by Barry Kirwan
“So good of you to tolerate my one bad habit, especially given your wife’s condition.”
Blake knew this was just the opening volley. The thought flickered in his mind as to how Shakirvasta had found actual cigarettes, since they’d been banned on Earth for the last twenty years, but he focused on the single agenda item. “The transponders. Have you located them?”
Shakirvasta paused, eyeing him, then nodded. “Not that we can reach them. They’re behind several metres of Q’Roth engine shielding.”
“So why is it taking so long for Louise or the Q’Roth to find us?”
Shakirvasta absently pulled out another pack of cigarettes, extracting one deftly into his left hand. “She may be here already,” he said, as if discussing a visiting aunt. He tapped the end of the cigarette three times on the packet. “It’s the Hohash we have to thank. They’ve been masking our signals, including the ships’ transponder signatures, so all anyone else’s sensors will see is a world as dead as it has been for the past millennium, unless they actually visually inspect this planet up close. The Hohash, it appears, can manipulate carrier signals over a broad EM spectrum. Quite impressive. If we were back on Earth I’d be launching half a dozen patents right now. Communications was my business, you know.”
Blake’s fingers rapped the desk. “Rashid’s ship – the Hohash wasn’t on it when Louise found them.”
“No.” He lit the cigarette with an ornate Mont Blanc lighter made of black lacquer, with gold insets. “Which brings me to a point I’d like to raise.”
Blake leaned back in his chair. He felt tired, but was in no mood to show it. “Go on.”
“We need to give Jennifer a node, so she can communicate with the Hohash.”
Blake kept his brow smooth, and decided to hear him out.
“Women fare better than men with nodes – less post-op psychoses. And it has to be someone younger, say, than you or I, for the neural integration to work, not forgetting the delicate brain surgery. And preferably someone on our new Council, don’t you think?”
Blake stared at this ex-mogul. He knew not to trust him, but it was hard to see the angle he was setting up. Kat was gone, and so there was no direct communication with their one and only ally. It made sense to give someone else a node. But he knew he had to find the edges of this particular negotiation landscape. “What about Sandy, or Antonia?”
“Ah, yes … Sandy.” He inhaled and then blew out a perfect ring. “Pregnant you know. The temporary pituitary effects from the node could affect the embryo’s growth rate.”
Blake hid his surprise; he hadn’t known about Sandy. “Antonia, then.”
The smoker stared at his cigarette, as if studying a jewel. “Not as robust as Jennifer. Your son had a node didn’t he? So you are aware of the dangers.”
Blake prevented his fingers from tensing, though his thighs locked rigid at the mention of his dead son, Robert. He resisted asking how this man knew so much about his family. Shakirvasta, after all, had said he was in the business of communications, not necessarily technological communications. “We should let Carlson decide which of the two of them is best.”
“Exactly what I thought.” Shakirvasta produced a flimsy from his business suit jacket. “Here is his recommendation. I like to think ahead, you see. It saves you time.” He held out the translucent sheet, as if dealing the winning card in a high-stakes poker game, one where he could equally afford to win or lose.
Blake snatched it, without glancing at it. His gut told him not to trust this man. Earlier he’d made a political choice, but politics wasn’t his strong suit. He knew Shakirvasta would out-manoeuvre him in the long run, maybe sooner. “I’ll consider it.” He stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Shakirvasta. Now, if you’d excuse me I have –”
“One last thing, Commander, of some importance.”
“Yes?”
Shakirvasta stubbed out his cigarette and pocketed the self-cleaning ashtray. “This may be a little sensitive,” he said, “so please hear me out. I say this not as your friend – because we both know that will never be the case – but certainly not as your enemy either.”
Blake’s breathing slowed. This man made his flesh crawl. “Spit it out.”
Shakirvasta stood. “Your wife – I understand she is stage four, and the doctors have given up on her. She has one month to live.”
Blake walked around the desk, muscles taut.
