by Barry Kirwan
Vasquez touched his earpiece. “Two ships have entered the Shrell field.”
Petra’s breath stalled; she couldn’t weather another attack.
Vasquez paced while he listened, then he stopped and faced her. “Thank you,” he said. “Keep me informed.”
He walked to Petra and placed his hands on her shoulders, as if to steady her. “One is Shiva. Micah, Kat and Antonia are aboard.”
Petra found that his steady hands were welcome, as she stifled a gasp of relief.
“The other ship?”
“Unknown, a small vessel already landed in the mountains. There’s a third vessel on long range sensors coming in at a terrific speed, broadcasting a Ranger’s code.”
“Rush hour,” she said. “The Spiders must know, somehow.”
She saw Brandt walking towards them, but he was being followed a few paces behind by another man she didn’t recognise, though he looked somehow familiar. Brandt waved to her, then stopped and spun around. Petra saw something in the other man’s hand. Dread filled her, and she burst into a sprint towards them. But even as she approached, the two men had already become locked in a struggle. Brandt was much larger, but the other man moved like no one else she’d ever seen, barring Ramires. Vasquez followed her, bellowing orders, but most of the militia had already gone back to the town.
Brandt appeared to be winning, his tree-trunk arms wrestling with the man, but suddenly his head shot backwards and she heard a snap, and his body flopped onto the ground.
Vasquez, right behind her, tripped her, sending her sprawling to the ground, as he opened fire with a pulse rifle on freeflow, taking no chances. But the man stood unperturbed, the beam flowing around him like a river round a boulder; he had a personal shield, a defence she’d never seen. He stepped over Brandt’s corpse and walked towards Vasquez as if taking a stroll. He pulled out a hand-held weapon and rapid-fired at six militia men approaching from the town. There were six staccato sounds as darts struck each man in the centre of the forehead. All six men crashed into the dust, eyes still open. Petra got to her feet, but Vasquez split away from her, the man following him. Petra dashed over to Brandt, keeping one eye on the killer and Vasquez. Brandt was dead, his neck snapped. Petra closed his eyes, and touched his lips with her fingertips.
“Old style,” the man said to Vasquez.
“It never grows old,” Vasquez replied. He unsheathed two commando knives, and carved the air before him in circular and spiral movements difficult to foresee. The man faced Vasquez, his hands and arms spread wide, inviting attack. Vasquez lunged but at the last second pulled back, avoiding a ferocious roundhouse punch. The intruder was incredibly fast, and spun like a dervish, savage kicks flicking outwards, forcing Vasquez to retreat even while he jabbed at the man’s feet and legs, finding no flesh to cut. The outer edge of the man’s foot whiplashed into Vasquez’ right forearm then the left, sending both knives spinning from his hands. Vasquez recovered and his right fist smashed into the man’s jaw, but the punch had little effect. Vasquez stilled, face-to-face with the attacker, then he looked down. Petra followed his gaze; the man’s hand had punctured Vasquez’ trunk just below the sternum, his fingers buried in Vasquez up to the knuckles. She got up as Vasquez collapsed to his knees, glanced at her once, and shouted a single word before he fell forwards:
“RUN!”
The man faced her, his right hand red with gore. Pulse shots ricocheted off the man’s shield as Xenic’s men raced towards them, but Petra knew they wouldn’t make it in time.
“My name is Toran,” he said. “I will make it quick.”
Petra could have run, but she recognised this assassin’s tactic, to instil fear in those around her, and so she stood her ground as he walked towards her. He pulled out a thin rod she recognised; so, he had killed Ramires. The electric blue nanoblade stretched from its sheath, as his arm curled in a backswing. She refused to blink, and stared him in the eyes, squeezing her lips tight so they wouldn’t tremble. Her body tensed, but the blade stopped centimetres before her neck, a tanned fist locked around the assassin’s wrist. Petra turned to see who had just saved her life, and then nearly stumbled as she saw the face of the new arrival. She whispered his name. “Gabriel!” She knew it couldn’t really be him, but he looked so like the Youngblood warrior she had loved all her life, and whom she knew to be dead.
