by Barry Kirwan
Right now he had to rescue Ash; he’d seen too many comrades fall in battle. Calming his breathing, he tried to think like an Alician, and sauntered up to the fair-haired man at the alleyway entrance.
“Louise may want to question whoever is in there.”
The man turned around, his eyes a startling blue, offsetting a chiselled Nordic face. “I don’t know you.” The man’s right arm, holding a weapon, tensed.
Ramires held his gaze. “Rodriguez, Keftan Sector.” He nodded to the alleyway, the noise of threshing claws scraping the walls getting louder. “A spy always has a watcher,” he said, citing an old Alician proverb.
The man relaxed a little. “You call them off, Rodriguez. Let’s see how good your Q’Roth is.”
Ramires did not smile or show any indignation; such traits were human, and might give him away. Instead he bellowed a Q’Roth command, adding a colloquial swearword for added effect. The whipping noise ceased amidst a guttural response from the nearest warrior, which included its own far more severe curse.
Ramires moved to the entrance, and shouted in clear English. “You have five seconds to make yourself visible, after which time they will recommence until blood bursts from your shredded corpse.”
The fair-headed man and a few others craned their necks to see beyond the Q’Roth warrior. Ramires didn’t bother. Micah’s plan had five back-ups, though Ramires judged they were already on Plan C. He counted the Alicians around him: fifteen, too many to skip to Plan F, which was barely a plan in any case.
Ash was man-handled out by the Q’Roth warriors, lacerating his forearms in the process. One of the warriors swiped at the back of his legs whilst pressing down on his shoulders, dropping Ash to his knees.
“Mannekhi,” Ramires said, with disdain, pointing to the all-black eyes. “I’d hoped for a human.”
The lead Alician drew his right arm back, then punched the side of Ash’s face with full force, knocking him to the ground. “That’s for my brother, pathetic Mannekhi Q’Tach! One of your Spikers took out his ship while he was on a med-evac run!”
Ramires turned to the rest of the crowd. “Anyone else? He needs to be able to talk, otherwise, feel free.”
Ash lifted his head from the ground. Blood mixed with saliva spooled from his mouth into a small puddle on the terracotta ground.
A slightly older woman moved to the front. “My husband,” she said, her voice shaky, “his name was Anton.”
Without hesitation she kicked at Ash’s ribs with surprising power. Ramires held his face poker-neutral, as Ash rolled over, clutching his sides, his face contorted in pain. Ramires hoped Vashta’s elixir lived up to its reputation. He squatted, held out his hand.
“The field emitter.”
Ash struggled onto his hands and knees, then snapped a button off his belt, and handed it to Ramires without looking at him. Ramires stood, and passed it to the Alician male. He took a gamble.
“Lucky the new detector worked.”
The man studied Ramires. “How do you know about it?”
Ramires kept his face serene, but he was making it all up as he went along. In his Sentinel training in the Himalayas – a lifetime ago – he would often be put in situations like this, having to talk his way out of situations, like a lobster bartering its way out of a pot of boiling water. He knew he had to gain this man’s trust, get away from the crowd, and lose the two Q’Roth warriors. He banked on an old piece of Sentinel intel, that Alician leaders were notoriously secretive about their plans, even to other Alicians. Information was power, and was often on a ‘you don’t need to know’ basis.
Ramires puffed out his chest a little. “I was a member of Louise’s Achillia.”
The man drew back, even as some of the others moved closer around Ramires.
“We were told Louise acted alone,” the man said, eyes narrowing.
Ramires nodded, then turned to face the crowd, catching their eager eyes. “That is what Louise wanted people to believe. How else could she gain the trust of Qorall?” He turned back to the Alician male to clinch it. “It was, of course, Sister Esma’s idea all along.”
The man’s brow furrowed, then smoothed, against a background of chatter from the others; the lie resonated with their adulation for their recently deceased leader.
“Her Eminence always played the deep, long strategy.” He gazed at the floor.
Ramires continued, sealing it. “Such a loss. But Louise – whilst not Sister Esma – is her rightful heir.”
“Yes,” the man said, the others murmuring agreement. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he said, “My name is Torkell. It is an honour to meet you, Rodriguez. Do you wish to take the prisoner to Louise yourself?”
It was tempting, but it would cut across their traditions. “No, Torkell. The capture,” he flicked a hand towards Ash, still on the floor, “and the kill, are yours. But, with your consent, I will accompany you.”
Torkell nodded, almost graciously.
Two Alicians hauled Ash to his feet, and the Q’Roth moved in to follow. Ramires stood in their way, then spoke Q’Roth. “The tether. He or his accomplices have probably rigged explosives to it, to serve as a distraction. You will be fastest to secure it.”
