by Barry Kirwan
He needed more time to think. There was still more information embedded in the Optron message, he was sure of it, and location would be an obvious thing to encode; he just needed to find a way to decrypt it. He glanced at the Q’Roth controls and displays around them – probably the location of former vanquished planets was sitting in a navigational database in that very room, but it could take weeks to begin to understand their technology and how to search it.
He turned and gazed out the porthole at the night sky, abruptly flooded with stark halogen lights as the bay doors opened, and the first jets rolled out, wings already folded down. These men are sharp. He heard the first engine winding up.
As the glaring lights revealed trees, rocks, bushes and grass, he had a hard time believing it was Eden; it looked so much like Earth. He surreptitiously pinched his left arm with his right hand.
Sandy stood next to him. "I don’t blame you. But we’re not going to wake up."
He watched the jets lift off vertically, one by one, hover for a moment, then pitch their noses down and race forward, piercing the night-time shroud at the edge of the lights’ range. He wondered how many would return. We’re desperate, fighting for our very survival, the right to live. Then he corrected himself – rights are irrelevant out here. That’s one of the lessons we have to grasp on this steep learning curve, if we don’t fall right off it. He turned to Sandy.
"We haven’t been awake for centuries," he said. "That’s the problem. And now it’s too late."
An hour later, as his gaze followed one of the last aircraft disappearing into the pre-dawn sky, he noticed an oddly-shaped mountain. He hadn’t been able to see it before, but now its silhouette was just visible as the first inkling of sunlight edged its way down the mountain’s side. He recognized it – he’d seen it in the datastream, from the other side of the desert. Whoever – or whatever – had encoded the hidden Optron message could be there, and maybe the Ulysses crew too, if they had survived. He made up his mind, and turned around to Vince and Vasquez, locked in discussion with the last of the pilots.
His words scythed through the chatter in the room, with a conviction he’d never felt before. "Vince. Colonel Vasquez, I need a plane and a pilot. Right now."
All eyes in the room fell on him, and all conversation ceased.
"Plan B," he said.
Sandy arched an eyebrow. "That jacket really does suit you, Micah."
***
Jennifer and the others heard the roar of the Lander as it took off, three hundred meters behind them. She glanced over her shoulder to see it streaking into the dawn sky. They were making good progress but Cheveyo was clearly on his last legs, though he uttered no complaint. Abruptly he stopped, and collapsed into a seated position against a tree trunk.
"You – all of you," he gasped, "go back to the ship – Jennifer, I need a word."
The others looked at him and then at her. She could tell they didn’t want to leave him but they didn’t want to die either. She turned to the rest of them. "Go – I’ll catch you up."
One of the men hesitated while the others turned and ran towards the ship. She made a mental note to remember his face – someone a little braver than the rest.
'What about –" he began, pointing at Cheveyo.
"Just go," Jennifer replied. "Tell them we need to leave imminently. GO!"
He nodded and ran to catch up the others. She knelt beside Cheveyo and inspected his wound. It exuded a sickly green puss, the blood congealing into a jelly-like substance.
"Their blood is poisonous – when I cut the creature in half, some drops sprayed into the gashes it carved into me. Very careless – I must be getting old."
She saw him try to smile. "Is there anything I –"
"No – I have very little time. There are things you must know." He moved his closed left fist over to her hand and opened it. She saw a metallic object, and recognized it as an ankh symbol, but with a different hue – a lighter aquamarine – to the one that had brought them here. She took it.
"I removed it from the creature’s chest. They are somehow born with them, so any one of them can launch the ship for the return journey. You must take the ship back to Ireland, if your man has unlocked the navigational secrets. Ireland is still radioactive, which means the Q’Roth will not want to land there; they are newborn, after all, and no creature is impervious to sub-atomic radiation. Coordinate an exodus from there: collect as many people as you can. Then leave Earth and don’t look back. Head to the stars." He coughed more blood, but was too weak to move. She wiped it from his lips with her sleeve.
