by Barry Kirwan
A deep, guttural voice boomed across the space between them and the Ranger: a series of growls and clicks that put Micah’s spine on edge.
“The Ranger Ukrull is testifying. He expresses surprise at finding the race calling itself humanity more advanced than he expected, based on the original Q’Roth incursion manifest. He believes humanity was on the cusp of emergence. However, the rate of progress in the last millennium was unusual by galactic development standards, so the Q’Roth couldn’t know. For him, given the escape of a number of humans, the main question is what to do with the survivors.”
“Micah, this is good isn’t it?” Sandy said. “He must be the one who saved Rashid.”
He nodded, and addressed the Finchikta. “What else?”
The Finchikta shivered, its fine feathers fluffing momentarily before settling down. “Ah. There is an anomaly in his testament. You have…” It craned its neck and peered at Micah. Its third eye opened, a clear sapphire blue. “You have encountered the Hohash?”
“Yes. So what?”
The eye sealed again. The Finchikta moved in front of Micah, clearly more interested in this than the court case. “They are legendary. They are the Listeners, the ears of the Galaxy. They have been missing for a hundred thousand angts. They are omnipaths.”
“Omnipaths?” Micah wished his resident was online, this sounded important.
“The Hohash helped create the Finchikta Order, establishing it amongst the fifty core Grid professions known as The Torus. We worsh –”. It ruffled its feathers again. “They are very important to us.” The creature dipped its head and whole upper body slowly. Micah realised it was bowing to them. “You have been honoured.”
Micah wished they’d brought one along. He cleared his throat. “So, who’s nex…”
Micah had no body. His mind floated like a two dimensional sheet of plazfilm, flapping on the winds of a featureless emerald space. He heard sounds: his own voice, as a child, as an adult. He perceived other sheets drifting, slip-sliding in the windless space like a dropped sheaf of paper, each one containing a scene, a memory, voices, people he knew, things he’d seen, things he’d said, more than a few he wished he hadn’t. As they tumbled, he knew the Tla Beth had complete access to his mind and memory. There was no question of lying or even trying to hide anything. He heard his mother crying, his father raging at him when he was a kid. He saw again the aerial nuclear detonations over LA, his younger self sprinting for the shelter to beat the vaporising blast wave; huddling there with his mother when he couldn’t stop shaking; his father calling him a coward; Louise about to kill him; Antonia; Sandy… He wrenched himself back from it all. It was too easy to drown in his own life. His Optron training helped him. He took the astrosurfer’s viewpoint, and witnessed thousands of sheets peppering the green sky: a man’s life dissected – his life.
He discerned a common thread in the Tla Beth search strategy: Micah had always been a misfit as a kid, had hated his father, and had been a bit of a geek during adolescence. In the defence case for humanity, his head wasn’t the best brochure available.
Abruptly he was back in his body, in a white space. He was standing on something but couldn’t discriminate between floor and space and wall: everything was solid white. A figure emerged and walked toward him.
“No, not you,” he heard himself say, as an image of his father approached, in his grey military uniform. At least he didn’t have that disappointed look plastered across his face.
The image of his father spoke. “We see in humanity destruction, greed, conflict, injustice, and other disharmonious emotions associated with Level Three and below races. Such comportment is dangerous for the Grid Society. The Grid Council, chaired by the Tla Beth, sanctioned the Q’Roth request.”
Micah knew he had to remain as dispassionate as possible; anger would be a fast-track to humanity’s final demise. “Look at our technological achievements, our advances, they –”
“Are dangerous without mental and emotional discipline,” Sister Esma said, materialising out of the white ether. “We Alicians instigated all the major breakthroughs in the past five centuries, and –”
“How many did you stop?” he countered. “How many DaVinci’s, Mozarts, and Qorelli’s did you snuff out? Who knows where humanity would be now if you Alicians hadn’t intervened? Your agenda was to break humanity, not nurture it, wasn’t it, Esma?”
She flared, so that Micah knew this was no avatar, it was her.
The image of his father which the Tla Beth had chosen to utilise, held up a hand, choking off her retort. “The past cannot be undone. The Q’Roth incursion and their stewardship of the Alicians followed Grid protocol. Why is humanity worth saving? You don’t seem to believe in it yourself, Micah.”
Micah swallowed. He wished for any other figure than his father’s, but knew that was probably intentional. He had to think fast. Blake – he was as good a role model as Micah knew. “Then look into another head. Look at a real hero, Blake. Access Zack’s memories, and see another view of mankind.”
