by Barry Kirwan
He didn’t know what to say, but couldn’t stand the silence. He’d been brought up responsibly. He should, somehow, offer to marry Kat, or look after the child with her, or agree to take on the child alone if that was what she wanted. A badly-mixed cocktail of emotions had been stewing inside him since he’d found out: joy, at not being sterile; confusion over such an event, which should be a happy one, coming during a time when each day surpassed his imagination as to what could happen next; and sadness that his mother would never know her grandchild, or that her son could be a father. Just a few of the ingredients in the emotional punch washing around in his mind.
“Kat, I –”
“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. Call Chahat-Me, I know you can.”
Pierre turned to the single panel on the wall and gazed into it, imaging the Ossyrian in his mind, and Kat’s request.
A hologram appeared, facing Kat. Pierre leant his back against the wall. He guessed his rights in this matter were secondary.
Kat glanced up into the dog-like features, poker-faced. “Chahat-Me: make sure it’s a girl.”
Chahat-Me nodded, clearly not used to the gesture. The hologram vanished.
“You never dreamed of being a father, Pierre. Well, I can tell you, I never, ever thought I’d be a mother. And as for the timing…”
Pierre moved over to her side, and knelt down beside her. He desperately wanted to console her, and to ask why it must be a girl. Now he needed more time, but he heard the susurration of the anaesthetising gas as it entered the room, closing off any further discussion. He had long enough to take her hand in his. Just before he lost consciousness, he felt her squeeze his hand hard.
Chapter 15
Quarantine
Louise sprinted the last hundred metres toward the central spiral ramp, pumping her arms, pushing herself to the limit at the end of her morning ten-klick run. As she hit the incline, she powered down to a jog, then a fast walk. She panted. When she reached the next level she paused a moment, catching her breath, bending forward, hands on hips. That feeling had surfaced again during the run, as if someone – something – was watching her. She would do another scan later. Internal sensors hadn’t found anything, but they hadn’t confirmed definitively that she was alone, either. Bending further, pressing her palms flat on the floor, she pushed her thighs back, elongating her hamstrings so they wouldn’t shorten. Her breath back to normal, she straightened up and continued towards her quarters on the Control Room level.
She needed her daily routines – she’d not anticipated it would take two months to track Micah – knowing the transponder code of his ship hadn’t helped in the vastness of space. Neither had the fact that they’d not taken a direct route to the Grid, presumably because they weren’t experienced with deep space navigation. Or maybe Hannah was responsible, being naturally cautious as any Alician would be with the flight plan. Louise walked faster. Hannah. She’d like to have a word with that one, preferably the last word that girl would ever hear. Louise had seen the betrayal coming, but underestimated Hannah’s ruthlessness. That wouldn’t happen again.
She swung away from her quarters and into the Control Room, draping a towel around her shoulders, mopping up the cooling sheen from her brow. She uttered a Q’Roth syllable and a screen flashed into service, casting jade shadows in the darkened room; she used little light, unafraid of the catacomb-like corridors in the gargantuan ship. She reasoned that if there was someone or something else aboard, she didn’t need to illuminate herself. Besides, lately she felt more at ease in the dark.
Louise pored over the details on the screen. She’d picked up this particular news squirt two days ago on the local Grid-net: a renegade ship being held at an outlying sub-station. Details were sparse but her Q’Roth-honed instinct suggested it was Micah. It would take three days to get there, and she was concerned he might escape before her arrival. Once he entered the Grid, she might never find him again.
She glanced over the draft message she’d assembled earlier. It had taken all night to get the syntax and deference protocols right. It was a beacon message to any Q’Roth vessels within a hundred light years, letting them know that the renegade ship was a stolen Q’Roth Hunter Class vessel. In return for the information she claimed the right to its crew, preferably alive.
The one problem with the message protocol was that she had no Q’Roth identifier code, so she’d made one up, based on the idiomatic translation of her name. It meant they might not trust the source. But she’d given the hunter’s transponder code, which any Q’Roth vessel could verify. Good enough. She said ‘transmit’ in Q’Roth. She hoped Micah would still be alive when she arrived.
