Viola felt her cheeks redden.
‘Please not here—’
‘Our generations have never walked the surface of a world without a mask,’ he scolded, ‘and you’re fixated on gas giants? Viola! What are you doing to help bring us home?’
Of all things, dirt was the product that launched Merckon’s fortunes. In Orionis, topsoil was among the most precious substances known to man, without which it would be almost impossible to grow the seeds brought from Earth. The fate of Eileithyia left the Orionis colony with none, and the sustainability of the population was endangered. Klaus Silveri made his own topsoil from crushed asteroid regolith, supplemented with organic waste from the Tabit and seeded with microorganisms grown in its slush tanks.
From the lush ecosystems built into stations like Luminosity to the orbital farms that produced food for millions, Merckon soil or slush pits were nearby, and both were the brainchild of the Silveri family.
Viola wanted to respond, but Klaus continued his rant.
‘Travis Mareck only wants to know if zenomorphs can make him money,’ he continued, referring to the Merckon CEO. ‘He couldn’t give a damn about the science. Did you consider that?’
Viola drew in a deep breath.
‘Merckon is one of the few powers that can fund a study like this,’ she said calmly. ‘They own several rigs and have the means to protect—’
‘Nobody owns anything past the Belt!’ Klaus scoffed. ‘Not with Ceti scum prowling about. More to the point, this isn’t science. It’s greed.’
‘There was a time when you would have called it “capitalism”,’ she growled, resuming her walk.
Viola had begun working for Merckon when she was just twelve, the usual path for someone with firstborn lineage. Specialising in microbiology, she effected numerous improvements to the same agricultural and waste reprocessing technologies that made Merckon its billions. Her obsession with the Arkady began with a passing fancy; a random conversation she overheard about the miners of Zeus, and the strange tales many believed were the fables of delusional, sick men. Upon discovering that the alien life forms were real, she devoted every moment of her spare time to learning more about them.
But she knew how the funding game was played, and her father was right to challenge her on the ethics of her decision. Her proposal was light on language describing her personal fascination with the creatures, and heavy with verbiage on how they represented a potential goldmine of undiscovered advancements in everything from bioengineering to materials science.
‘An academic grant is one thing,’ Klaus insisted. ‘That at least keeps the findings transparent. This is entirely different. What you discover, should there be anything, belongs to Travis Mareck. You know he won’t use them for anything beyond his own benefit, let alone the greater good. Viola, what’s happened to you? I didn’t raise you to think like this!’
Viola hoped her father would desist before they reached the platform entrance. But she had no such luck, and Klaus stayed with her as she walked inside.
‘I suppose it’s asking too much to just trust me,’ she said, marching into the elevator. Klaus made a scene of not allowing another hurrying resident in as the doors shut. They were alone, and he stood much closer to her than necessary.
‘Viola,’ he said. ‘I admit there were times when I pushed you too far. I did it to prepare you for many things, but not for this. Please listen: you do not understand what you’ve gotten yourself into.’
She chose to look past him, watching the landscape fall away as the elevator ascended higher and higher. A moment of disorientation passed as they reached the station’s central hub, where she could feel the gravity reduce.
‘Travis Mareck is ruthless,’ Klaus warned. ‘He’ll never let you leave Merckon. You know he’ll send you to Zeus, and you cannot control when – if ever – you return.’
The lift stopped, and the doors opened at the shuttle bay level. Her personal craft, a sleek new Legatta RX model, was latched in dry dock directly across the platform.
‘This is my choice,’ she said.
Viola left without looking back. And this time, Klaus didn’t follow her.
‘Then remember everything I taught you,’ he called out. ‘Protect yourself always.’