Toran whirled back into a defensive position, for the first time not looking serene, and faced Gabriel. Xenic and his men arrived, carrying heavy weaponry. Gabriel held up an open palm, and they lowered their weapons, instead forming a circle around the two men. Petra forced her way inside, and stood next to Xenic.
Gabriel looked different somehow, there was no fire in his eyes; they looked vacant, and he hadn’t recognised her. She stared from Gabriel to Toran; the resemblance was clear as day, now she saw them together. There were no photos of the original Gabriel from Earth, but it must be two clones, father and son. And they didn’t know. She made to move forward, to say something, but Xenic seized her arm and shook his head.
Toran launched into an attack with the nanosword, shrieking a fearsome warrior’s kiai as he flashed the sword down, but the younger Gabriel blurred out of the way, the electric blue blade missing him by millimetres, while his fist shot like a piston into Toran’s chest, sending him flying backwards. Petra knew no ordinary fist could hit that hard; the blow had sounded almost like metal on flesh. And no human or Alician could move that fast. The clone of Gabriel had been enhanced.
“Are you a Sentinel or an assassin?” Gabriel said. “It makes no difference to me, but to you it may matter how you die, who you choose to be when the killing blow comes.”
Toran coughed on the floor, discarded the nanosword, and stood. He attacked with a flurry of blows almost too fast to see, Gabriel moving equally fast, evading and counter-striking each fist, foot and elbow, the impact sounds like a frenetic drumbeat, the last one a hammer fist down onto Toran’s head, knocking him to the ground. Petra winced at the sound of his skull fracturing.
Toran got up, but could barely walk, as blood pumped from the top of his head, and ran down his face in streaks. Gabriel punched the man so hard in the chest even Xenic flinched as everyone heard Toran’s chest-cage shatter, blood spraying from his mouth. He collapsed onto the ground, then managed to get to his knees and half stand up. She had no idea how he was even still alive. Gabriel walked over, locked his arms around the man and dragged him over to Petra.
“Finish him,” he said.
Again she wanted to say something, but Xenic squeezed her arm.
“Do not speak, Petra. End this now.”
She stared first at Gabriel, and then the broken man trapped in his arms. She wanted to tell Gabriel that this was his father, even if he was only a clone. Xenic released her and she stepped forward, her chest heaving. She looked Gabriel in the eye, but saw only a warrior’s resolution. Toran looked up to her, his eyes drenched in blood, struggling to breathe. He closed his lips and nodded.
Petra knew the mechanics of it. She planted her right hand on the back of Toran’s skull. He didn’t struggle, but Gabriel held him tighter. Warm blood trickled over her forearm as she gripped Toran’s chin with her other hand. She braced herself, but couldn’t bring herself to do it.
“For Brandt,” Gabriel said. “I remember him. He was my friend.”
Without taking her eyes off Gabriel, she thought of her one-night lover lying in the dust, and snapped Toran’s neck, feeling the inner crunch, and then let go at the same time Gabriel did, so that Toran crumpled to the floor. She lowered her blood-soaked hands and stared at them. She’d never killed before. She felt sick to her stomach.
A sonic boom followed by a ripping sound announced Shiva’s return. She knew that later she’d be glad to see them all, that the mission to Savange had been a success, and that both her parents had safely returned, but right now she felt as if she’d lost so much, and she felt ashamed for taking another’s life. She wanted to tell Gabriel th
at they had just killed a clone of his father, but to what end? She knelt down and touched Toran’s head, and for the third time in the space of an hour closed dead eyes.
“Bury him with honour,” she said. “Whatever else he was, he deserves a warrior’s burial.”
A group of militia ferried his body away, and she accepted a hand from Gabriel to get to her feet. She wiped her eyes, glancing over to Brandt’s body, also being carried away by four Youngbloods.
“You look like Gabriel, but he was killed,” she said.
“The Kalarash downloaded as much of me as they could before… I do not have good memories, though I remember Brandt. I am only sorry I did not make it here earlier. The one called Hellera sent me here in a capsule that whisked me to the surface, the Spiders dropped the shield for an instant to let me through.”