He continued, and she read the urgency of death in his eyes. "Tell Yori – the man who will be the last one waiting for my return, to set a three-minute timer to detonate the devices here on Eden, and that I am gone. He is preparing the nuclear devices even as we speak. He will follow your orders from now on."
A dark wave of pain crawled across his face. She’d seen a lot of fatal wounds in Dublin – he should be dead already.
"Listen carefully," he croaked. "The Alician inner circle has for centuries controlled scientific advances for their own purposes; releasing certain inventions, drawing us down blind alleys for things we should have invented; releasing diseases, starting wars. They also experimented with genetic engineering."
"You must save your breath –"
"This is not a history lesson! We, too, performed limited genetic manipulation – only a few individuals – to upset the Alician timetable. Some of humanity’s geniuses have been our greatest work. Kostakis."
She recoiled. "Dimitri? He’s been altered?'
Cheveyo’s body convulsed. He ground his teeth against the pain. Then his chest locked, and she knew he could no longer breathe in. Even in the darkness she could see the blue tinge of hypoxia setting in. He spoke fast, the energy failing in his last words.
"Keep him alive, Jennifer. And you, you stay too much in the shadows. Now is your time. Hendriks will try to take control of the ship, but he is not a leader, and will vacillate. You must take charge. Take the data crystal from my neck, and the nano-sword." There was no breath left. He mouthed his last words silently. "You said you wanted it."
His eyes glazed, and his neck went slack.
She reached forward and closed his eyes. "And I was just getting to like you. Do you know how rare that is?" She took a deep breath. "Tell Gabriel I miss him, but I’m still in the fight." She snatched the data crystal from his neck, grabbed the nano-sword, and sprinted toward the ship.
Chapter 46
Eagle Down
Blake knelt by the opening of the crevasse, its entrance plunging into darkness. He hoped it led to Pierre; if not, he’d thrown his life away for nothing. He prayed the explosion he’d rigged at the chamber entrance had enabled Kat to make her getaway, that she at least would make it back to the Lander, and they could warn Earth – if there was still time. For him there was only one way out, but he waited. She had said the Q’Roth had a small craft – that would give them a huge advantage; he suspected it was armed and would take out their Lander once outside.
He hefted the compact rocket launcher, the one Zack had nicknamed "shotgun", onto his shoulder, flicking a switch to arm the heat seeking missile. The targetter picked out a small craft zipping across the tops of the eggs, several of which were splintering and beginning to hatch. He was unable to make out much detail, as the mosquito-like craft was still several hundred meters away. He had only one shot – he and Zack had cooked up a ‘dirty’ bomb, taking out half the missile fuel and replacing it with rocket fuel. It would act like a Molotov cocktail, but burn much hotter. He waited until the craft was level with him, and fired.
The missile streaked cross the cavern towards its target, but was intercepted. It must have been a young Q’Roth, just hatched. Their reactions and co-ordination must far exceed humans, he thought, as it leapt up right in front of the small ship and took most of the missile’s blast force. The cavern exploded with light, making him squint and r
aise his forearm in front of his eyes, the incandescent body of the newborn Q’Roth hurtling to the ground like a meteorite. He was as shocked as he was impressed: these Q’Roth were going to be powerful infantry if that act was anything to judge by. He didn’t relish the thought of fighting them on an open battlefield.
The sharp sound of a high pitched engine announced the craft as it accelerated through the curtain of flame engulfing the Q’Roth martyr and a handful of nearby eggs. It was heading straight toward him. Blake tossed the empty weapon to the floor, unshouldering his pulse rifle which he gripped in both hands in front of him, and stared at the gaping hole before him. He drew in a deep breath, and then leapt into its yawning mouth.
He hit the ground, rolled, and launched into a sprint, bouncing off the walls of the steep winding tunnel; each time he fell he managed to roll and come up running, continuing downwards. There was no choice: relentless stamping thuds echoed behind him. He had the impression it was only one, as if that made a difference. The creature could obviously run down this tunnel fluidly. If he fell and paused too long it would be on him. He realized that for the first time in his career, he truly understood what ‘retreat’ really meant – he’d usually been distanced, the strategist giving orders. Despite his many combat years, fear threatened to make him stumble. But he kept Pierre in his mind – that was his mission now, to save him. The fact that he was leading the Q’Roth down to him was secondary. First, however, he had to get out of the damned tunnel.