Shakirvasta spoke quickly. “I never travel without my physician – I would not survive long without him. He can give your wife six more months, Commander. I guarantee it. Not cure her. Her pain level won’t get any worse. Six months longer, though. Half a year, Commander.”
Blake’s stomach muscles were iron, his breathing silent. Part of him wanted to tear this man’s throat out. He knew instinctively he was evil, manipulative in the extreme, playing for his own ends, whatever they might be. Even Glenda had said that if he was going to play politics, then it was a short haul flight to spying and assassination. She’d mentioned Shakirvasta by way of a palpable example. Blake remembered his father telling him that if he ever met the devil, he should kill him before he had a chance to speak. But if there was a remote chance Shakirvasta was telling the truth…
“In exchange for what?”
“Nothing. You saved us, all of us. Consider it repaying a debt. I always repay mine.” He nodded to Blake, and turned and headed for the canvas door. He paused there, without turning back. “I’ll send my good doctor along in the morning. If you don’t want him to see your wife, simply send him away.” He left, the wind masking the sound of the man’s footsteps heading down the gravel pathway.
Blake sat back onto the edge of the desk. He heard a canvas zip rake open behind him.
“Want me to kill him, boss?” Zack crawled through the aperture, then stood up, dusting himself off.
“No, Zack. Anyhow, assassination would be more up Vince’s or Ramires’ street than yours.” He turned around to face the only man he trusted.
Zack beamed. “Got nothing against a little job enlargement, you know.” He parked his large frame in Blake’s chair, saluting lazily as he did so. “Sorry, but I was squatting out there trying to listen, and my thighs ain’t like they used to be. What was that all about anyway?”
Blake reached over to a drawer, leaning over the desk, and pulled out a metal flask and two tumblers. He sloshed amber liquid into the glasses. “He was clearing the way for a later assault. He may be one of the most ruthless businessmen ever, but underneath, he operates according to a code.”
“So are we celebrating, or do you just need a drink?” Zack heaved his boots onto the desk.
“Both. But mainly we’re toasting Glenda having six more months to live.”
They clinked glasses.
“I’ll drink to that, Chief, but why in hell do you believe him?”
“Because, Zack, I know for sure he’ll make me pay for it later.” He downed it in one, the single malt searing his throat. He smacked the glass onto the desk top. As he screwed the top back on the flask, he wondered what Shakirvasta was really up to. He couldn’t see the plot, but he was sure there was one. He hoped the real price of this deal, when it finally arrived, wouldn’t be too high.
* * *
“I’m telling you she likes you, Vince.” Ramires locked the last strap into place.
“And so what?” Vince started to push the crate towards the ramp, but it wouldn’t budge. He spied some troops lounging near the exit. “Hey, you guys, picnic’s over. Sweat time.” He drew back as six burly soldiers loped over to the single black crate. “Control room, make it snappy!”
One of the men put his hands on his hips. “You’re shitting us, right? That’s nine floors up! Where’s the fuckin’ lev?”
Vince grinned. “Gone with the convoy to Esperantia. Just put your back into it, like Tarzan there,” he pointed to a muscular rookie who was already shouldering the crate. “Off you go, boys.”
Ramires joined Vince’s supervisory d
istance. “You think this’ll work?”
Vince waited until the men and the crate had turned the corner as they shoved it up the ramp, sure that the grunting and cursing would drown out his answer.
“She’s too smart.”
“Plan B then?”
“Maybe. But I have a feeling it’s going to end up Plan C, like Blake said. Just me and her. My penance for not spotting her as an Alician all those years.”
“You weren’t to know, they’re pretty good at deep cover.”
Vince rounded on Ramires. “What the hell would you know? You Sentinels spend half your lives in a Tibetan cave meditating, playing with your chi, or whatever it is you do. I know women, and Louise and I were screwing each others’ brains out for two years, and still I didn’t see it!” He kicked the wall hard with the toe of his boot.
Ramires held up his hand. “Calm down. You need to breathe out more, you know. What’s gotten into you?”
