Genesis Force

by John Vornholt

  They blinked at each other but said nothing, and the regent moved to a computer console on her desk. “I’ll inform the captain that we need to open airlock three, which is just down the corridor. Take him away, do it quickly, and don’t tell anybody, not even my staff or your superiors. We’ll let history decide if we’re villains or heroes. You’re dismissed.”

  After a glance at each other to fortify their courage, the constables holstered their stun sticks and picked up the unconscious curate. They had no difficulty hauling the slender elder out of the library and into the corridor, while Marla sent word to the bridge that they would need to open an airlock. She had essentially taken over the royal yacht since arriving on board, and nobody could question her orders. People were coming and going in a mad rush, occupying the ship’s transporters almost every instant, and they could easily lose track of one old man. By the time queries rolled in, so would the Genesis Wave, making Molafzon’s disappearance an obscure footnote. When so many died, who would notice one more?

  Despite the logic and pragmatism of her decision, the regent sat at her desk, buried her face in her hands, and began to weep.

  Nine

  In downtown Tejmol, Overseer Tejharet’s immense, stricken face appeared on the wall of a twenty-story building, on a screen that a mural of farm life usually occupied. Slightly behind him stood Curate Molafzon, and the entire body of the Science Council stood behind them. In this prerecorded message, the overseer urged the populace to remain calm and to volunteer to stay behind. Farlo had seen it a dozen times that afternoon, and so had everyone else. But they kept watching the building screens, because they knew that the overseer would eventually show up to announce the end of the lottery and a final list.

  After walking all afternoon until the early dusk, he and Candra finally reached the Stone Spire. Eons ago, this crude minaret of bricks and mortar had noted the first incursion of the Divine Hand into this region, which had been held by pagans. The sanctuary stood on a funny little hill on the outskirts of the city, where it had withstood attacks in its early cycles. The crude fortress had been rebuilt many times and was a famous but fragile monument to the Dark Ages. Farlo didn’t know why it had seemed important to come here, because they had probably passed other restricted booths behind the walls of government buildings. They had needed a destination, and this seemed a logical one.

  Now arriving at the ruin and seeing the crowds, he realized they had made a mistake. People choked the narrow streets leading to the place, and a large contingent of constables stood behind the black metal gate. If there was any transporter booth inside, it was behind the old gray walls, which looked as difficult to assault now as they had been in the Dark Ages.

  “They’re not going to let us in there,” muttered Farlo. “This trip has been a waste of time.”

  “Would you prefer to sit around and wait for the end?” asked Candra. “Come on, let’s see if they know anything.”

  By moving patiently and trying not to anger people, the two youths worked their way to the tall metal gates, where the watchful constables kept an eye on the crowd. More constables stood on the parapets above, and it was obvious that this was some kind of staging area. Near the gate were two kiosks for lottery registration; they were empty, although the retina scanners had been removed and set up just inside the metal bars. Farlo rubbed the bump on his arm where the tracking device had been implanted, as if assuring himself he was still included.

  “Move along!” growled a constable even before Candra and Farlo had stopped. “No loitering.”

  “But I’ve got a ticket to go in here,” said Farlo, producing the transporter stub. “If I could just use the transporter for one second, I could go back to the Institute of Devotion and—”

  “Get out of here!” Laughing, the guard took a swipe at him through the bars with his stun stick, and Farlo had to duck out of the way. Beside him, Candra moved like a flash and caught the constable’s wrist in both her hands. Since he was on the other side of the barred gate, she could pull his arm backward until he screamed in pain, which she did. They always knew what the other one was thinking, so Farlo instantly lunged to grab the stun stick away from the constable. While the other guards shouted and tried to grab him through the bars, the two wrested the weapon away from the constable. It dropped to the ground, and Candra picked it up and ran.

  As they scampered off with their prize, the crowd lustily cheered its approval. Two days earlier, thought Farlo, this kind of violence would have been met with absolute shock and indignation, no one ever having seen such a thing. Now the constables were objects of hate and fear, and the street thieves were the heroes.

