by Barry Kirwan
Blake shook his head. “I meant how are you doing with Pierre gone God knows where, and your mother gone to Savange to rescue Antonia and the others?”
Petra grew serious again, her voice colder. “I keep myself busy, Blake.” She fixed her eyes on him, and then banged her fist down on the table. “I won’t allow us to be snuffed out or turned into Qorall’s slaves.”
Blake nodded. He made to stand up, but she leaned forward and placed a firm hand on his arm.
“We still need you, Commander. War is almost here, on our doorstep.”
He didn’t reply and tried to stand up again but her arm pressed down harder.
“I’m not reaching you, am I? Then let me try another tack: the Spiders need you. Especially when Qorall’s troops arrive here, which we all know is going to happen eventually, despite the Shrell wires.”
He laid his hand on top of hers. “I know my duty, Petra.”
She let go. “You could take my place as President in the wink of an eye; but I could never take yours.” She stood, glanced aside as if deciding whether to say something, then spat it out. “One of the Spiders came to see me.”
Blake found he was standing, too. “But you can’t understand them!”
“We’re Genners, remember? We worked out their colour speech years ago, and Virginia made a translation device.”
Blake’s heart pounded. “What did it say?”
“They’re worried about you.” She swallowed. “But they respect you, and your wishes. You’re like a father to them, and they want what’s best for you. The way they expressed it, your mind’s made up, even if you think it isn’t. They have a concept somewhere between mathematical psychology and karma; quite interesting, actually.” Her voice quavered, and she cleared her throat. “They said you were near cusp time, a cliff edge on your karmic trajectory. All the probabilities of a terminal conclusion converge.”
He stared down at the table. Hearing it second hand, even if couched in psychobabble, made it ring true. He’d been denying it, but even the Spiders had confirmed it. “And what do you think, Petra?”
“You’re tired of it all, you’ve given way too much already, and you want out, to be with Glenda, or simply not to be without her anymore.” She softened a little. “I don’t blame you, Blake. As for me, I don’t want to lose you. None of us do. You mean too much to us.”
Blake knew it was a lifeline being thrown in his direction. But he didn’t take it. He pursed his lips. “And what does the President think?”
She let out a hollow laugh, then pressed her fist down onto the wooden table as she looked him in the eye. “The President expects you to make it count, Commander.”
Blake smiled, then stood to attention, something he thought he’d given up a long time ago, and saluted.
“Then we’ll both play our parts, Madam President.”
“See you back on the surface, then,” she said. Her avatar vanished.
Blake waited. Nothing happened. He got up, walked around, and still nothing. For a while he wondered if he’d somehow been forgotten. Then someone appeared, and Blake fell back into his chair with a gasp.
A large, bald black man stood before him in a cobalt Eden Mission uniform, grinning.
“Zack,” Blake whispered, then caught himself. “Kalaran,” he corrected, and folded his arms.
“Sorry, Boss, he made me do it.” Zack belly-laughed.
Blake knew he was being manipulated, that this was Kalaran, not Zack, but dammit to hell, it was good to see his best friend in the flesh after all these years. He resisted the urge to return Zack’s beaming smile. It wasn’t easy. To compensate, and to register protest, he spoke with a tone just short of contempt.
“What do you want, Kalaran?”
Zack nodded. “You giving up, Boss?”
Blake felt anger welling up inside him: the recent battle, the last vestige of Zack finally gone, Marcus, Virginia and Gabriel all dead, along with most of the Ossyrians. He’d thought they’d have some peace on Esperia. Why couldn’t the galaxy just leave them the hell alone? He closed his eyes. At least Kalaran wasn’t using Glenda.
Zack’s voice softened. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Boss.”
Micah had told him Kalaran did this; picked an avatar that was so close to you it made it difficult to retain emotional control.
“What do you care about me, about any of us? Why are you taking an interest exactly? Us fighting Qorall? It’s a sick joke, might as well use bows and arrows against a nuke. What’s the point?”
