"Hell, Kostakis," Hendriks, the Chief IVS Engineer, shouted. "For the love of God, we can’t just throw the damned switch! We don’t have a clue what will happen. The simulations –"
"Simulations?" Kostakis threw the straight-standing, balding man an incredulous look. "Simulations you say? Listen to yourself. You might as well run a sex-vid – it would just as likely be a reliable simulation of this ship’s engines! We have not even found the engines yet." He fingered his goatee, shaking his head in dismay. "Hendriks, my dear fellow, do you know the difference between an engineer and a scientist?"
"You mean besides the fat salary and the female students?"
Hendriks had clearly had enough, Jennifer thought, as she edged into the room – when people get really angry, that’s when they speak their mind. She watched the two men hold their ground in the face-off, six other engineers around them trying their best to melt into the background.
Dimitri bridled at the insult. He smiled broadly. "Yes, besides those things and other… perks." He paused to let the reversal take its full effect. "It’s that you engineers approximate, that’s all you ever do, and you always stay within your limited paradigm. You never try to understand anything first, or embrace something truly new – something alien!"
Hendriks thwacked his hand down on a small metallic table. "Well, the way I heard it most scientists believe in data, analysis and prudence – you want to switch this thing on and that’s your whole fucking experimental paradigm – trial and error – a bit of adventure! Crap! You want the glory without the hard work, and that’s the approach of a charlatan, not a scientist!"
Jennifer darted towards them as Dimitri’s bulk closed on Hendriks – she’d never seen him violent, but no one ever talked to him that way either.
"Gentlemen – please." She parked herself between them with her small frame and muscular arms. "If I may suggest, it seems to me we need some division of labour here. We have to get the engine online and figure out the navigation system before we try to go anywhere, to see exactly where we’ll end up, whether we’ll hit any stars en route, and to know how to get back."
Neither of them looked down at her; they stood like two boxers before the first round, anxious to throw the first punch. Hendriks broke gaze first. "Ging, Wu, Araceli: you work with the Professor on the Nav system. I want a protocol by nightfall, not a fucking roulette system. Garrett, Cintati, Sokolov: you’re with me."
Jennifer lowered her arms, and turned to her lover, his barrel chest heaving. She could see he’d been bruised this time. After a few seconds, he stopped glaring in Hendriks’ direction and at last seemed to notice her. His face metamorphosed. He beamed at her, holding out his arms. "Thank you, my dear Jennifer. What would I do without you?"
She took his hands in hers, and started walking towards the navigational console. As she led him there, she caught a glimpse of an older man who had been standing just outside the room. He turned away, helping another three men lift a large crate onto a levi panel, maneuvering it down to a lower level. She noticed that despite his age, he seemed to be stronger than the young men. Something about them wasn’t right – but it would have to wait.
Two hours later, an uneasy truce hovered in the control room. Slow but measured progress was being gained by both teams, and a light chatter permeated the room, signifying a cessation of hostilities. Jennifer decided to see where the men with the crate had gone. She hadn’t felt like asking Hendriks.
Descending to the foot of the tower, to what appeared to be a smaller control room whose function they had yet to ascertain, she walked in alone, wrapping herself in the silence, wondering how long this vessel had lain at the bottom of the ocean, empty, waiting. The engineers had had a real hard time dating it, since nothing stuck to it, and they couldn’t even dent the metal. On being pressed, one of the engineers had stated that it was somewhere between a thousand and a hundred thousand years old; that was the best he could tell.
The absolute quiet she reveled in was punctured by the sound of fast, furtive footsteps. She remained still in the darkness as three people in rain gear slipped past the entrance heading down to the next level. She waited ten seconds and then sidled out quietly to follow the trio at a distance.
She was surprised how quickly they moved. She was tempted to try and catch up but her wartime instincts stopped her – it could be a trap – they were probably waiting quietly to see if anyone followed. She froze and held her breath, and began counting. When she got to thirty, the muffled sound of steps on the ramp below her resumed, descending further. Only when she reached sixty did she breathe in, slowly. Adrenaline surged, reminding her of the hide-and-seek med-evac runs she’d made in the ruins of radioactive Dublin, evading hunter-seeker robots.
