Solomon's Arrow

by J. Dalton Jennings

  She paused to study Solomon’s reaction. A look of resignation was written on his face.

  “This is terribly confusing, how can you be my father?” she groaned, rubbing her left temple. “Either you’re the world’s best-preserved old fart, or you have an extremely good plastic surgeon on payroll.”

  For the next half-hour, Solomon unburdened his soul, telling his astonishing story for the first time. He started out tentative but was soon animated: his demeanor changed; his attitude shifted; more than a century’s weight of unshared secrets were finally lifting from his shoulders. With his tale at last complete, a sad, relieved smile lingered on his lips.

  Bram knew that it must have taken a terrific amount of courage to reveal such a secret. He shifted his gaze to Gloria and saw that she was staring sadly at the ground. She hurriedly brushed away a tear that was trickling down her cheek.

  “Gloria, are you all right?” he asked, unsure exactly why she was so upset but sensing a storm of powerful emotions in the usually reserved young woman.

  In a barely audible voice, she said, “I … I had a sister …”

  •

  Her name was Selena.

  Gloria felt numb, yet she also felt wracked with grief. It was a strange sensation, one that she’d felt only two other times in her life—when her mother and brother had died. To make matters worse, a kernel of anger had taken root in her breast. It grew like a noxious weed, eventually dispelling the numbness. The object of this steadily growing anger was none other than Solomon Chavez himself, whom she’d just learned was somehow (quite improbably) her father, not her brother as she’d believed for the past twenty-seven years.

  At the age of nine, her mother told her who her real father was, shortly after breaking up with Aaron’s father for the third and final time. She’d always suspected the bastard wasn’t her real father: he’d as much as said so on more than one occasion. Furthermore, she’d caught him staring at her whenever she wore a bathing suit or left the shower wearing nothing but a towel. A real father would’ve never had that hungry look in his eye … or at least, not a decent father.

  After learning the truth that her father was the rich and famous Juan Chavez, she’d fantasized about finding a way to be close to him. She’d studied hard in school in the hopes of one day being hired by one of his companies, where she’d rise up through the ranks, eventually be noticed by him, before revealing the truth about her parentage. Her grades weren’t good enough to earn a scholarship to university, so she’d entered the military instead, thinking that her dream would take longer than expected. After four years in the British army, she left and went to work for a Welsh security firm. That’s where she’d met Floyd Sullivant. The firm was associated with a British subsidiary of CIMRAD, Juan Chavez’s massive business empire. She’d finally stuck her toe in the proverbial door and was determined to keep it there. Her goal was to network her way through the system until somehow garnering a job working for the great man himself, but then, ten years ago, she’d learned of his death. It was devastating. All her plans were ruined … until Solomon appeared out of nowhere and renewed her hopes. If she couldn’t stand at her father’s side, she would settle for a mysterious half-brother.

  Now, here he was, sitting in a God-forsaken tunnel, claiming to be her father, telling a story that made her head spin. Perhaps this was all an illusion caused by the deadly fungus that sucked her blood. Despite the transfusion she received, Gloria still felt queasy and a bit feverish.

  “I don’t feel well,” she moaned.

  “Here, drink some water,” Bram said, handing her a full bottle from the emergency pack.

  Snatching it up, she took a series of hearty gulps before handing the bottle back, feeling sick to her stomach. The tunnel started to spin. “Something’s wrong … I’m dizzy.”

  Bram ordered her to lie down and rest, and she obeyed willingly. She gazed up at the ceiling, her forehead and cheeks flush from the heat. She was tired—so tired. She was unable to keep her eyes open, even as Solomon mumbled something about a virus—a virus from his blood.

  21

  Slipping out of his coveralls, Richard tossed them over the chair beside his bed and slid under the silky sheets. With the admiral out of commission, he needed to catch a few winks. He’d have his work cut out for him if she ended up being hospitalized for an extended period of time.