The Transpar materialised into the white construct, opposite Micah’s father. Its crystal surface flashed a pastiche of images, becoming a montage of Blake’s life. Micah had forgotten how much of it had been War-related. He couldn’t keep up with the almost subliminal shifting of events, but noticed that Esma apparently could. He saw her greedy ebony eyes darting about, peering into Blake’s history, scouring his soul.
“Look!” she shouted, pointing a bony finger, a sneer of triumph swelling her face. “There! See? See how humanity’s big hero behaves? He murders his own son!”
“This needs to be witnessed by all,” his father said.
Micah found himself back on the platform. His legs gave way but Sandy and Ramires’ arms caught him. “Thanks,” he groaned, feeling like he needed to throw up.
“What happened?” Sandy asked. But before he could answer, she continued. “Micah, the Earth. It’s shifted further downwards. What’s going on?”
He sagged as he saw the blue-green globe rolling closer and faster into the maw of the funnel. Worse, a dusty orange ball followed close behind. Ourshiwann. Humanity’s fate was slipping closer to the precipice. He’d have to play the next part very carefully. Meanwhile, the Q’Roth planet rotated serenely along the outer rim. “We’re about to see exhibit A,” he said.
Above the whirlpool, an image formed, like an outdoor holo. It was the one Sister Esma had spotted, a night-time scene played out in real time. Micah watched with a lead weight in his stomach as Blake, in battle fatigues soaked with blood, fired the slow-gun into his own son’s body, exploding him from the inside. The memory slammed into Micah as surely as if he’d stepped out in front of a hover-taxi.
He addressed the Tla Beth, his voice firm. “His name was Robert. Blake’s son had been transformed into a ghoster by the Alicians.” He pointed at Sister Esma. “He was no longer human.” Esma’s sneer faltered. Micah continued: “Please go forward in time, a few minutes,” he said. “Stop there.” He saw Sister Esma squint to see what he was referring to. In the freeze-framed view, Zack and Blake were rescuing a group of young boys from the Alician camp. Ramires also edged forward. Sandy rested a hand on Micah’s shoulder. Micah knew exactly where to look. His voice cracked. “I was there. He rescued me and fourteen others, losing his entire platoon except Zack. Blake had been too late to save his own son.”
“It doesn’t change anything,” Esma shouted. “Where is your Blake now? What use is a hero if the rest of your precious humanity hunts him down, and imprisons him?”
Micah frowned. “What … what are you talking about?”
She turned toward the Ranger. “We have studied the full testimony of the Ranger Ukrull. I call upon Ukrull to testify on the most recent events on Ourshiwann. I am sure the honourable Ranger knows to which events I refer to.”
“What’s that witch going on about now?” Sandy asked.
Micah didn’t know, but had a bad feeling in his gut.
&n
bsp; A new image formed. It was another trial, but a human one. There was no sound; there didn’t need to be. Shakirvasta and Josefsson lorded over the proceedings, with the psychologist Carlson in the dock. Carlson was gesticulating wildly. The crowd in the cramped makeshift court room appeared to be shouting too, but there was a heavy militia presence, a new uniform Micah didn’t recognise. Then he saw the image of Blake, his hands cuffed behind him, sitting in a smaller dock, surrounded by four heavies. Whenever he tried to speak he was ordered into silence, then rifle-butted when he didn’t comply.
The scene shifted. On seeing it, Sandy let out a cry and buried her head into Ramires broad shoulder. But Micah couldn’t turn away, though it wrenched his heart to stare at the limp body of Carlson, hanging from a noose in the central plaza. There was no one around. His corpse, abandoned, twisted slowly in the Esperantian breeze.
Micah’s head bowed towards the ground.
The Finchikta moved aside and the image of his father reappeared. “Do you have anything more to say in humanity’s defence, Micah?”
He heard compassion and empathy in that calm voice, like he’d never known from his actual father. Something inside him splintered, cracking him like a shell. He shook his head, unable to speak. The Tla Beth’s representation vanished. Micah’s eyes lifted to see the two globes of Earth and Ourshiwann begin their roll inwards, down the slope, towards the point of no return into the funnel, and the cauldron of fire deep within.
Chapter 25
Dead Man Walking
Blake strained against the handcuffs for the umpteenth time, his shoulders and arms bulging until he felt the veins come out on his forehead. He relaxed, recovered his breathing, and sat back down on his solitary, armless metal chair. The white room he had occupied the past two weeks wasn’t quite square and had no sharp edges – like an inverted tin used for baking a loaf of bread. At night four guards armed with stun-sticks released him for five minutes before handcuffing his arms in front of him so he could relieve himself and then sleep. He’d taken the men on twice already, but they knew what they were doing, and he was knocked out cold both times. He stared toward the oval window – it had been papered over, but he could judge the time of day, which was, he guessed, about five in the afternoon, an hour before dusk on Ourshiwann.