The idea of going to get help surfaced and then submerged, partly because she knew she would lose them if she did that, but mainly because she never relied on anyone, not even Dimitri, not since she’d lost her family to the War.
She ran her hand over her right trouser pocket – the small stiletto knife she always carried was still there. Taking off her shoes, she continued barefoot. The floor in the second main level was clammy. A sheath covered all the metallic floors, walls and ceilings, like transparent linoleum. It gave everyone the creeps.
At the bottom, she saw the three figures receding into darkness across a vast chamber the size of a football field. The illumination was sporadic, cones of mustard light cascading downwards every ten meters. Jennifer knew she could follow them as long as she stayed about fifty meters behind, keeping between the circles of light on the floor. After a few minutes, she saw them approaching the opposite wall. Squinting in the half-light, she tried to see where they were going, wishing she had night goggles. As far as she could remember from her brief and futile foraging excursions when trapped inside the ship before it surfaced, there was only a blank wall. She struggled to see them at all, then realized they had vanished.
When she arrived at the wall, she looked for an opening, a crack, anything – but the wall and floor were seamless like the rest of the ship, as if the vessel had been hewn out of one piece of metal – or grown in some way. But where did they go? There was only one thing for it, she decided. She went to knock on the wall – and nearly stumbled straight through the holographic image as her hand disappeared. As she stared at her arm cut off at the elbow, someone grabbed her wrist and yanked her through the illusion – despite herself she shut her eyes and tensed up. She hit the ground hard and found herself staring up at the three people she had seen earlier, but they looked different now, standing proud, haughty, and it came to her instantly – Alicians.
"It’s her," a woman said, her voice scornful. "The one they told us about."
Jennifer didn’t like the sound of that. She’d seen enough in the War to recognize killers. She made as if to get up, in a way that would allow someone to kick her if they wanted to, and at the same time eased the stiletto out of her pocket. She hoped they would want to inflict pain before shooting her, or else she was dead meat. Looking small and defenseless had its peculiar advantages, she had learned since being bullied at school – it brought out the worst in people, they just couldn’t let an opportunity go by to kick someone when they were down.
"Kill her," the woman said, accompanied by, as she’d suspected, a boot aimed at her face. Jennifer ducked back down and the foot met not her face, but the stiletto, wh
ich pierced the heel up to the ankle as cleanly as a syringe. Jennifer hoped the scream that followed was loud enough to attract attention. She launched herself upwards and head-butted one of the two men in the groin just as he drew a pulse pistol. He made a deep grunting noise as he toppled onto her. She hadn’t anticipated it well enough, and his weight collapsed onto her, pinning her down. Even as she wrestled for his pistol, another foot kicked it aside.
"I said kill her!" The woman’s voice was shrill and full of rage. Jennifer considered her options and decided there was none other than dying. She heard three rapid swishes and then several heavy thuds, and what sounded like liquid squirting and then trickling onto the floor. Suddenly the weight of the man on top of her was removed, and blood gushed over her torso. Her hand was next to the head of the woman, its eyes frozen in shock. Two other heads lay on the floor, eyes gawping, mouths agape. The only man standing was the old man she had seen earlier. He didn’t look at her. He scanned the room. An electric blue sword-length blade hung from his left hand, a torch from his right.
He flicked something on the hilt and the blade disappeared. She stared up at him. "Nice weapon." She glanced at her stiletto, protruding out of the dead woman’s boot. "Wanna trade?"
"Get up, Jennifer, time to go."
She struggled to her feet, almost slipping in the blood. "Everyone seems to know me, but I don’t know anyone. It’s like being at a surprise party, only the surprises aren’t very pleasant."
He knelt over the dead woman and snatched an ankh pendant from around her neck.
"Souvenir?" Jennifer asked. "Trophy?" She retrieved her stiletto, with a slurping sound.
"I bring bad news."
She managed one laugh. "Bad news? You mean this is good?"
His glare silenced her mocking tone.
"Gabriel sent me. He is dead."