Her thirst for vengeance had long since condensed into a mission. She was thinking more like a Q’Roth, acting less out of ego need and more out of ‘instinctive species survival strategy’ – when you attack or cull a species, you go all the way – total eradication. She recalled a Pacific tribe she’d encountered whilst on recon; they’d had the same approach in their wars with neighbouring islands. Not content with killing their enemies, they ate their hearts, to conquer their souls so there could be no retribution, even in the after-life. Like that tribe, Q’Roth warriors relished battle. Louise, too, felt her moment was coming.
Of course if Vince was still alive he’d find a way to stop her, killing her again if he could. But at least he would understand her motives, and in a way, would be impressed by her tactics and her resolve – after all, he’d trained her how to track down an enemy. She smiled, aware it was the first time she’d done so since Vince’s death.
She shivered, suddenly cold. Time to go. She reached out her hand toward the ankh key, the coordinates already set for the first intercept jump. She paused. The coldness deepened, gravitating to her spine. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck sprang up. Her smile vanished. She held her breath. She remained completely still, not turning around, despite knowing with a primordial certainty that someone, or something, was standing right behind her.
* * *
“I knew Blake’s son.” Micah fidgeted with a pen – he’d been trying to write his Captain’s log when Sandy had arrived at his cabin. He found he had to write it the old-fashioned way, or else he didn’t do it. He put the pen down, leaning back in the chair.
Sandy watched him.
Strange how some people instinctively know when to be quiet, he thought, when not to interrupt. “His name was Robert. We were training in the same squadron. On our first recon mission we were captured and air-lifted deep across enemy lines.” He recalled the Kurana Bay ghoster facility. He’d only seen it at night. To him, it only existed at night. The memory chilled him. “He didn’t make it.” That was all the detail he was prepared to disclose.
“Does Blake know you knew his son?”
He sighed. “No.” He wasn’t sure how Blake would react. Micah had been a witness, after all, though neither Blake nor Zack had recognised him in amongst the other sixteen year olds they’d rescued. He decided to park this for another time. Besides, it wasn’t why he’d asked to see Sandy. He cleared his throat.
“I’m losing control of this crew, Sandy.” She was the only one he could tell. His eyes drifted to her swelling belly. When they’d arrived it had still been barely noticeable. Now the whole crew knew. Hell, they’d even been suggesting names for it, though he knew the one she would choose. At least her growing foetus was a way of marking time since they’d arrived two months ago and been immediately placed – no, locked – into quarantine.
She stroked her stomach idly. He supposed she drew her serenity – a commodity in short supply in the rest of them – from the knowledge that she was doing something purposeful. Funny – at the start of the journey, after the pain of losing Vince, he thought she’d be the first to crack. But after a couple of weeks, she confided in him that a mother-to-be’s hormones had their own survival tricks.
“Micah, you’re an analyst. It’s what you’re good at. Enter analyst mode. Work out a r
esolution.”
He frowned. It had occurred to him. But his intuition told him they were screwed, and he didn’t want to nail that particular coffin lid down with the weight of a full analysis conclusion. But she was right. As usual.
“Okay,” he said. “Just stay with me. I’ll vocalise, so you can tell me it’s all crap afterwards, and that our glass is actually half-full.”
She touched his forearm. “Deal.”
He stood up and checked the cabin door was closed, not that anyone was likely to come in. Everyone stayed in their own cabins these days. He punched a pillow into a squat cushion, the closest he could get to the zafu he used to meditate on at home, and manoeuvred into a cross-legged, half-lotus position. He closed his eyelids, and began the breathing routine to connect the less-accessible, intuitive depths of the right brain, with the cold, unequivocal logic of the left. He visualised his corpus callosum as a rift between two mesa’s that were the left and right hemispheres, and flooded the valley with a soft white mist from which the thought process began to precipitate, the slow drips of ideas pooling into a stream of consciousness that would surge towards an unassailable conclusion, given the data available at the current time.