  He was about to order the lights turned off when he was struck by a thought. Earlier that night, after conferring with Chancellor Threman about the admiral’s condition and receiving the runaround over the search for Albans, Chavez, and Waters, he’d retired to his apartment, having completely forgotten about pocketing the admiral’s CID. It was in his coveralls, the fourth file still unread.

  Richard sat there debating whether to use his command code to access the file’s information or wait for the admiral to recover from her injuries enough to access it herself. If the file was anywhere near as disturbing as the others he’d seen, he probably should access it; however, such an action might also be interpreted as an overreach of authority.

  Finally, after weighing both sides, he told the computer to turn off the lights. Whatever data was stored in the fourth file could wait a little longer, at least until after he learned whether or not the admiral survived her surgery.

  •

  Bloody hell, why is it so bright? Katherine wondered. It was only a moment ago that she’d been standing beside the meteor crater. It should not be dark outside.

  With great effort, her eyes fluttered open. One thing was certain: she was no longer lying beside the crater. But where was she? Katherine scanned her surroundings, her vision quickly regaining its focus. She lay under a white sheet in a small, sparsely furnished room, with what appeared to be medical equipment positioned on either side of her bed. Then she remembered: she’d been hit by a spear—an ice spear at that.

  But how was that even possible? At that point, Katherine remembered something else: the contents of the third file. For some inexplicable reason, the data contained within that file, though disconcerting upon first read, no longer disturbed her. What did it matter if the men of New Terra weren’t actually male but were instead genetically engineered females designed to look like men? Her thoughts then turned to the Arrow and how its passenger manifest leaned toward the female side. It had been determined before launch that there should be a larger quota of women to men, mainly to help alleviate petty jealousies in regard to mating rituals. With more women than men to choose from, there would be less reason for men to fight over who would be paired with whom.

  But none of that mattered anymore. A separate section of the third file went into detail about New Terra’s true birthing method: unbeknownst to the city’s inhabitants, their purported Lord had nothing to do with supplying babies, as claimed by Jemis Calverton, the High Priestess of New Terra. Their ritualized births were simply a ruse to hide the fact that their babies were being grown in, and being delivered via, artificial wombs, similar to those developed by Juan Chavez in the twenty-first century. The only part of the file that puzzled her, and might’ve had some connection to her attack, was the section on why the New Terrans had resorted to using artificial wombs in the first place.

  Before developing their rigid, clockwork-like societal apparatus, New Terran society was less defined, more undisciplined; a community of layabouts for the most part. After a conservative government came to power, all that changed. Institutional reforms were created that angered a significant portion of the citizenry. Demonstrations were held, followed by civil disobedience, which ultimately led to catastrophic riots. In due course, government forces put down the unrest, but many rioters were killed in the process. The ones who survived were exiled from the city. Fearing the forest, they set out for the ice field, never to be heard from again. Fifty years after their exile, rumors surfaced of elusive hairy beasts being spotted on the ice, yet none were ever captured. Katherine was certain those mythical hairy Yotls (as the locals called them) were d
escendants of their exiled rebels. She felt the truth of it in her bones.

  As for why New Terrans began to use artificial wombs: they were employed, in conjunction with an indigenous contraceptive surreptitiously introduced into the food supply, to ensure that only the “right” sort of babies were born.

  As Katherine pondered this, she heard a soft humming sound to her left. Turning her head, she saw a smiling Jemis Calverton enter though the room’s foldway arch.

  “I’m pleased to see that you survived your injuries, Admiral. If you’re feeling up to it, there are a few anxious people waiting for visitation.”

  Katherine expected as much. “I’d like to see Commander Allison first, so he can debrief me on the crater site incident. Next, I want to speak with Dr. Singh, to make sure he wasn’t harmed during his stay in your so-called Room of Atonement. On second thought, I’d like a meeting with Dr. Chavez before Dr. Singh. I’m interested to find out how his expedition went. Hopefully it was nice and boring … just the opposite of ours.”