Vince spat on the floor. He sighed. “The feeling’s mutual; tell Sandy that, afterwards. Then you can have her. Don’t think I haven’t seen you look.”
Ramires lifted an eyebrow. “If Plan A works, I won’t be around.”
Vince’s face grew sterner than normal. “Louise’ll take one of us with her for sure, probably both of us. I just wish we had a few more plans up our sleeve. I was her mentor, she was the best I’d ever seen.” He wiped a thin layer of sweat from his brow. “Let’s go check our gift, make sure the grunts haven’t screwed up the detonators.”
The soldiers shoving their atomic load breached the control room. Five of them collapsed, chests heaving, sweating profusely, using any remaining breath to utter curses involving family members, reproductive acts and female dogs, in various permutations. The sixth soldier leaned over the crate, feigning exhaustion. As he mopped his forehead with his sleeve, he fished out a slim coin-size disk from his chest pocket, and dropped it through a slat on one of the crate’s sides. He coughed to mask the tiny clink as the magnetic transponder attached itself to the side of the nuclear weapon. Then Jarvik sank to the floor like the others, and practised a few profanities of his own.
* * *
Sandy swallowed it. She screwed up her face as if she’d just drunk pure lemon juice. “That’s got to be an acquired taste.” She took a swig of water to wash it down.
“The meds say it’s fine, a balanced mix of proteins and nutrients.” Antonia sat on the rounded edge of a squat table fabricated from the white material the spiders used for everything. Her hands rested on its edge, legs idly swinging back and forth like two pendula. She cocked her head to one side. “How’s Micah?”
Sandy had been waiting for this all morning. “You couldn’t handle it, Antonia.”
Her legs stopped. “What does that mean?”
Sandy sealed the lid on the tank. She grimaced; the pungent yellow liquid it contained was likely to become their staple food supply for years to come. “Look, you’re neither blind nor stupid. You know how he feels about you. And he knows how you feel about Kat. Christ, we all do. And you’re hurting right now, and you’re tempted to turn to Micah as a friend, but it’ll fuck him up really bad.”
Antonia drew her feet up onto the table, and sat cross-legged. “So I should stay away from him?”
Sandy walked right up to her, placed a hand on her shoulder. “No, Antonia, you should sleep with him.”
“What?”
“Look, I’ve been with a lot of men, so I know what it’s like in their heads. Mostly it’s like staying in a one star hotel – pretty basic: bed, wash basin, can of beer, holo-sports channel if you’re lucky, toilet down the hall. What I’m saying is that even when men appear complicated and sensitive, they’re not, not deep down. So, just sleep with him, it’ll make him stupidly happy for a day or two and you’ll be comforted. And don’t tell me you’re not a little bit interested, either. I’m betting Kat was your first bi experience after a string of boyfriends, right?”
Antonia flushed. She nudged herself off the table, her boots landing on the ground with a loud slap. “And what happens when Kat returns?”
Sandy sighed. If, for Christ’s sake, and it’s a hell of an if! “He’ll be cut up, for sure, and you’ll go back to Kat, but at least he won’t screw himself up over what he never had. Sadder but wiser. More cynical.” The way I like them, she thought. Like Vince.
The radio crackled on the floor. “The first batch has arrived,” Micah said.
“You go, Antonia, I’m not finished here.” She picked up the radio. “We’re on our way.”
Antonia folded her arms. “I’m not taking your advice. I won’t sleep with him.”
“Fine. Don’t fuck him. Just don’t fuck with his head, either.” She watched Antonia whirl around and march towards the rope ladder to ground level. She shook her head. Why are we all so stupid? Even when we’re all about to die, nobody sees straight!
She picked up the radio and stared at it. She’d heard the rumours about the tactics to take out Louise. About Plan C. She tapped the radio transmit button. “Micah, it’s Sandy … Antonia’s on her way … Her idea, not mine … Can you get a private message to Vince? … Yeah? … Okay. I need to see him tonight … What? … I need to make love with him … Yes, you heard me, Micah.”