He began to vocalise, the words arriving from the right-brain before the left could edit them, so that he heard them as if someone else was speaking in his voice.
“Outer reach of the Grid; negligible knowledge of species, societal structure, customs, rules or language; understanding of Grid simplistic. Arrival at location apparently called Outer Feeder Sub-Station 13765-Alpha Dextrea – language approximation only – initial communication burst unintelligible; vessel controls taken over, brought into orbit above ringed gas giant; massive orbital space-station complex visible, all attempts at communication blocked or ignored. Visited twice by cylindrical holographic avatar; explored the ship, scanned crew, then left, no interaction. Ship immobile, unable to jump or move; weapons system blocked except torpedoes Zack rigged for manual targeting. Rations and water supplies will last one more month thanks to recycling. Crew in state of subdued high tension; Zack and Hannah of most imminent danger to each other; alien intentions unclear; most probable hypothesis quarantine; second hypothesis aliens have contacted nearest Q’Roth party to intercept since in Q’Roth vessel. Current mission success probability very low; survival prospects very low; situation characterisation: quietly catastrophic.”
His eyes flickered open, and accommodated to see Sandy’s face in stark relief in the harsh Agamemnon lighting. Her tranquility that had been there moments before morphed into a grimace. She stood up. “Christ, Micah, you really know how to depress a pregnant woman, don’t you?”
She stormed out.
“Thanks Sandy,” he said to the closed door. “Couldn’t have faced it without you.”
He took a hot shower. Oddly enough he felt better: bleak situations were familiar territory to him. Besides, now there was no thread of hope, his way forward was clear; his way backwards, in truth. Shakirvasta had been right after all. They stood no chance out here. They couldn’t even manage basic communications. It had been stupid, hubris all over again. He hoped they could at least get back in one piece, and that Josefsson’s ego hadn’t already ruined humanity’s second chance.
As the water sprayed over his naked body, he remembered all the faces when they’d left Ourshiwann – the hope he’d seen there which would now be squashed. It would also be tough returning personally – the triumvirate of Shakirvasta, Josefsson and Jennifer would feast on his humiliation. He wasn’t Blake. For a while he’d felt stronger, the man he’d always wanted to be, but out here he was powerless, unable to lead while they were stuck. A leader must act, and there was nothing he could do. He didn’t see how Blake would fare any better. The aliens were probably right to quarantine them. Maybe it was safer all around.
He reached the bridge to find everyone else already there. Zack hunkered in his pilot’s seat immersed in a data cloud which he guessed controlled the weapons cache. Ramires and Sandy were huddled over a comms unit, trying to figure out the latest burst of data that had arrived in translucent rotating cubes of rust-coloured serif-like digits. Every now and again symbols would illuminate or change colour. Once, two entire cubes merged and spawned four smaller ones. He and Hannah agreed it was some form of matrix coding in three dimensions, possibly four, since the timing of the cubes’ interactions appeared to matter. It was like an IQ test, and they were failing dismally. Worse still, he suspected this was a rudimentary level of communication.
Hannah’s flaxen hair draped over her console as she hunched over her screen on its pedestal – making him think of a wild, long-necked bird stooped on its perch. Not unattractive, actually … he shook himself mentally. What was he thinking?
He strode past her and stood by his Captain’s chair, facing them all, and waited. No one had noticed his arrival. Oh well, he thought, here goes.
“Could you listen up, please, I’ve made a decision.”
One by one, the heads lifted and turned in his direction. He realised how much he hated being in the spotlight. Some are born to lead, his father had once lectured him, and some are not. He took a breath. “We –”
“– have company,” Hannah finished.
Micah and the others stared in her direction, then, seeing it was not a joke, whirled into activity. Within seconds everyone was at their post, infused with adrenaline. He didn’t know what to say, but a single word escaped nonetheless. “Report!”
Hannah: “Single ship, small transport most likely, off our starboard, approaching the docking bay.”