  “Give me that!” shouted the wronged constable. Three layers of shaggy eyebrows sloped angrily down his brow. “We’ll come after you!”

  “Yeah, right!” scoffed Candra. “As if any of you have the guts to come out here!”

  The gathering mob laughed and hooted, getting squarely on the side of the young punks in their tattered, satin clothes. Some in the crowd argued that authority had to be maintained, and various shouting matches broke out, with the wronged constable still bellowing the loudest.

  Farlo gripped Candra’s spare hand, being careful to avoid the stun stick. “Come on, I know another way in.” He pulled her away from the milling crowd, which was pressing forward to see what all the commotion was about, and they dashed down a narrow, winding stairway made of rocks.

  “The orphanage brought us here once,” he said. “They took us in a back way.” When he nearly bumped into her stun stick, he asked, “Does that thing turn off?”

  “I suppose it must,” she answered. They ducked into the shadow of an alcove and carefully studied the weapon, avoiding the charged end. On the curved rod, there was a small panel for power readouts, a dial, and a button. Upon pushing the button, they got a message saying that the stick was turned off.

  “Look, here’s a name,” said Candra, pointing to a shiny label with the words WARLIN BETZEL.

  “I bet Warlin is ticked off,” added Farlo with a grin. “Come on, it’s just down here. If there’s only one guard, I’ve got a plan.” He told her as they ran.

  The stone passageway, built during the Dark Ages, was so low, stooped, and dank that nobody wanted to be in there, and even the two young people had to duck. Whatever sheen was left on their fine clothes was now dulled forever, and Candra’s bare feet were covered in mud. Just as Farlo hoped, the metal bars at the far end were guarded by only one constable, there being no room for more than that in the cramped tunnel.

  “Remember what I told you,” whispered Farlo, taking the stun stick, turning it on, and hiding it behind his back, being careful not to poke himself.

  As they stepped from the shadows, the constable snarled at them through the bars. “Hey! Nobody’s allowed down here! Go back where you came from.”

  Candra held out the transporter ticket and said tearfully, “Our father’s in there. Can you just get him a message, when you’re able?”

  “Right, and who is your father?” he asked, sounding doubtful.

  “Warlin Betzel,” she answered with a sniff. “We’re his children, but we got separated . . . ” She began to weep. “Oh, it’s so sad—”

  “Warlin’s children?” he whispered, aghast. “Why aren’t you at the arena with the other constables’ families?”

  “It’s a long story,” answered Candra, her voice choked with emotion. “If you could just give our father this.”

  She held out the slip of paper in trembling hands, stopping short enough of the gate that the lawman had to reach through the bars to take the offering. Farlo had been edging forward, and that was when he brought the stun stick sweeping upward between his legs to jab the constable on the wrist. With a groan and a thud, the big man slumped against the bars and slid to the cobblestone walkway. Both Farlo and Candra reached through the bars into the man’s uniform. Skilled at rifling through clothes, in a matter of seconds they found his identification, com devic
e, a few beads, and a ring with two keys. These were old-fashioned keys, befitting an old-fashioned lock, and Farlo reached through the bars and tried one of them on the ancient gate. It took all of his strength from the awkward angle, but he was finally able to pop the lock. Groaning on its hinges, the aged portal creaked open.

  The youths dragged the unconscious constable outside the gate, closed it, and locked it. Now they were inside the walls of the Stone Spire, but a transporter booth was nowhere in sight, not even a blue one. Sunset was coming, and long shadows stretched across the narrow byways and rustic stone walls of the restored ruin, making the place seem like a labyrinth. Hearing footsteps, they ducked into a niche and waited until a party of constables marched past, and they picked up a few snippets of conversation:

  “A quarter unit before the announcement,” said one. “Then the fireworks will really start.”

  “The ones going will be on our side,” offered another. “The rest will keep calm, I bet.”

  “You haven’t heard what happened on—”

  “Shut up back there!” snapped a female voice. “No more talking.”

  After they were gone, Candra whispered, “Once they start beaming people up, we’ll never get inside a transporter.”

