by Barry Kirwan
Suddenly he felt powerful, incredibly strong. Opening his eyes, everything was in sepia. It didn’t matter, colour was a distraction. For a few seconds he had no idea who he was, where he was, and why he was. Looking at the view screen, he saw and read the writing on the Holy Messenger. It sang to his soul. Qorall’s sacred scripture, the call to war. He knew immediately what he must do. Hands dancing over the controls, he tried to disable the command override. He shut off the noise from the planet full of infidels about to be saved, deliverance upon them from all their woes. Why did they always protest?
A voice intruded. “Goodnight, Blake.”
Whose voice was that? A face appeared in his mind, someone he once knew, back then a comrade, now an enemy. He shook his head to clear the image; all the past heresy of the biological receptacle he now inhabited must be purged. But none of the ship controls responded. The mother ship was far away, and he suddenly recalled the barbarian Kilaney’s plan, to capture a holy soldier in order to develop a counter-weapon. It could not be allowed. Death rather than capture; the writing was very clear on that. He pulled out his pulse pistol, but his arm grew sluggish. Struggling, he raised the barrel to his temple. His index finger slid into place in front of the trigger. One death to protect the cause, preserving the integrity of Qorall’s swelling army of trillions. An easy choice. But his vision glazed, and he could no longer feel his arm, or move. His last conscious thought was the realization of what this heathen Kilaney had done to him.
Kilaney closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer of thanks; he’d activated the stasis field in Blake’s ship just in time, paralyzing him in a temporary state of hibernation, slowing his bodily functions down a hundred-fold. The Dart gathered speed, shot past the planet, and headed to join his Destroyer and the rest of the Zlarasi refugee fleet. As he waited, he watched the planet on the screen. The Orb was almost in orbit, from where it would disintegrate and rain over the doomed world. He was patched through to the planetary commanders.
“It is your decision, but if you want to act, you must do so now.”
A holo appeared of the Zlarasi military commander, her smooth grey-green body with its long neck and small head undulating slowly in a vast ship-based water container, her four paddle-like fins wafting gracefully. A reply came through the onboard Q’Roth translator system.
“None of us can bring ourselves to do it. It is against our… religion. We ask your assistance.”
Kilaney winced as the command codes flashed up in front of him. His bridge crew all turned towards him. It felt like genocide, wiping out a whole planet. Hell, it practically was genocide. Glancing at the other screen, he noted Blake’s Dart land in his holding bay, where it was locked down. “I’m not sure I –”
“End this. We would do the same for you. We will do the same for you when it is your time. Can you not hear them?”
Kilaney touched a control, and for a moment the auto-translation switched off. Keening cries echoed around the bridge, like a choir of tormented whale song; it was the saddest noise he’d ever heard. The Genner Youngblood leader, Brandt, rose from his chair, but Kilaney shook his head. Kilaney began entering the code.
A hissing sound interrupted him, and his finger poised as the noise morphed into words.
“Return the Holy Soldier you have stolen, and we will leave this world untouched.”
Brandt turned around. “It’s coming from the Orb, Sir, though I’m not sure how it’s interfacing with our comms system.”
Kilaney played the words over again in his head, then stared at the screen. The Orb hung silently, motionless above the planet. It should have begun its attack by now.
As Kilaney expected, the Zlarasi came through on comms a second later.
“Commander, this is an unprecedented chance. Return the one they want.”
Kilaney barely breathed. He glanced at Brandt, and said quietly, off-com-ms, “Raise our shields.”
Brandt frowned but entered the command.
The hissing voice came through again. Kilaney had no doubt the entire fleet and planet could hear it.
“One man in exchange for billions. This is not a ruse. We will leave this system and proceed to the next engagement. This world will be declared neutral territory for the duration of the war.”
Still Kilaney said nothing. He stared down at the flashing panel beneath his hand that awaited the final three digits to destroy the planet.
The Zlarasi communicated again. “Commander Kilaney, you must hand him back. The potential benefits far outweigh the risks. If this was your world you would not hesitate.”
Blake’s words drifted back to Kilaney: This was why Kalaran sent us, Bill, you and me.
Brandt stood up. “Two Zlarasi ships are now on an attack vector towards us, Sir.”
Kilaney nodded. He glanced at the screen showing Blake’s Dart in the hangar.
Brandt posed the question that Kilaney guessed the entire crew was pondering. “Can we trust Qorall? It sounds insane, but there are billions of lives at stake, Sir. Tactically speaking –”
“I’m a General. I don’t do tactics, I do strategies. You’re a Genner. Do the math. Why would Qorall make such an offer, even assuming it is legitimate?”
The Zlarasi commander came online again, her voice elevated. “Commander, we order you to –”
Brandt cut them off, staring at his Commander, standing to attention. “Your call, Sir.”
A boom signalled the first Zlarasi shot impacting the Destroyer’s shields, shortly followed by another.
“I assume we don’t return fire, Sir?” Brandt said.
Kilaney gazed at the hulk-like Genner. This was the young man’s first time in a military engagement, and yet he already made a good first officer. “Correct.”