As she carried on testing and tasting the vile slurry, she couldn’t help grinning. Stupid to the end, she thought. No hope whatsoever.
* * *
“I should have been at the meeting.” Jen wrenched the last root out of the ground. She dragged a forearm across her brow, erasing the beads of sweat as efficiently as a windscreen wiper eradicating drizzle.
Dimitri observed her every movement, wondering where the transformation would end, how far it would go. Jen no longer exhibited any pretensions of being coyly demure. Instead, Jen – or Jennifer as he now thought of her – had metamorphosed into something approaching an Amazonian soldier. If that had been it, he could have accepted it. After all, it wasn’t unattractive, and the smell of her sweat had always served as an allure for him. But there was more, a growing insidious undercurrent. He’d seen it before in other aggressive women once or twice, and had always steered away from them.
But the context before had been academic, literally, in various real and virtual universities where he’d lectured. Women with ambition – alpha females, as he thought of them – who employed sex and sly vindictiveness in equal measure to get ahead. Not content with merely stepping on others in their path, they ground them into dust, so there was zero chance of come-back. The casualties and collateral damage had often amounted to nothing more than bruised egos, a few ruined careers or truncated research avenues and, in one case, a botched suicide attempt. Now, however, the stakes were of a different order of magnitude. Worse still, he knew what drove her: not some petty desire to be first or some past incident she would never allow to repeat itself. Instead, it was the memory of her murdered brother Gabriel. She wanted revenge, and it made her blood run lava hot – or cold as glacier water, he couldn’t decide. He watched her biceps flex rigid as she dragged the last component of the weapon – her ‘little surprise’ for Louise, as she kept calling it – into place.
Dimitri guessed he would lose her soon. Not due to love waning or dying, as it always did sooner or later in his experience, but because he knew where she was heading, and where she’d come from – too much loss and too much pain, and she needed someone to blame. Right now she thought killing Louise would be enough, but he knew otherwise. If they defeated Louise, she’d quickly turn against the real failure which, in her mind, had caused the loss of her family – humanity’s weakness, as she saw it. She’d already been talking these past days about how dumb humanity had been not to see it all coming, and how it had to gear up in order to survive. Her talk lately had reminded him of his study of the early Fundie movement, before the Third World War, how its ideas had seduced so many. His father, years ago, had urged him to study history, saying that science without an understanding of history is like c
leverness without a conscience. For the first time he appreciated this pearl of wisdom.
He predicted Jennifer’s final destination, and he knew he would sooner or later have to stand in her path and oppose her. For the first time in his life, he lacked the conviction that he would win. He parked it. First they had a more classic, rather than social, battle to fight.
He returned to his own work, complete as it could be, and tugged at his goatee. They’d synthesised a macabre weapon, with an almost biblical signature, and Jennifer was itching to use it.
“After all,” she said, hands on her square hips, “I’m a captain, I led one of those ships and saved two thousand people. They shouldn’t have held the meeting without me.”
He didn’t know what to say. His former, legendary eloquence deserted him. Maybe it had been cremated amongst Earth’s embers; so much loss – his mother, his brothers, and countless nephews and nieces. But they never discussed it, he and Jennifer. Her loss, as she perceived it, was greater. She’d trade Gabriel’s life for the rest of humanity’s – including his own – in an instant.
“I should have been consulted in the battle planning, not left out in the field.”
In an effort to maintain a connection with her, he issued forth what she wanted, needed, to hear. “But Jen, this is the key weapon. Louise will be ready for nukes. She’ll expect them, and will have planned counter-measures. Faced with a more powerful adversary, surprise is the only real tactical advantage.”
She gave the barest of nods. She obviously thought she’d outgrown him, he supposed, no longer needed him. There was still a lingering respect for him, though he suspected it was out of habit. More and more it was as if he hadn’t spoken, as if he’d become background music. He had no doubt as to whose counsel she was listening.
“It’s a question of leadership,” she said, facing him, she above him, lecturing her once tutor, guru, professor, lover.