She said nothing, just stared at him, trying to remind herself that those beautiful eyes were those of a clone, that the Gabriel she had loved was dead.
“You are Petra, aren’t you?”
She nodded.
“You meant something to him, the original. But there was another, Virginia. Is she…?”
Petra shook her head. “Why are you here?”
He looked up at the sky, to the growing dot that was Shiva. “I have a message from Hellera, for the one called Micah.”
Sandy heard voices. “In here,” she shouted. “Come quickly.” She’d seen Toran killed, but the four hours was nearly up, the toxin about to be released.
Micah entered along with the Ossyrian female doctor, Vashta. Micah came over to her straight away.
“No time, Micah, there’s some kind of auto-release of a toxin about to happen, you need to stop it.”
He and Vashta tried to read the console, but everything was encoded, except a digital countdown that registered five minutes and ten seconds remaining. He raised his wristcom to his lips.
“Shiva, tractor us up into space, as far from Esperia as possible.”
Sandy heard a thunk as the hatch sealed, then felt her stomach freefall as they shot up into the sky.
“Free her,” he said to Vashta, grimacing as he inspected the back of her head.
As they ascended, Micah seemed preoccupied, saying nothing until the blue of sky faded to black, and the stars became visible through the criss-cross pattern of Shrell filaments.
At last she was free, and could stand again, as long as she held onto something.
Micah moved closer. Without warning he hugged her. She stood stiffly, her arms refusing to embrace him, and he let her go.
“I’m sorry, Sandy I’m just relieved to find you alive. We all thought… But you must be grief-stricken over the loss of Ramires. He was... unequalled.” He turned to the screen. “Did you see –?”
“Gabriel, yes. Is it really him?” She didn’t dare to hope.
“I honestly don’t know. Petra is trying to find out. She said he’s a clone. I came straight to this vessel. To be honest I thought Louise might be here.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Micah.” She mentally kicked herself. Why did she always do that?
He frowned. “What? No, I mean she escaped –”
“Stop, Micah. Please.”
He looked crestfallen, and turned back to the screens. Vashta started patching up the back of her skull, and for the first time she felt pain rising like heat inside her head.
The countdown reached zero, and she heard a click from beneath the floor.
“Shiva,” Micah said, “let us know when it’s finished.”
Sandy watched him from the back, wondering what to say; her head was a mess, filled with Ramires, and now Gabriel. She needed time. But she knew there wasn’t any left. She cleared her throat.
“Micah, Toran told me something, something you need to know.”
He turned his head a little, not enough to see her, just enough to show he was listening.
“About Louise.” She hesitated, knowing what his reaction would be.
Vashta moved in front of her, quicksilver eyes dancing. She spoke in her grating choir voice. “There is a complication. What this Toran did to you. It is a Q’Roth interrogation technique, and works on the human left hemisphere, creating a short circuit to a particular part of the right brain and limbic system. Usually the subject dies eventually, but I have fixed you, mostly. You will live.”
Micah turned around, looking concerned.
“Mostly?” she said.
“You must not lie, at least for the next week, as it may cause a neural cascade failure. If you do lie, either by telling a lie, or even by not speaking the truth and remaining silent, your vision will alter, you will notice it.”
“Are you joking?” Her heart began to beat faster.
Vashta’s quicksilver eyes stopped moving, just for a fraction of a second.
“It doesn’t matter, as long as you live,” Micah said.
But Sandy was terrified he’d ask her the same question Toran had asked. “Promise me you won’t ask me anything, Micah.”
His brow creased. “What? Why?”
“Just promise me.”
He shook his head. “Fine,” he said. He took his chair again, facing away from her. “You were saying something about Louise.”
“Yes.” She relaxed. This was safer ground. “Toran told me her plan.”
“To join with the other Alicians –”
“No. To go to the Q’Roth High Queen.”
He stopped moving. “Why?”
“To persuade her to switch sides.”
Micah snorted. “What could she possibly offer the Queen to persuade her?”