Torkell nodded, adding his own supporting instruction. They galloped away on all six legs, Alicians scattering in front of them as they sped around a corner. Ramires had forgotten how fast they ran.
Torkell and four others, weapons drawn, escorted Ash to the central spire, amidst a growing crowd of Alician onlookers pointing to Ramires as much as Ash. Ramires knew his lie had worked too well, and that gossip had spread like wildfire. He could have made some excuse and departed, but then he would probably never see Ash alive again.
He and Ash were now on Plan F, as Zack used to call it. He had a nanosword in an inside pocket, and a small triggering device for the explosives on the base of the tether. Ash looked beaten up, but was tougher than he seemed, and Ramires trusted Vashta’s skill. However, once he and Ash met with Louise, they would be quickly undone.
The central, gleaming spire, two hundred metres tall, almost all metal with narrow slits instead of windows, loomed up ahead, and Ramires knew he was out of options. Micah, whatever you’re planning, now would be good. But they kept walking, and nothing happened. They crossed the threshold guarded by six Q’Roth warriors and entered the building that housed Louise and her true Achillia, the elite personal guard inherited from Sister Esma, and Ramires knew that he and Ash were on their own. Sandy, I fear I’ve screwed up; forgive me. He and Ash had run out of options; it would be up to Micah now.
A small group walked briskly toward them, led by a woman with a blonde ponytail and pretty but hardened features. Louise. It felt to Ramires as if all the deceased Sentinel masters suddenly sat up out of their graves, and watched intently. As if guided by their chilled, ghostly fingers, Ramires’ left hand slid into his pocket, the one holding the nanosword. He strode forward, past Torkell, as if to greet an old friend.
Jen drifted along yet another dark tunnel, having managed to cross-connect power to get one of the helmet torch beams working again, at least for the moment. According to her wrist monitor she had thirty minutes of recyclable air remaining – it was already hot and stuffy inside her helmet, and there was only so much the oxygen recycler could do. She’d been walking in a daze for nearly an hour, and a stubby rock protruded from the normally smooth floor, the first she’d seen since leaving the chamber where Dimitri had… Anyway, it was too inviting a chance to miss. She sat down, and acknowledged that she might never get up again.
Jen was tired. No, she decided, she was weary. She knew enough psychophysiology to understand that grief was depleting her resources, her motivation, and her will to live. Added to that was a sense of futility. She’d given up on her idea that a ship was down here, having wandered endlessly through the subterranean maze using a grid-based search pattern that should have found something by now. Pile on top of that the bleak darkness and sl
ow but inevitable loss of oxygen, and, well... She didn’t need to finish that thought process.
Jen figured there were two alternatives. The first was to take off her helmet. It would be painful for a couple of minutes, then she’d be gone, it would be over. Sooner or later it was going to happen in any case. The advantage of sooner was that she was fully conscious now, but as the oxygen molecules disappeared from her micro-environment, she’d enter a semi-conscious fugue; it might be better to die fully awake.
The second alternative was to go to sleep. It should work. She could activate a delta wave inducer in her helmet. It was there to induce a pseudo-coma and save oxygen in case a rescue mission was on the way, which wasn’t the case. Going to sleep sounded pretty appealing. She could lay down, think of Dimitri, and slide into the arms of Morpheus.
She sat up. At first Jen thought she was hallucinating. But it had the feel of nodal communication, a light pressure like a breeze on the left side of her brain where the speech centre housed her node. She closed her eyes and concentrated on nodal communication, which was a different process for each individual. For Jen, it was like imagining a slow-moving but wide river, and she had to keep it flowing without letting it speed up or stop. Given that she was deep underground, Jen guessed at the only person it could be
Six sentences came in ‘choired’, all hitting her node at the same time, like sudden turbulence in the river:
That’s what it was like with Kalaran, multiplexed communication all the time. Jen knew he was having to slow things down dramatically for her, and even then the thought stream was intense, but she’d gotten used to it during her one year sabbatical with him. Kalaran always jumped ahead, covering a lot of ground in a short space of time, leaving her to play catch-up. He didn’t do small talk, and conversations with him were usually short and sticky, leaving her to ponder about them for hours afterwards. So she always kept her side pointed as well.
Normally, Jen would try and infer what Kalaran meant; it had become an educational game during her stay on his ship. But she was very tired.
Jen waited, idly wondering what she saw in Kalaran. At the end of the day, he was a taker, using her for his own ends. But he was also the smartest being in the galaxy, so she cut him some slack.