  The High Priestess looked away, a disconcerted expression on her round face. “I’m afraid I have some bad news to report, Admiral.” Lifting her chin, she reestablished eye contact. “Neither Solomon Chavez nor Dr. Singh will be speaking with you today.”

  Katherine’s pulse quickened. “What do you mean?”

  Calverton’s raised eyebrow signaled her displeasure at being spoken to so harshly. “Very well. To begin with, Dr. Singh is in a coma.”

  “What!” Sitting up straighter, Katherine grimaced from the pain. “Did it have anything to do with that infernal torture device you used on him?”

  Jemis Calverton placed both hands on her hips and glared. “The Room of Atonement is not a torture device, Admiral. But yes, he did have an adverse reaction to his treatment. We have yet to determine why he slipped into a coma, but I’m certain that after a few more days examining his case, we’ll be able to—”

  “Not a chance,” she declared. “Get my clothes. I’m leaving this hospital and taking Dr. Singh back to the Arrow. From now on, I want my own medical staff working on his case.”

  Jemis Calverton looked put out. “I don’t think that’s such a—” Her voice trailed off and a faraway look entered her eyes. After a few seconds, the faintest flicker of a smile crossed her lips. “The Lord has informed me that it might be best if Dr. Singh was transported to your ship. Despite this being a first-rate medical facility, we’ve seldom treated coma patients. Perhaps the facilities onboard Solomon’s Arrow will be better suited for his treatment.”

  Katherine nodded. “Good. As for Dr. Chavez, why won’t I be able to I see him?”

  Jemis Calverton cleared her throat before answering. “He, along with Mr. Waters, Lt. Albans, Lt. Muldoon, Ezral Magliss, our Agricultural Minister, and their pilot, were lost. Their skimmer crashed in a remote region of the forest while returning to the harvesters. Their bodies were never recovered. It is assumed that their remains were consumed by a fungus … I’m terribly sorry.”

  “Good Lord,” she moaned. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  Jemis Calverton lowered her eyes. “I’m afraid there is no other explanation.”

  Stunned, Katherine sat there gazing down at her hands, feeling sick to her stomach. The news was catastrophic: Solomon Chavez was an integral part of their mission; they were depending on his expertise as much or more than anyone else onboard the Arrow. His loss called for a change in plans. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with Commander Allison.”

  •

  Unconscious, Gloria moaned as her fever intensified. Bram searched through the med kit one more time. It contained a bottle of analgesics, which had yet to help with her fever, together with an assortment of other supplies, such as bandages, washes, and topical medications, which were useless in this case. What she really needed was a powerful antiviral.

  Bram was becoming increasingly worried. For the past hour, Gloria had slipped in and out of consciousness. The thermometer patch he applied to her forehead said that her temperature had risen to 105.2. And they were nearly out of water, the last bottle containing maybe two sips.

  Bram saw that Gloria’s forehead was still dry, which meant the fever was still rising.

  “How long was it before your fever broke, Dr. Chavez?”

  “I’m not exactly sure,” he replied. A look of deep concern marked his face as he gazed at his daughter. “It was … at least three, possibly four days.”

  “Oh hell,” Bram groaned. If the same proved true for Gloria, she needed immediate medical attention or she might not survive.

  “I also had plenty of water,” Solomon added. “And the tribe whose camp I stumbled across had a good healer. She supplied me with a powerful concoction of herbs to control the fever.”

  Argus had remained silent for the past hour. He sat with his spindly legs crossed, eight feet from where Bram tended to Gloria. “Meats such as—excuse us, humans such as yourselves, have a tendency to use the plant world for your own selfish purposes—are we not correct?”

  Bram ignored the old man. Solomon, however, was not so obliging.

  “I’m proud to say yes,” he replied. “The human race has used and will continue to use the plant world for our own benefit. I see nothing wrong with that; in fact, without the plant world we would starve; we would still be living in caves; we would’ve never developed modern medicines; we would’ve—”

  “You would have never become immortal?” the old man interrupted.