According to the latest census, there were 1.8 spacecraft for every registered human being in the Orionis Colony. That meant there were approximately 36 million of them darting about the Inner Rim, and at present it seemed like they were all converging on Merckon Prime. Civilian ships – everything from high performance shuttles like Viola’s Legatta to mining skiffs resembling insects – were cramming the flight pattern for the main station hangar. From kilometres away, freighters with their distinctive modular shipping containers lumbered towards ports connected by cable to the main station. A pair of Navy frigates, resplendent in their white reflective plate, sat idly outside the station as military police corvettes with flashing blue lights patrolled the lanes to keep everyone on course.
As much as the Legatta flew itself, Viola alternated between cursing at the congestion – this was space, after all – and losing herself in thoughts about the Arkady. The species took its name after the Helium-3 prospector Arkady Vostov, the highborn who had first encountered them more than a century ago, when the first mining expedition sent by the Tabit dropped its cables into the Zeus atmosphere. The urgency of building a reliable energy pipeline for the Inner Rim colonies had left little room for scientific expeditions, and so the alien species had remained an enigma all this time.
As the gaping hangar bay of Merckon Prime filled her view, Viola wondered what it must be like to see them up close. Her father was right: to unravel the mysteries of the Arkady, a journey to the gas giant was inevitable. There was little more to learn from the frozen fragments of specimens that miners returned to the Inner Rim with.
Soaring past the outer barrier, the Legatta turned toward a cluster of long, half-transparent columns jutting out from the bay walls. Each was lined with docking collars set at even intervals, with groups designated for different shuttle classes. Almost every one was occupied, and even more craft were taxiing in behind her. As the autopilot rotated the craft to align with an empty spot, she noticed an older woman in business attire waiting for her near the airlock. Short and sturdy-looking, she wore a Merckon ID badge, and her jet-black hair was slicked into dreads fastened to her broad shoulders.
Viola glanced at a mirror one last time, then activated the hatch. As it rushed open, the woman thrust her hand inside.
‘Dr Silveri,’ she said. Her eyes were vacant and cold. ‘I’m Mighan, your new assistant.’
Viola took her hand firmly.
‘Hello, Mighan, nice to meet—’
‘Right this way please,’ Mighan interrupted, stepping aside and leading with a hand towards the dock tram. ‘Mr Mareck is waiting for you.’
Viola’s heart skipped a beat, although she was becoming annoyed with the curt demeanour of her new ‘assistant’.
‘What else is on the agenda?’ she asked, as the tram began racing towards the main concourse.
Mighan seemed completely uninterested in making conversation.
‘After your meeting with Mr Mareck, you have a blood transfusion scheduled for 0900. At 1100, the CFO wants to discuss your budget proposal. You’re expected to begin your work immediately after.’
The tram slowed inside the main concourse. Like Luminosity, Merckon Prime was a Stanford torus design, only instead of orchards and rivers there were buildings and avenues, with the occasional tree or garden to break the arch of city blocks curving high overhead. Three of the station’s four district arcologies were Merckon property; much of the corporation’s manufacturing capacity and business operations was located here. The fourth district was devoted entirely to housing, and was where many of the company’s employees lived. The tram had taken her directly to Merckon Centre, the tallest building in the station; its ornate pinnacle nearly reached the central hub. Towering wa
terfalls cascaded down either side of the stairs leading up to the main entrance, where a statue of Mace Merckon stood.
Everywhere Viola looked, people hurried about. Men in suits discussed projects with engineers dressed in sterile scrubs and EVA gear. A teacher led a group of young pupils away from the platform, as more tram cars filled with commuters arrived. Pairs of security guards milled through the crowds, offering friendly greetings and the occasional direction. As the door opened, a series of personalised advertisements for cosmetics and shuttle craft appeared in mid-air; Mighan marched right through them, motioning for Viola to hurry.
By the time they reached the top steps, the Merckon assistant was laboring with breath but still pressed on urgently. The lobby was an arboretum; lush vegetation hung from sculpted containers suspended at varying heights from the ceiling. They had just reached the glass elevators when a voice called out from behind them.
‘Dr Silveri?’