  Farlo stepped in front of her, hefting the stun stick as he had seen the constables do it. “Let’s just march around until we find it. Keep close to me.”

  Motioning his arm forward, he led the way out of the labyrinth onto a wider pathway which sloped upward toward the old sanctuary. Constables were stationed above them along the walls, but they were watching the people outside and not the ones inside. Within the narrow walkways of the old fortress, they avoided being seen as long as they avoided bumping into anyone, and their luck lasted until they reached the courtyard and saw the outline of an open hand chiseled into the aged rock floor. The thumb was pointing directly toward a red transporter booth, which no one was watching or guarding.

  The two young people dashed straight into the enclosure and heaved sighs of relief. Farlo set the stun stick in the corner, while Candra said very clearly, “Institute of Devotion, please.”

  Nothing whatsoever happened. The computer didn’t even say they weren’t cleared for that destination—the booth acted as if it were turned off.

  “Okay, now what?” asked Candra.

  “Unless you have a better idea, we wait,” answered Farlo. “Nobody can see us while we’re in here. Don’t open the door.”

  The next few instants dragged by like an eternity, then they heard voices and running footsteps. Farlo lifted the stun stick to defend himself, but nobody charged into the booth to confront them. Instead they heard a familiar voice booming from the speakers inside the enclosure and seemingly everywhere at once:

  “Citizens of Aluwna, I thank you for your patience and understanding,” said Overseer Tejharet. “Our greatest thanks goes to those millions of you who have opted to stay behind—no words can convey our respect and admiration for your courage. Now many more of you will have to be courageous. You can join hands with your friends and neighbors and family . . . and face this great change with the knowledge that your sacrifice is saving millions of our people, our plants and animals, and our very civilization.”

  The overseer paused as if gathering his own courage. “The results of the lottery are complete, and those of you who are leaving with us have been chosen. In a few instants, your implants will activate if you have been so chosen, and you should report immediately to the nearest transporter booth. Bring no belongings, just the clothes on your back. To all who have not been chosen, your names will be honored forever in the Halls of the Divine.” At the last words, his voice choked with emotion.

  Farlo held his breath and looked at his arm. A moment later, there was a dull red glow under his skin and a barely perceptible beeping. With a grin, he looked excitedly at Candra and asked, “And you?”

  She shook her head glumly, because there was no change in the bump on her arm. Shouts of relief and screams of anguish rose over the walls of the Stone Spire, telling them that others were facing this moment of truth.

  “Yours was supposed to light up,” said Farlo with a nervous gulp. “You’ll go—we’ll find a way!”

  “No,” answered Candra, brushing a tear from her eye. “You were meant to go . . . you have to go. Don’t let anyone stop you, not even me.” Weeping, she lowered her head and moved toward the door.

  “No, Candra!” he said, gripping her arm. “I’ll tell the seeress . . . I’ll explain to her.”

  “Let go of me!” she yelled, wrenching her arm away. “I want to stay behind.” With that, she dashed from the enclosure, leaving Farlo stunned.

  Slowly he moved after her, but the transporter booth suddenly activated with a rash of lights, a low hum, and a calm voice which said, “Prepare to transport.”

  Before Farlo could even gasp, he began to dematerialize, and his body was whisked away into the unknown.

  * * *

  “Wonderful! You made it!” shouted Uncle Padrin as he pulled Farlo Fuzwik out of the red transporter booth and gave him a crushing hug. “I thought we had lost you forever!”

  Dazed, Farlo looked around and found himself back in the beautifully kept gardens of the Institute of Devotion, with the domed building, the gazebo, and the shimmering sea dominating the horizon. Darkness was almost upon this part of the world, and it was eerie to think this would be the last night on Aluwna.

  “I told you it would work,” said a snide voice, and he turned to see Seeress Jenoset, smiling smugly. “It was dumb of you to run away, but at least you had the brains to register for the lottery. That’s how we found you.”

  “My friend . . . Candra,” he said weakly. “Can’t we take her, too? She won’t be any trouble, and she’s just back at the Stone Spire.”