He rounded a bend at high speed, to find that the tunnel split into two. Just as he was thinking "which way?" Pierre shouted a single word.
"Left!"
Blake veered left without slowing down, grazing the wall with his shoulder, pushing off it with the butt of his rifle. A few seconds later he noticed that the tunnel was getting lighter, which meant he was approaching an opening. Blake focused on the ground five meters in front of him, as he’d been trained to do years before, anticipating every bump and rock. His fleeting hope that the creature would turn right was crushed as the creature roared, in the same corridor and just seconds behind.
The tunnel widened into a small room, the outstretched body of Pierre lying prone and facing him, a pulse pistol in one hand, the other hand supporting it. That won’t even slow it down! But it was too late, the slope left no way for Blake to decelerate even if he’d wanted to. Pierre didn’t budge an inch as Blake ran straight towards him and leapt into the air, diving over his body towards the wall behind. As he flew through the air, he primed his rifle and tucked his head down for a crash-roll. He hit the ground hard, heard Pierre’s gun go off, and rolled up into a braced position, his back slamming into the wall, rifle ready to fire.
As he levelled his weapon, the creature was already hurtling towards him, two legs outstretched – he didn’t even have time to look at Pierre. Blake kicked off with his left foot and dived right, as the Q’Roth sailed into the wall. Its body pounded the solid rock like a battering ram, sounding like a tank smashing into a cliff face. Blake fired four times before he realized the unthinkable – it was already dead. He stared in disbelief. His pulse shots had hardly made a mark on it, but he watched as the creature’s exterior crumbled and bubbled. In seconds, the smooth, laminated skin became corrugated, rotting flesh. He dashed over to Pierre, who had his head propped against the opposite wall. He was staring at his pistol, breathing hard, in bad shape.
Pierre spoke in pain-spiked gasps. "Glad… just one… shot."
Blake squatted down in front of him. He lifted the pistol from Pierre’s yielding hand, and opened it to reveal the empty glass chamber. He looked back over to the Q’Roth, a putrid smell like burning flesh exuding from the imploding corpse.
"Nannites?" Blake said. "But how? Our ship was screened completely before we left." But it didn’t matter – it was good news: nannites were extremely effective against the warriors. Problem was, Earth had banned them years ago.
Pierre’s breathing grew more labored. He lifted a hand and pointed to his head.
Blake shook his head. "Inside you? Your blood?"
Pierre nodded.
Blake thought about it for a moment, trying to remember the details of nannite-human contact. "But you should be dead. In fact you should be – well, like that.’ He pointed to the rotting corpse, then changed tack. "Okay, you can explain later. Can you stand?"
Pierre barely nodded, and Blake took one arm and lifted him onto his feet, keeping Pierre’s arm around his own shoulder.
"Which way?"
Pierre pointed down a short tunnel to the right, then back to the warrior. "Sir… metal object… on its chest… important."
Blake propped Pierre against the wall, and walked cautiously over to the corpse. Blake took out one of his small knives and carefully pried a small blue ankh symbol off the fizzing mass, not wanting to touch any of it. He took out a cloth and wrapped it up, then discarded the nannite contaminated knife, its blade already browning with rust.
"Got it."
"Surprised you… came back." He began coughing.
"Save your breath, Pierre. I came to rescue you, that’s all, but I need you conscious, ideally with an idea of how to get us the hell out of here."
Pierre coughed again, a trickle of blood issuing from the corner of his mouth. "Take the little one," he said, and then slumped unconscious. Blake struggled under Pierre’s full weight, unsure what he meant, until he turned the corner and saw the vast cavern in front of them, and the massive metal ship. He then saw the much smaller jade green ship, saucer-shaped, its hatch open. But the human skeleton stopped him in his tracks.