Zack frowned. “You’re a soldier. You want to fight, but you feel impotent, is that it, Boss?”
Blake stood, thumped both fists on the table. “Stop calling me that. You don’t deserve to be Zack. Stop this charade, show yourself to me right now or send me back to Shimsha!”
Zack disappeared, the lozenge too, and Blake stood on a small jade sphere, still inside the ship, but much lower down, near the boiling mercury lake. Something was rising out of it, something huge.
It was hard to fathom. A sphere, definitely, but the outer surface was like a layer of cigar-shaped clouds, the layer underneath an electric green mesh of shifting shapes – squares, diamonds, triangles, and other more complex polygons; and beneath that, swirling red blobs against a black brick-like mosaic… Blake felt he was falling inside it, the effect was so hypnotic. He tried to count the layers, but there were too many. He stopped trying, as two words bubbled to the surface of his mind: kaleidoscope and Babel.
You are on the right path – a long way to go, of course. Your species has no adequate conceptual metaphor. Not yet.
However, Blake intuited that he was looking at the equivalent of the brain, the central core, whatever it was, of Kalaran. But there was no body. He remembered something Micah had said, and decided to verify it.
“You merged with the ship, didn’t you? So, you control it with your mind, and it does everything you want? The ship, those other spheres, everything else, it’s you, isn’t it?” Which meant that if the ship was destroyed, Kalaran died along with it.
Correct. We have not had independent bodies for aeons. All Kalarash elect this path.
There was no voice, the thought came straight into Blake’s head. It felt strong, not just communication, but the direct imparting of knowledge. Blake almost felt violated, as if someone was trespassing in his mind, someone who could rearrange things in his head, even re-write his mental software.
Do you want Zack’s avatar instead?
“No,” Blake said. “Just me and you.”
The brain rose level with him, rivulets of mercury – or whatever it was – cascading down its sides, falling and splashing into the lake below, sending puffs of silver steam into the air. Something gelatinous oozed out of the pores every few seconds, pulsing.
In front of Blake, between him and Kalaran’s brain, an image arose of the War Council. Various aliens flashed past in the moving vista, until it paused on the one Blake had settled on, the Medusa creature consisting of white globes.
Level Sixteen. Nchkani. Why did you stare at them?
Blake’s anger at Kalaran ebbed. At the end of the day they were on the same side. But those Medusas unnerved him… “I don’t trust them,” he said.
Instinct?
Blake thought about it. It must be true, he had nothing else to go on. But any field commander knew that gut feelings could be just as important as more objective intel.
A grating voice came from behind Blake. “Concur.”
Blake whirled around to see the reptilian Ranger, Manota, on all fours. A pink forked tongue whipped out between hook-like incisors, wiping over her yellow eyes.
“Treachery planned. Next in line if Tla Beth fall.” Manota took two diagonal steps towards Blake, ending up with her snout inches from his face. He resisted the joint urges to retreat out of reach of those teeth and flinch at the smell of rotting food.
“Ukrull told other Rangers about humans. I studied files. War with Qorall like your chess, far more
complex. But also like poker. You wild card. Keep you in deck. Play you when need.”
Blake should have been outraged: he was being used. But instead he smiled. Soldiers are pawns on a chessboard, there to be played. Besides, a pawn can take down a queen, sometimes even a king.
Manota. Go to the Tla Beth homeworld. Hellera will join you when the time comes.
Manota vanished.
The heaviness that had been dogging Blake for weeks lifted. He watched the brain descend back into the lake. Now that Manota was gone, he felt he could ask the question that had been dogging him.
“The Spiders; what is their role, Kalaran?”
It must be a surprise to Qorall.
Blake shook his head, feeling as if he were a kid again in a school playground.
“Suppose I promise not to tell?”
Kalaran’s voice took on an edge. Time will prove otherwise.
Blake bristled, and raised his voice. “Then how come I could see the Spider in the chamber when no one else could, not even Manota, who is Level Fifteen?”
You have some of their DNA in you. I implanted it before sending you back to the chamber. You will understand soon.”