The first wave hit, literally like a surge of flood water flowing down her river. Not so bad. Then she felt the next one building, a tidal wave that made her want to shut off nodal comms and hide behind the boulder.
Jen found herself on the floor, face down, her helmet lights showing the dusty ground centimetres from her eyes. There was a terrible smell.
She no longer had control of the node, otherwise she would have cut it off as a freezing ocean fell on top of her. She began to convulse, as if being electrocuted, and all she could think of was getting her tongue out of the way so she didn’t bite it off.
After a while, the pain abated, and she imagined herself on the riverside, the waters calming down.
It was the first time she didn’t get an immediate response from Kalaran. When she did, it wasn’t what she was expecting.
Again, there was a delay. She’d meant it as a rhetorical question. What the hell could he do for her that would matter?
Again no response.
Gabriel? Sandy’s son? But he was dead. She’d never met him; while she’d spent a year with Kalaran outside the galaxy, eighteen years had slipped by on Esperia, so he’d grown into a full adult and been killed before she could even meet him. She’d only had a short chance to talk to him right before he’d died, and she’d seen him once via the Hohash. He had looked so much like his father, her brother of the same name. And the way he had died… He deserved that name, his father would have been proud if he’d still been alive.
Jen got onto all fours, then stood up. For the first time she could feel the interference on nodal comms, as if the water level in the river was dropping rapidly. Not now, dammit! Time was running out, and for the first time ever, Jen ‘choired’ a message back to Qorall.
Jen’s eyes misted. The riverbed was almost dry, just a trickle now.
She didn’t understand.
She waited, but there was no reply. She closed her eyes a moment, recalling the good times with Kalaran, Dimitri and Ash on the ship, exploring other galaxies. Who could have asked for more? Thank you.
Jen took three deep breaths, despite the stink from her vomit. She began walking. After ten minutes her torch sputtered and failed. She stopped, tried to get it working again, but it was no use. Then she realised she didn’t need it; she could see in the dark.
Nice one, Kal.
Blake walked towards the wall of fog, his bare feet sinking into the soft sand, then stopped. He looked back. The mist completely encircled his private beach – for want of a better word – which was the size of an old football field. Hazy light filtered through to where he stood, while the slowly swirling fog wall was impenetrable. He reached its edge. It was as if there was a barrier keeping it out, or keeping him in. He raised a hand and let his fingers sink into the mist. Cold, damp. Like fog. Not a barrier then. He looked back one last time at the beach. Nothing there. “So be it,” he said, about to take a step.
“I wouldn’t do that, Boss.”
Blake spun around. Zack. But Zack was dead. Kalaran?
“No, Boss, just me this time, sort of. Kalaran put me here, in your head, to stop you going in there.” Zack waved a finger at the
fog. “Walk away from it, over here, that stuff gives me the creeps.”
Blake took a few steps towards Zack. It looked like him: a burly six foot guy, black, bald, with an infectious grin and a voice to match. Blake hadn’t said what he’d needed to say to Zack last time, because then it had really been Kalaran. He knew it still wasn’t the real Zack, but better than nothing.
“Where are we, Zack?”
“Like I said, Boss, in your head. Qorall’s Orb attacked you, it’s trying to re-write you. Kalaran created this hiding place in your mind, though it won’t last long.”
It didn’t make much sense to Blake, so he focused on what did, on some unfinished business with his best friend.
“Zack, I’m sorry about what happened to you back on Esperia, when Louise attacked. I should have seen it coming, should have read the signs. I already suspected Louise had put the implant in your head.”
Zack stood just out of arm’s reach, and squatted down. “Ancient history, Boss. I almost killed you, then went travelling with Micah to see the galaxy.” He dug his fingers into the sand, pulled them out, and watched the sand fall back through them. “Point is, Qorall’s Orb has done something similar to you.”
“Where am I, Zack?”
“A bubble in your mind. Kalaran put it there. Well, actually the Spider did.”
Blake sat down, crossed his legs. “You’d better start at the beginning. We have time, don’t we?”
“Some, anyways.” Zack looked up, grinned, stretched his legs out in front of him, and leant back on his elbows. “Once upon a time…” He belly-laughed, then shook his head. “Okay. Seriously, because this is serious. We need you to fight what Qorall’s done to you.”
“How, exactly?”
“There’s the problem, Boss. You’re not in conscious control, so how do you fight something you’re not aware of?”
Blake stared at Zack and waited, then realised that what his former friend had said wasn’t meant to be rhetorical. “I don’t know.”
“No. So, this is how we have to do it. I need to plant something in your head that will help you fight back emotionally, when the time comes.”