He lay Pierre on the ground, and bent down to inspect it, finding a small dust-covered journal next to the body. There was an ankh sumbol on the front cover. He picked up the book, read the last entry, and noted the date. He could scarcely believe it: three centuries of a silent war with the Alicians, the "vassals of the Q’Roth". He wanted to find the nearest Alician and tear him apart with his bare hands. He raised his rifle, flicked it into free-flow mode, and aimed at the larger ship in the distance. But while his finger hovered in front of the trigger, he thought of Glenda: she’d always said that anger was the last resort of an unintelligent man. He didn’t fire. She still needed him, was depending on him; they all were back on Earth. Right now they needed him to think.
He submerged his anger, and focused on strategy. The Alicians and Q’Roth had clearly been planning and orchestrating humanity’s demise for a very long time. Could he and others really derail their plans? He recalled what General Kilaney, had told him one day: "Toughest lesson to learn for a man like you, Blake, is when to retreat and re-group, because one day you’ll face a choice between fighting to the bitter end, or retreating but surviving to fight again another day."
A rumbling noise, like the sound of hundreds of horses galloping, intruded on his thoughts. He heaved Pierre onto his shoulders and headed for the open hatchway of the green ship.
***
Micah wasn’t used to flying in a military jet, and several times thought he was going to throw up onto the back of the pilot’s seat in front of him. They raced over Eden’s terrain, skimming above hills and forests in a cloudless dawn sky. They’d checked a relief holo-map relayed by one of the reconnaissance sorties. Micah had recognized some of the features. There was the desert that had clearly expanded on a massive scale, and there had obviously been some type of explosion or earthquake – possibly both – that had altered the topography. Vasquez told Micah he suspected it was due to a high energy detonation, judging from the concentric rings in the silicated central part of the desert. It crossed his mind that the Eden Lander had blown up. But Vasquez said it resembled the aftermath of a neutralino explosion, though it made no sense for them to have brought the ND down from orbit. Micah guessed it must have been the IVS ship they’d figured had come to Eden.
He had déjà vu, as if he’d been here before; the Optron message had evidently lodged the information in his subconscious, though he h
ad no idea how. He was sure they were near to where the Eden crew should be. They flew a spiral search pattern from the foot of the small mountain, around eighty kilometers from their own ship. They got a radio message from Vince.
"This is Base. We just picked up an orbital signal. The Ulysses mother ship is still up there, and the Eden Lander is en route. We’re trying to establish contact. Eagle Three has detected an enemy ship three hundred klicks south. We need all fighters back here."
Before Micah could speak, he heard a click and the pilot’s answer.
"Roger that, returning home."
In that moment Micah caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye just as they began a hard bank to the left – a glimpse of black: it looked like the conning tower of another ship as it encountered the first rays of Eden’s sun. Micah spoke to the pilot. "Hey, I just saw something back there. I think it was another –"
"Hold on!" the pilot shouted, banking hard the other way; the violent maneuver slammed Micah’s helmet into the plazglass canopy. Shrill alarms erupted in the cockpit, clanging loudly. He was trying to figure out what was going on when the pilot came on line.
"Command – Eagle Five is under fire, repeat we’re under fire!"
Micah tried to turn around to see what was behind them. An electric blue arc swept narrowly above his head. The jet jerked down so hard that Micah momentarily lost his breath, his internal organs pushed upwards by the G-force. They passed over a clearing and a chill ran down his spine: a mass of blue-black animals charged towards where he thought he’d seen another ship. As he and the pilot raced thirty meters overhead he caught more details of the creatures, several hundred of them, in the dim light. Some of the creatures, without breaking step, rotated their heads upwards towards him; instinctively he wanted the pilot to go higher.
The jet banked left and then right, heading away from the ship, and accelerated forward so fast that Micah’s cheeks and brow were sucked backwards. The pilot wheeled and rolled the ship as Micah tried to stay in one piece, the deadly blue arc getting closer with each sweep, homing in on them.