  “A place we’re not going,” said Jenoset, checking an exquisite timepiece hanging from her golden sash. “As of now, every transporter is off-limits to regular travel, because they’re filling up the satellites. I personally don’t have much faith in the regent’s crazy scheme, but I’m not going to worry about it—because we’re leaving by shuttlecraft, not in a transporter buffer.”

  The seeress sniffed with disdain and touched the sleeve of Farlo’s soiled garments. “What have you been doing, rolling in the mud? Padrin, get him cleaned up a bit, in new clothes, then meet me at the shuttlecraft. Don’t delay, because our optimum departure time is in half a unit.”

  “Yes, Seeress,” said the handsome man with a regal bow. He gripped the boy’s arm and dragged him toward the institute, whispering under his breath, “You’re the luckiest boy on the whole damn planet, and you almost threw it away!”

  Farlo sniffed back tears, thinking that he didn’t feel like the luckiest boy when he had just lost his best friend.

  * * *

  “Evacuation proceeding as planned,” reported the chief constable over Marla Karuw’s com link. The regent was still ensconced in the library of the royal yacht, Darzor, studying a bank of status monitors connected to the satellites, the transporters, and the vessels under her command. One of the slower freighters had already gotten under way to the safety zone, and that test case was the one she was most concerned about. Nevertheless, she switched her attention from those readouts to the readouts from the transporter system.

  “Thank you, Chief,” she said, trying to sound calm. “Have there been any problems?”

  “A few outbreaks,” he answered with a shrug, “but we’re handling them. It was smart not to use the retina scanners to double-check the passengers, because that would have slowed us down immensely.”

  “I just wanted everyone to think they were in use,” answered Karuw, “so people wouldn’t try to steal the implants from each other. When do we estimate we’ll be done with the evacuation?”

  “Three units for the upload, and the satellites are already tethered. We’ll be on schedule.”

  “Thank you, Chief,” she said, mustering a wan smi
le. “If there’s nothing else, I’ve got four starship captains waiting to talk to me.”

  “One more thing,” said the lawman. “Is Curate Molafzon on your ship? We’ve had reports that the curate has gone missing.”

  “No,” she answered, tight-lipped. “He was here, but he left some time ago.”

  “Do you know where he went? He’s dropped out of the system . . . completely out of sight.”

  “I’ve got eight million people to keep track of,” she answered testily. “If he shows up here or contacts me, I’ll tell him to check in.”

  “Thank you, Regent. Central Constabulary out.”

  With relief, she punched the Off switch on that viewscreen and turned back to the others. One old man, she told herself, among tens of millions—it was a necessary sacrifice.

  The process had to go smoothly, especially this complex evacuation, because the last starship and the last satellite had to depart before midnight. Nothing could stand in the way of that goal.

  * * *

  As darkness dropped decisively over the Calm Ocean and the picturesque islet where the Institute of Devotion stood like a perfect mountain, the shuttlecraft lifted from the landing pad. Still sniffing back tears, Farlo gazed out the viewport at a dark strip of land that quickly disappeared beneath them, to be replaced by a velvet sky sprinkled with stars like spun sugar. The boy had never flown anywhere, but this unique experience was muted by his sorrow. His world, his friends, his haunts—this was the last time he would ever see any of them.

  The lad heard another sniffle, and he turned to see Seeress Jenoset staring out the viewport on the other side of the aisle. He wanted to hold her hand and comfort her, because he knew how she felt. The seeress glanced at him for a moment, her lovely face puffy from crying, and she shook her head.

  “What a waste,” she said hoarsely. “Now life will be a battle.”

  “At least you’re alive, my dear,” said a voice from the front. It was Uncle Padrin, trying to sound composed and failing. There were also three strangers on the shuttlecraft, family of the pilot, Farlo had been told. They huddled in silence, cowed by the presence of royalty. It was ironic, thought Farlo, that so much had changed that the pilot of a shuttlecraft made demands to the seeress of Aluwna and was appeased.