Zack: “Targeted their forward hull with two torpedoes.”
Sandy: “No comms yet.”
Ramires: “Visual image coming on-line… now.”
They turned as one to the large screen directly in front of Micah. A dark, circular shadow approached, discernible only by its obscuration of the stars behind it.
“Any chance of lighting it up?” Micah ventured.
“Hang on,” Ramires said, activating a touch-panel. “There!”
Nobody spoke, they just stared. Micah had seen plenty of cool ship designs in vids and games, but this wasn’t just the latest fluidic-chip maxi-sense holo-vid: this was real. And it was much, much better.
The approaching ship was somewhere between an elongated cone and a javelin, the sleek outer hull laced with metallic scarlet and purple shades rippling from the tip back to the aft section. Its texture reminded him of a moonlit lake, but its sleek lines suggested power, and above all, speed. It was hard to gauge the size, but as it approached Hannah filled them in.
“It’s a Scintarelli Star-piercer, according to the onboard database, Level Eight design, about two hundred meters in length, minimal jump drive, built for inter-stellar non-Transpace flight. Crew complement two, registering as Mannekhi, a Level Five race.”
Micah tore himself away from the screen to face her. ‘Two?’
She nodded assiduously.
It was hard to imagine such a big ship housing just two… But then, he reminded himself, he had no idea what size or shape those crew members might be.
He watched as the craft pivoted effortlessly towards them.
“Just say the word, skipper,” Zack said, a single finger poised above back-lit touch-screen pads.
He shook his head. If it was an attack, surely their moves would be more aggressive? Maybe they could fire some kind of warning shot. But it was getting closer with every second.
“We’re receiving a signal,” Sandy said.
He prayed it was not another data matrix ballet.
“Audio only.”
They all turned to Sandy then the screen. Micah wondered what it might sound like. English was the last thing he expected.
“Power down your weapons. We’re coming aboard. We’re here to help you.”
Zack retracted his finger, and stood up. “This I’ve gotta’ see. An English-speaking alien.” He paused as his gaze met Micah’s. “If it’s oka
y with you, boss?”
Micah felt stunned: English, and an offer of help. “Okay, Zack, you and Ramires take the pulse rifles and meet our … guests. Sandy and Hannah…” He stopped himself as he surveyed the intense faces around him. He grinned. “What am I saying? Let’s all go, there’s nothing much we can do from here anyway.”
Zack placed a conciliatory hand on his shoulder as they trotted down the rampway. “Don’t sweat it. The rifles were a good call.”
Hannah stood next to the airlock controls. “They’re inside, and pressure is equalised, same oxygen-nitrogen mix as here, no bio-threats detected.”
Micah wished the airlock had a portal so he could see the creatures before opening the hatch. Zack and Ramires stood at either side, rifles aimed at the grey-green metal archway.
“Open it,” he said.
There was a short hiss and a dull rumble, like a train carriage on tracks, as the door swung aside into a recess. A sheen of water vapour lingered in the air, then dissipated like wisps of dew in the morning sunlight. Micah’s eyes narrowed, then widened.
A lean, muscled woman in her thirties, completely bald, with sharp jade-coloured eyes, stepped toward them, looked straight at Micah, ignored the rifles, and held out her hand. “Angelica Rushton, you can call me Angel. Nice to meet you.”
Zack lowered his rifle. Ramires didn’t.
Micah gingerly met her hand, and shook it. “Micah Sanderson. How –”
“And this is Starkel.” She jerked a thumb behind her, as the second airlock occupant stepped out of its shadow. Zack’s rifle jerked back into readiness as the tall, black-clad figure glided into view, silent as a zero-G dancer, and muscled to boot. Micah’s instincts told him to be very careful, even before he noticed that the man’s eyes – irises included – were pure black.
“It’s okay everybody,” Angel said, “he’s eaten.” She turned to Zack. “Speaking of which, and I know this is going to sound weird, but do you have any meat onboard? You know, honest-to-God meat?”