Viola turned to find a familiar face that always took a moment to process. Wegan Lark, a maintenance administrator whose sole responsibility was to keep the Merckon facility clean, had set aside his equipment to speak with her. He was a mutant, and a severely disfigured one. Old Wegan had spent his better years aboard a gas harvester orbiting Zeus, and all that belt radiation awoke the dormant cancers within him. Boils the size of lemons deformed his brow, pushing his eyes apart from one another. If not for the blood transfusions and gene therapy that every firstborn was entitled to, he would have died long ago.
He went out of his way to greet Viola every day, and she thought him very sweet and kind.
‘Good morning, Wegan!’ she beamed. It was difficult to know which of his eyes to address.
‘I heard about your promotion,’ Wegan muttered, with a hint of sadness. ‘I just wanted to wish you the best of luck.’
Viola flushed with appreciation.
‘Aw, thank you!’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll still—’
‘Stop wasting your breath on him,’ Mighan interrupted. ‘Keep moving.’
Viola shot her a glance that might have pierced steel, and Wegan slunk away.
‘If Mr Mareck learns you were late because you felt a mutant’s time was more important than his, it won’t bode well for you,’ Mighan warned, her arm extended. ‘This way, please.’
Wegan didn’t dare turn back. Mutants were never treated well, but this was outrageous. Viola held her tongue, but by the time they reached the elevator, she could no longer restrain herself.
‘Mighan, what exactly is your problem?’ she fumed, as the car rocketed up. ‘Your attitude is completely unacceptable, and it needs to change right now.’
Viola waited for a response, but none came. The elevator came to rest and Mighan stared at her, expressionless, for a few long moments.
‘This way, please,’ she said, as the doors opened. ‘Mr Mareck is waiting.’
Viola’s temper was ready to boil over when a man’s deep voice rang out.
‘Dr Silveri,’ Travis Mareck said, stepping in front of them. Tall and muscular, he wore a beige-coloured, tight-fitting sweater that exposed much of his neck and chest, and charcoal slacks made from fine linen. His eyes were light green with flecks of grey in them, and they were blatantly drinking her in.
‘Mighan’s role is to supervise and assist your production of zenomorph research,’ he said. ‘She reports to you but answers to me. Her small talk is awful but you’ll find her more than capable. Will that be a problem?’
His eyes never left hers as, cautiously, Viola took his hand.
‘No, sir,’ she said.
‘Good. That suit isn’t flattering,’ he said, ‘though it’s more interesting than the lab scrubs you usually wear. Let’s see your new office.’
Despite being a household name in Orionis, few people had ever seen Travis Mareck in person. Until now, Viola had considered herself fortunate for the privilege. But there was an allure to him that transcended the simple fact that he was extremely powerful. He was presenting her with a different sort of challenge, she realised, and that provoked her own competitiveness. A mix of ancient ethnicities predating the formation of UNSEC flowed through his veins; he was as close to a living, breathing person of Earth as it was genetically possible to achieve. To some, that made him a god. Most people saw huge projections of him on virtual adverts or speaking on the news net, metastasising his larger-than-life stature. Somehow he seemed even more magnificent – and pathetic – in person.
Mighan was first into the office, which struck Viola as underwhelming. It offered an impressive view of the curving cityscape, but little else; a burgundy-coloured desk and an ergonomic chair were the only furnishings.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Travis said. ‘But looks are deceiving.’
Mighan stood behind the desk, and with a subtle hand movement raised a volumetric display. Then the room erupted with more of them. There was barely anywhere left to stand that wasn’t awash in imagery or data.
‘Welcome to your virtual lab,’ he said, sitting casually on the desk. ‘Everything you could possibly need to perform your work is located right here, in this room. And if we’ve missed anything, Mighan will take care of it in short order, isn’t that right?’
‘Yes, Mr Mareck,’ she answered.
‘What about working with physical samples?’ Viola asked.
‘Also done from here,’ Travis said. ‘Your lab clearance was revoked. From now on, a machine will hold the scalpels for you.’
Viola was taken aback.
‘Revoked?’
Travis flashed a broad smile.