Kilaney knew there wasn’t much time. His humanity made him hesitate, no matter the brutal logic behind his actions, but he had been Q’Roth for a long time, used to decisions that could mean you never slept soundly for the rest of your life. He entered the final code for planetary self-destruct.
The hissing came through again, despite blocked comms. “You have made a mistake. Your world will pay soon.”
The Zlarasi ships stopped firing, as the Orb lost cohesion, shedding a golden aura of death around the planet.
Ugly scarlet gashes opened up on the planet’s continents as Devourer Class bombs – used for demolition of unstable planets – ignited under its crust. The two small poles blazed white, as the vast oceans first turned from blue to a sickly green, then began to boil. It was fast, but then it had to be. Inwardly, he saluted a race who could make such bold preparations for the greater good, and wondered how mankind would fare when it was their turn.
All his Genner crew stood, transfixed by the image on the screen, except Brandt, who had his head in his hands. Kilaney made himself watch. The planet seemed to swell, as if trying to hold something in, then its entire surface turned lava red, and the world burst apart. He’d seen planets explode before, but never a heavily-inhabited one. For a moment he felt vertigo from what he’d just done, and gripped the armrests of his command chair.
“Open comms to the Zlarasi Commander,” he said, and cleared his throat.
“Commander, I fear I have made an enemy this day, but you must understand my decision.”
“We are Level Six. We understand. One man for billions, one planet for the galaxy. But you must understand that you have lost an ally today. Leave now, take your prize back to Kalaran, and pray your plan works.”
Four Wagramanian vessels appeared, scorching towards Kilaney’s Destroyer from the opposite end of the sector. Kilaney recalled that this Level Seven warrior race had recently been turned by Qorall. It was definitely time to leave.
The Zlarasi Commander continued. “When Qorall’s forces come for your world, we will be there to ensure your integrity.”
That sounded ominous. But in a flash the Zlarasi fleet was gone. Kilaney didn’t bother engaging the Level Seven Wagramanians – he was no matc
h for one of their ships, let alone four.
He leant back into his command chair as the Destroyer prepared for a long range transit. The awful truth of what he had just done settled on him like a crushing weight; billions had just ceased to exist. Despite the strategic advantage, it felt like he had just committed a war crime of unimaginable proportions. His gaze fell again upon the image of Blake’s Dart in the bay. Kilaney knew what it was like to be transformed into the enemy. But this was different; Blake was no more, what was left was a fervent Qorall follower. Whereas Kilaney had wanted to exact revenge for years on his Q’Roth captors, Blake would now willingly die for – and kill for – Qorall. Kilaney had earlier considered going down to the bay and putting a pulse bullet in Blake’s brain, so he could bury the man while his memory of him remained untarnished. But after what he himself had just done, that was no longer an option. He would see Blake’s idea through to the end, including terminating what was left of Blake if – when – necessary.
War was always like this in his experience; terrible deeds, tragedies, injustices, and crimes. Only in peacetime did any kind of justice and morality reassert itself. Those who called for war never understood until it was too late. And now he had committed one of those terrible deeds, and even if it was for the greater good, Kilaney knew there had to be a personal price to pay. The only course of action left to him personally, the only path to any kind of redemption, was to die in battle.
Brandt attracted his attention. The Wagramanians were almost in firing range.
Though Kilaney was sure he’d had worse days, none came to mind.
“Brandt, get us out of here, quickest route home.”
Kilaney sank back in his command chair, wishing he could crawl out of his skin. But he would see this through. Kalaran, time for you to show us what a Level Nineteen being can do.
Micah couldn’t deny the space station was impressive. Staring through a view screen the width of Shiva’s command bridge, he studied the Alician stronghold floating in space three kilometres away, tethered to the planet Savange, and was thankful for the null field hiding Shiva from any external sensors. The slowly rotating disc-like station was studded with metal spires and flying buttresses, and peppered with particle beam turrets. A surrounding oval bubble glistened in the distant sun’s orange rays; the Alicians’ orbital spaceport was well-shielded. A taut silver thread attached the station to the planet’s equatorial region; this tether was the most obvious target. Two Q’Roth warships patrolled the region, completely black except for Spartan green lights that slowly pulsed. The ships would no doubt react to any incursion with extreme force. Micah hadn’t yet tested Shiva’s capabilities, but a fire-fight at this stage would jeopardise the mission. For now, silence and invisibility were the best strategies.
His eyes traced the tether downwards to the Alician home world Savange, to the purple and green continent edging its way out of darkness, a smudge of yellow light marking the city where the human captives were most probably held. He walked over to the view screen, felt its cool surface first with his fingertips, then his forehead. “Hold on; we’re coming,” he said, his breath momentarily misting the screen. In his mind’s eye two faces arose, tugging him towards the planet’s surface. Micah would have come halfway across the galaxy if there had only been these two women – or even just one of them – amongst the sixty stolen by the Alicians. No matter that neither of them was his. He had to assume they were unharmed, or else he couldn’t function, and would endanger the mission. Do your job, he told himself; stay focused.
Pushing off from the view screen, he returned to his command chair set apart from the other seats and consoles, all currently vacant, arranged in an arc behind him. The lights were always low on Shiva, and the ridged, mottled brown ceiling made him feel he was inside a powerful whale. It suited his mood.