  Solomon looked at Bram and shrugged. “At least we know he was paying attention and not twiddling his imaginary thumbs.”

  Bram chuckled. “He seems to know a lot about us, Dr. Chavez, but we know hardly anything about him. After everything he’s put us through, I’d say he owes us some information, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Indeed. By the way, Waters, call me Solomon. I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re not such a bad sort after all.”

  “I will, but only if you start calling me by my first name … not my last.”

  “Agreed,” he said, forcing a weak smile. The transfusion’s effects were beginning to wear off, but he remained listless.

  Bram addressed the old man. “As for you, Argus. Since we’re trapped down here, you may as well tell us about yourself; because, if you’re still planning on eating us, I’d like to put it off a little while longer.”

  The old man studied them for an uncomfortably long moment before answering. “The three of you have nothing to fear. The doctor and his daughter are protected, thanks to the virus in their system. As for you, Mr. Waters, we still want your nutrients. But you interest us; therefore, you are safe … for the time being.”

  Despite the old man’s benign appearance, the straightforward way he mentioned Bram as a food source was chilling nonetheless.

  “As for our history, it does not flow with exciting tales of grand adventures, as your history surely does. On the contrary. Our life can be summarized in a matter of minutes; however, there is one aspect of our history that you might find interesting and perhaps useful. You are unlike the other humans we have consumed. If we agree to tell you what we know, you must promise to set up a parlay with the humans who govern the city, for the purpose of them finding another source of protein. Much as you, we have no desire to be used as a food source.”

  Bram looked to Solomon, who answered, “Your terms sound reasonable.”

  “Very well, we shall begin,” the old man said, stroking his beard. “We are a single organism that spans the circumference of this planet. We keep to the strip of ground where the most abundant food supply is located, not sending out feeders past its edges because it would be illogical to do so. We consider ourselves a collective, since each offshoot of tendrils possesses a rudimentary individual awareness, which uses telepathy to capture its prey. Each cluster breaks down the dead flora and fauna that collect steadily beneath the forest canopy, in conjunction with certain tiny insects, with which we live in harmony. Our main purpo
se is to prevent the forest from being overwhelmed by collapsed trees, dead plants, and animal carcasses. We serve a useful purpose in the scheme of things, as you must surely agree.”

  “Does this collective of individualized tendril clusters constitute a form of neural network, similar to the human brain?” Solomon asked.

  “The human brain is extremely complex,” the old man responded, “as are we. The clusters are not individualized aspects that create the whole; they are extensions of the whole, which is, itself, individualized. However, the tendrils that connect the whole do constitute what you might consider a neural network.”

  Despite the confusing language, Bram thought he grasped the creature’s explanation, mainly because he sensed a greater intelligence behind the illusion that tried to kill him. Solomon, however, appeared to have no problem understanding the creature’s account, which made sense, being an immortal super-genius.

  “In the distant past,” the old man continued, “we possessed minimal intelligence. But we grew out of our infancy by consuming more and varied creatures, some of which possessed a rudimentary capacity for rational thought; thus our own intelligence evolved. When your kind arrived, we absorbed the brains of creatures with a highly developed consciousness. It was a revelation, to say the least. We, of course, wanted more, and became proficient at setting mental traps to ensnare your kind.

  “But then, something strange occurred,” the old man said. “The traps stopped working. For the past twenty-five hundred of your years, we have been thwarted, unable to consume more than a handful of humans. Naturally, we are disappointed over missing the opportunity to consume the three of you—especially you, Dr. Chavez. You have a massive intellect and, due to your longevity, a wealth of experience, both of which would be prized assets—if not for the virus in your system. As for you, Mr. Waters, you are no genius, but your telepathic abilities are intriguing. It is a shame that you fought so hard to survive. You may have provided us with the next evolutionary leap.”