“Nchkani technology.”
Micah spun around. “But how?”
“When Louise surrendered the Anxorian rifle to the Nchkani, apparently there was a coded message to Qorall. The Q’Roth are only Level Six, but they’re still the most formidable warriors in the galaxy. Imagine if they had Nchkani hardware…”
Micah paced, then suddenly slammed his fist into the hull.
“Micah, this is Shiva. The toxin release is over. I am going to decontaminate your vessel, then you can dock with me.”
He slumped back into the chair, rubbed his hands down over his face. “I should have killed her.”
“You know, I’m tired of hearing you say that, Micah.”
But she watched him, saw how fatigued he was, how he was on the very edge. She wanted to say something to him, to let him know that she still cared for him, that she’d buried it all these years, but it was still there, deep down. Instead she said nothing, just watched him as her vision became increasingly grainy.
Micah counted the nine empty chairs at Council: Blake, Kilaney, Ramires, Dimitri, Vasquez, Brandt, Pierre, Ash and Sonja. He couldn’t quite believe it; he could see their faces as clearly as if they were right in front of him. Wars displaced people, he knew that; some died, some went away for good. But three quarters of Council… It was one thing imagining the worst, and quite another staring it in the face.
Two emotional roller-coaster weeks had flown by, most people of Esperantia elated that they had survived the attack of the recoded Mannekhi, and plenty of happy reunions for the returned captives from Savange. Then one sorry funeral after another, uncertainty over what had happened to Pierre, and worry over how Ash and Sonja would cope surrounded by Alicians. Micah had left most people to their own grief, because he didn’t want to trigger his own personal crisis over the loss of Blake, his mentor for so long.
As for the three women he cared about, Sandy had avoided him, Antonia had reunited with Kat, and Petra was befriending the new Gabriel, introducing him to the Youngbloods.
Jen had initially tried to get close to the new Gabriel, but there was no connection, everyone had seen that, he guessed because the original Youngblood had not known her, and this new version seemed less capable of emotional attachment. For the first time since he’d known Jen, he felt sorry for her, and also as if they finally had something in common: both back, yet both alone.
He’d spent most of his time with her and Xenic, another outsider, focusing on the war. That was what held him together.
Petra caught his eye, and he nodded. She called the meeting to order.
“Please take your seats; all except that one,” she said, indicating Blake’s chair in amongst the circle of twelve.
Micah counted. Jen, Xenic, Sandy, Gabriel, Kat, Antonia, Aramisk, Vashta, Petra and Micah. So, we are ten. He added Shiva, who was listening in via his resident. Eleven. And he felt that if there was anything after, then Blake would be watching, too. Then we are twelve, after all. He raised a hand, and Petra nodded. He took the central floor.
“I’d like to summarize our position and that of the galactic war.” Jen and Xenic were sitting side by side. He acknowledged them. “If I miss anything out, please jump in.”
He clicked finger and thumb and a holo sprang forth from a vid-projector, coalescing shimmering photons to form a white-centred spiral galaxy, more than half of it red, with small golden dots on the edge of Qorall’s wave front signifying Orbs. A blue ring highlighted Esperia, almost at the red frontier.
“This is how it was two weeks ago.” He clicked again, and heard gasps from some of the others. The red area had retreated, and the Orbs had entirely disappeared.
“We have this intel from the Hohash, and from occasional links with Hellera. The Machines have eliminated the Orb threat. As far as we can tell, all of them have been destroyed.” He met Petra’s eyes, and glanced at Kat. “We believe Pierre is to thank for this.” Kat’s face remained calm, though she took Petra’s hand.
“As you know, almost immediately after…” His words stalled for a moment. “After Blake and Kilaney restored the Mannekhi, Vashta formulated both an aerosol and a Transpatial version of the antigen, and Ossyrian triage vessels and Shrell have been spreading it across worlds all along the front. As each race is freed from Qorall, they rejoin the war effort on Hellera’s side, hence the reversion is proceeding exponentially.”
“A double-whammy,” Sandy said. She smiled, holding his gaze.