Blake’s temporary indignation dissipated. Kalaran was going to use him, just as Manota had said, as the wild card in the deck. So be it. He was a soldier, this wasn’t the first time he was being sent on a mission without full disclosure.
Are you in the game again, Blake?
Blake knew he was. “Yes, Kalaran, I’m in –”
Petra and Kilaney were staring at him, outside the Dome in Esperantia. One of the Youngbloods had joined them, a tall hulk of a teenager. Blake tried to recall his name; he’d given a eulogy at the mass funeral for the fallen Genners: Brandt.
“Where’ve you been, Commander?” Petra asked.
He shook his head, then spoke to the Genner warrior. “Brandt, assemble six of your men and women who are ready to fight and die if necessary. You will lead them and report to Kilaney.” He turned to Kilaney. “Did the Q’Roth Queen grant you a battleship?”
Kilaney nodded. “Destroyer, waiting just outside the system.”
“Good enough. Get them ready. We leave in four hours.”
Kilaney and Brandt exchanged glances then headed off.
Petra was smiling. “Kalaran. You met him, didn’t you?”
“We have work to do, Petra.”
She shrugged. “Don’t I know it. Nice to have you back, Commander.”
A though struck him. “Promise me you’ll look after the Spiders, Petra.” He paused a little too long, then added, “While I’m gone.”
Her smile faded. She was a Genner after all, and no doubt guessed the implication. “What happened up there?”
He told her about Kalaran infusing him with some Spider DNA.
“Interesting. But – as usual with Kalaran – not the whole story.”
Blake gave her a level stare. “Meaning?”
She leant against a balustrade. “A Spider came to see me half an hour ago. Caused quite a stir, as you can imagine, walking down Main Street right up to my office. There was quite a crowd.”
Blake’s mind whirled. A Spider had never entered Esperantia, not since they’d hatched. He waited.
“It said that Kalaran put some of your DNA into the Spider you saw on Kalaran’s ship.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Part of the plan, I guess.”
“I have to go and talk with them.”
“You can’t.”
“Excuse me? I know you’re President, Petra, but –”
“It told me to tell you that you would meet one more time before the end.”
Blake felt blood rush to his head. “Well, Madam President, I think I’d like to hear it from them. I have many friends there, I need to say my goodbyes.”
Petra remained cool. “That’s what it said you would say. But when I said you can’t, I meant it’s not possible.” She handed him a pad. It showed Shimsha underneath a glistening dome.
“Vasquez has been trying to break through for the last half hour. It’s impervious.”
Blake didn’t understand. “But they don’t have any tech…” He recalled the new towers going up around the perimeter, the ones he’d assumed were for the night-time displays. The Spiders had erected a shield.
Sixteen years raising them, living with them; he’d thought he’d known them, been part of their family. But they were alien. Blake suddenly felt empty, and very alone. “Is this Kalaran’s doing?”
“Maybe. But I can’t ask him either.” She flicked her eyes upwards.
Blake followed her gaze. Kalaran’s ship was gone.
“Hellera’s ship is on the outskirts of our system, still keeping the dark worms at bay, though I don’t know for how long. We’re on our own, Commander. The Shrell-field surrounding our system will keep out most aliens, but not Qorall if he pays a visit.”
“Why should Qorall come here?” Blake asked, then glanced back at the pad. The Spiders. Qorall would come for them.
“Precisely,” Petra said.
Jen and Dimitri shot towards the planet, helmeted heads first, like two silver bullets. The timer in the corner of Jen’s visor indicated ten minutes since they’d torpedoed out of the Ice Pick parked safely above them in orbit, another ten till touchdown. Ukrull had refused to land, and as usual declined to explain why. The planet had no atmosphere, so there was no need to worry about burning up. But the silence was eerie: no rushing wind, only her own measured breathing and Dimitri’s ragged gasps.