Ash entered through the arch at the rear of the bridge. The ship’s innards were a maze of corridors connecting larger enclosures, no doors anywhere. None of them were used to it yet. Ash walked barefoot, as usual, hands clasped behind his back. Ash reminded Micah of a priest; no, not a priest, a holy man. Micah had asked him why he’d changed his name from Rashid to Ash. He’d replied it was a diminutive form, but Micah didn’t buy it. There was something else. Ash had seen marvels on his inter-galactic ‘sabbatical’ before returning to this galaxy, and clearly they had left their mark on him, so much so he’d altered his persona, and his name. Yet Micah was accustomed to it now, and felt it suited him better.
Ash’s head jiggled when he spoke, an Indistani habit. He flicked a hand toward the view screen. “They do not know we are here?”
Micah shook his head. “They’d attack if they did. We’d look small and relatively defenceless.” He glanced at the command holosphere hovering to his left, each convex square on its gridded surface showing a key parameter, one of them the field around Shiva keeping the ship invisible to sight and scans. It indicated a stable shade of green. He frowned. “However, sending a Rapier down to the planet’s surface might be problematic.”
Ash’s voice was unperturbed. “Ramires is working on it. He will find a way.”
Micah’s gaze returned to the space station. Although Alicians were just two genetic steps ahead of humanity, and only one ahead of Genners, their tech level was far more advanced. Back on Earth scientists had long dreamed of – but never been able to construct – a ‘skyhook’, an orbital platform tethered to the planet by a single thread of super-strong alloy. Like an upside-down plumb line, the planet’s rotation kept everything in place. The tether also served as an elevator, able to transport people or goods up to the station and down to the surface. Micah decided it might prove useful later as an escape route, so it was best left intact.
The stark beauty of the space station irked him. The Alicians had achieved so much in the past eighteen years since they quit Earth’s charred corpse, whereas mankind’s remnants barely survived above subsistence level, having returned almost to an agrarian status. The adage ‘it’s not what you know but who you know’ evidently applied at the galactic level; the Alicians had powerful allies, willing to share advanced technology. At least the Kalarash being named Hellera had provided Micah with Shiva, a ship way beyond Alician and even Q’Roth technology. Still, it was all so damned unfair, not that fairness had any currency when it came to galactic survival.
Ash cleared his throat. “Perhaps Ramires was right about the Nova bomb.”
“No,” Micah said. He’d been very clear on that issue.
Ash’s head stilled, bowing a fraction. He turned to leave.
“I’m sending you both down to the surface.”
Ash’s head turned back towards the purple and green ball hanging in star-speckled darkness on the view screen.
“I want you to try the cloak, Ash. See if it works.” Micah smiled. “We have no privacy aboard this ship anyway.”
Ash nodded and walked to the arch. Micah called after him, still staring at the station, wondering how many Alicians were aboard.
“Ash, you must have seen so many strange things on your travels: wonders, horrors. You never talk about it.” He broke away from the screen to face Ash’s skinny frame, and stared straight into his all-black eyes; Mannekhi eyes given to Ash by Kalaran, the reason only recently made apparent.
“What most affected you?” Micah asked.
An air of sadness imbued Ash’s words. “The rarity of compassion.”
Micah didn’t buy it, guessing that Ash’s response was intended as a message. I’m not the one you need to convince. He watched him leave, then reached out for the holo-cube, twisted it, and tapped one square. It expanded into a single table-top sized square of information: weapons status. The Nova bomb was still there, locked down in the weapons bay. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Ramires…
He decided to check in with him, Shiva instantaneously opening up a one-to-one channel between him and Ramires, so that no one else heard. Micah presumed this was based on the use of Ramires’ name,
as well as context and the tone of the speaker’s voice.
“Ramires, any prog–”
“I’ve found a weakness in their detection grid. We can get a Rapier down there, next window eight hours.”
Ramires’ voice was cutting and urgent; fair enough, given that his son had been killed only a month ago and his wife was one of the captives down on Savange. Micah took a breath, and broadened the communication parameters. “Listen up everyone, briefing in six hours. Until then get some rest.”
There were no replies; he didn’t expect any. Like him, everyone wanted to act, not hang around in orbit. Although he’d told the others to get some rest, he pulled out a small rectangular patch from his chest pocket and pressed it to the side of his neck. A cold flush bristled across his face and neck, then trickled down his spine. He shivered once, discarded the patch, then began planning strategies and tactics, back-up plans, and backups to the backups, using the resident in his brain to help him store and compare the scenarios. In his training back on Earth as an Optron analyst he’d learned that chess masters thought five moves ahead; less and they got beaten, more and it made no difference due to the unreliability of predicting that many steps ahead. But he was dealing with Alicians, so he pushed out the boundaries to seven. His resident informed him there were in excess of two hundred and fifty credible scenarios of varying likelihood. “Thanks,” he said, to the echo-less walls.
Involuntarily the faces of Antonia and Sandy crystallised again in his mind, making him pause. Shiva, constantly scanning Micah’s resident, interrupted him.