‘You represent a large investment for me,’ he said, motioning for her to be seated. ‘These steps are necessary to protect it. There’s been a plague of industrial espionage. In my experience, proactive measures are the best defence.’
As she took her seat, Mighan left the room, and the door shut. Travis shifted so that his legs were just about touching the armrests on her chair.
‘I’ll be watching you closely,’ he said. ‘It’s for your own good. From here, all your work will be meticulously logged. So I’ll never have any reason to suspect you of any mischief that happens, in the lab or anywhere else.’
‘I’m grateful for the opportunity,’ Viola said, ‘I believe very strongly in the potential of this research.’
‘As do I’ Travis said, checking his immaculate fingernails. I’ve known your father for many years. He’s a good man, and I can see the same devotion in you. Both of you have served Merckon well, and for that I am … satisfied. For now.’
The Merckon CEO leaned in closer.
‘No doubt he warned you about the sacrifices you’ll have to make,’ he said, his eyes moving up and down the length of her. ‘No doubt old Klaus left you well equipped to deal with challenges. He always was thorough.’
Viola held his stare for a few moments.
‘Thank you, Mr Ma—’
‘Travis,’ he said, rising as the door to the office opened. ‘Just call me Travis. But only when we’re alone.’
6
WYLLYM
‘Captain Lyons? It’s time.’
The words startled Wyllym from a deep, dreamless state, and the sudden movement sent his sleeping bag churning in the microgravity until the restraining tether pulled it taut. He could feel himself being tugged gently towards the bridge; the ship was slowing down.
‘You’re welcome to the view from up here,’ the intercom continued.
‘Alright,’ he grumbled, unzipping the bag and wrestling out, brushing against other restraints floating in the cabin. The trip to Corinth Naval Yards was a sixteen-hour burn from Tabit Prime, and Wyllym had slept for most of it. Squinting through a weary haze, he spotted his mag greaves clinging to the metal deck, fastened to a small travel case with his personal items. Everything he owned might have fit inside. Other than uniforms, medals for valour and some harsh memories, he had little else to show for his long career in the Orionis Navy.
T
he Gryphon training regime was a brutal affair, exhausting him and his students to the point of collapse. Even though he resented Admiral Hedricks for calling him to the Archangel in person, the respite was welcome. Wyllym’s greying hair was cut too short to need combing, and white stubble spread across his gaunt jaw like a dusting of snow. Every bone in his thin, angular frame ached and the whites of his steel-grey eyes were splotched with patches of blood. The flight manoeuvres he led with the Gryphon cadets were taxing enough even once per week, but the stress of multiple sessions per day was literally killing him.
The mere act of pulling his greaves on was painful. But for his own healing abilities and the genetic therapy the Navy administered to speed recovery he could already be dead. Every evasive manoeuvre unleashed crushing G-forces that, depending on the skill of his target, could last for minutes on end. Worse still was having only peripheral awareness of the damage his body was absorbing during the exercises. Only when the helmet was removed, and the Gryphon technology that blocked his brain’s ability to process pain was disengaged, did the full agony reveal itself. Most pilots lost consciousness, and all needed to be carried from their craft.
Wyllym swallowed his pride and opted to float towards the bridge instead of walking. He would never let his students see him like this, but here on the ONW Belgrade, it made no difference. The crew had been courteous when he boarded, but he had caught their stares and muted conversations. He was the first Gryphon pilot they had ever seen, and not at all what they were expecting.
Reaching for the painkillers that he had abused for too long, he wondered what this crew of privileged firstborns would think of the Gryphons after seeing a few more of their battered pilots. The programme was just one of many curses from the Archangel, and Wyllym had hoped to never board her. But Admiral Vadim Hedricks cared as much for Wyllym’s personal preferences as he did for malignant tumours. Wyllym could think of no reason why the Admiral had summoned him in person. At worst, it was showmanship, a pathological need to demonstrate total command over everything.
The Tabit Genesis Page 5