They were on the galactic rim. To one side there were no stars, on the other a disc-like swathe of light. It gave Jen vertigo whenever she glanced towards the inter-galactic void, so she focused instead on their destination below. The planet was dark, even though this was the side facing the system’s red dwarf. As she tried to make out details, her helmet visor sensed her eye muscles’ effort and zoomed in. But there were no distinguishing marks, only a frozen ocean of metallic dust, all that was left of the Xera, the hyper-intelligent machine race that had almost taken over the galaxy two million years earlier. The other galactic species had barely survived, but had finally conquered the Xera, leaving nothing but this tomb planet, ten kilometres deep with metal ash. It was a memento, and above all a warning. And now she and Dimitri were there to find a machine race remnant if one still existed, and bring it back to Esperia for examination, without waking it up.
The planet grew large beneath her, the terrain stretching far and flat in all directions, and she took one last look towards inter-galactic space. She and Dimitri knew pretty much nothing about the Xera; apparently such intel was only fit for Level Fifteen and above. When they’d arrived, however, she’d asked how the Machine race had started at the galactic rim; it seemed unlikely. Ukrull had replied, “Before Machines, galaxy bigger.” She guessed the Xera had somehow chewed up entire star systems for resources. Either that or the purge of the Machines at the end of the war had necessitated a clean-up operation on an unimaginable scale. She felt a chill, and adjusted a control to put a little more heat inside her suit.
Jen glanced across to Dimitri, his bulkier space suit looking awkward, his arms waving in jagged movements as if to stabilize himself, when there was as yet no appreciable gravity, his gloved fingers splayed as if for protection against an imminent fall. Dimitri’s helmet visor, like hers, only showed half his face, from nose to eyebrows, but she could see his eyes were wide.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She knew him better. While she was enjoying the thrill of the ride, he was clearly terrified. This was taking too long. “Pierre, how close are we? I can’t see the entrance.” She waited, wondering if Pierre and Ukrull, sitting in the Ice Pick, were paying attention, or were involved in deep discussion about tactics in case Qorall had tracked them.
“Twenty klicks to the right, Jen.” Pierre’s voice still sounded synthetic, although he had most of his humanity back. “I’
m adjusting your suits’ course direction. When we blasted the drop-shaft there was some blowback debris. It should be safe now.”
“Should?” She knew Dimitri could hear Pierre, too.
Ukrull’s gruff voice boomed inside her helmet. “Safe.”
The altitude readout said one hundred twenty klicks to go. Abruptly her suit-thrusters kicked in, and her head and internal organs squeezed to the left as she and her lover tacked to the right. Within thirty seconds she saw the gaping hole in the dust sea, blacker than its surroundings.
After several minutes she felt the top of her head press against the helmet as they began to decelerate. “Lights, Pierre,” she said.
The drones sent down earlier activated, and the ten-kilometre chasm beneath them lit up like a glistening, bottomless shaft, its smooth lipless mouth rising slowly toward them.
“Piece of cake, Dimitri,” she said.
Dimitri, normally loquacious, grunted something. Jen had thought the light might help, but it only emphasized how fast and deep they had to go. The decel continued as they plunged into the borehole lasered by the Ice Pick, thirty metres across, its cauterised wall a polished coal mirror reflecting two blurred shapes tearing downwards. She tried to breathe normally. Dimitri’s arms started to flail.
“Pierre, can you slow us down?”
“We’re on a tight schedule, Jen. You know as well as I –”
“Pierre, just do it.”
She thought she heard Ukrull’s grunting laugh, but there was no other response. They began to brake hard. Firing her micro-thrusters, she drifted towards Dimitri, within arm’s length. The halo of small helmet lights around his face accentuated his dark bushy eyebrows and wide, eager eyes, but covered his dark moustache and goatee. He looked tense. She selected private comms so Pierre and Ukrull would not hear.
“Take my hand, please,” she said.
He stared straight down, his eyebrows connected. “I am fine, my love, it is just –”
“I’m not. Please. Take my hand.”
Without facing her he reached across and clutched her hand. She didn’t flinch, though it hurt at first. She saw him blink hard.
“I must seem a big fool to you,” he said.