On impulse he stood up and inhaled deeply. He’d adjusted long ago to the heightened oxygen mixture, but when he breathed really deep, it chilled his nostrils as if walking in cool mountain air. Footsteps approached. He’d been practising a roundhouse kick he’d learned during his more athletic youth – though now, especially cuffed, he’d ended up crashing to the floor each time. But it would be his only way to take out Shakirvasta, if he could just get it right and connect with the man’s scraggy neck. A desperate idea, highly unlikely to work, but he’d been sentenced to death, so desperation trumped rationality any day of the week. He crouched slightly, preparing his thigh muscles, then gave it up – the footsteps weren’t measured enough to be Shakirvasta’s, and not heavy enough to belong to one of the guards.
Sonja rounded the corner and ran straight to him, flung her arms around him, her head of dark frizzy hair burying into his chest, brushing against his chin. Her hands found his, squeezed his palms, and then she pulled back. Her face was more drawn than he remembered.
She nudged a tear away with her shoulder. “We didn’t even know if you were still alive.”
Antonia entered the room, head down, sheepish, arms crossing her waspish waist. “I tried, Commander. I tried everything.”
He’d forgotten her crisp Eastern European accent, her elegance and poise. “I know, Antonia, I’m sure you did everything you could, both of you.”
“Sit down, Blake,” Sonja said, “we don’t have much time.”
He obliged, while Sonja started pacing. He’d never seen her do that. She wrung her hands, too, speaking fast. “They have Benjy and Peter. All children now get raised in a boarding school in a ring-fenced part of the city. Shakirvasta’s doctrine is peddled there, and parents don’t get to see their kids except on Sundays. Everyone works six days a week, most on farms, tilling the soil – back-breaking, spirit-breaking work.”
She avoided looking at him. Blake guessed why she was here: absolution.
“After your escape I was arrested. I didn’t see my kids that weekend and when I was finally allowed, they…” Her hands raked at her hair, as if to try and pull the words out.
Antonia came to her rescue. “Her children are young, Commander, young and impressionable. They are being turned against Sonja. One of them – forgive me, Sonja – one of them spat at her, called her a traitor.”
Sonja trembled. She turned to face him, chin up, the proud eyes he’d known since her second date with Zack, a lifetime ago. “I’ll do whatever you ask of me. Maybe there’s some way I can help Rashid, if – when – he returns.”
He’d sent more men and women to their death than he cared to remember, always in the name of some cause or other. Despite Zack putting him in a coma, he owed him too much. “This is what I want you to do, Sonja.” He eased himself up. “Just love your kids, show them what real love is. That’s the only way they’ll see through the lies.”
Her lips pressed together; she looked tense enough to shatter. “Zack’s not coming back, is he?”
Blake frowned. “Sonja, I –”
“It’s okay. I’ve waited for it, dreaded it, half my life. But last night, I really felt it, suddenly, as if…” Her eyes narrowed. “He always belonged to you more than me, Blake.” Her voice hardened, and she spoke quickly through pursed lips. “And soon you’ll be together.”
“Sonja!” Antonia whispered.
“It’s okay, Antonia,” he said, quietly.
Sonja sniffed and approached him, face distraught, then stopped short. “I’m sorry, Blake, you know I didn’t mean it. I have to go.” She turned on her heels and dashed out of the room.
He stared through the empty doorway, then parked his back against the wall where the window light dwindled. “How did it come to this, Antonia? You’ve been on the Council, you’re as close to Shakirvasta as anyone, except maybe Josefsson.”
She shrugged and shook her head at the same time. “It started off better than I expected. He had an ideology and razor-sharp logic. At first it seemed he wanted to reinstate the Indistani neo-feudalism he’d installed in Mumbai after the War. He’s quite persuasive, and he had a plan when no one else did – two years to achieve sustainable harvests; immediate formation of education and medical facilities, and a defence capability strategy. Everyone had their part to play and, frankly, most valued his vision after weeks of chaos. It all seemed so rational. But then – well, it was like watching Karl Marx morph into Joseph Stalin. He wanted to be a Tsar, or maybe the Chinese God-Emperor was his model, I really don’t know.”
He noticed she stood straight, as if giving evidence; her aristocratic upbringing, no doubt. He could see why Kat liked her so much. He’d have been proud to have her as a daughter.
“Anyway, that was when…” She cleared her throat. “Jennifer would go berserk if she’d known.”
“What?”
She spread her hands. “He wanted a successor. To cut a long story short, he wanted to father a child with me. Can you believe it? Said I was ‘good stock’. I was stunned.”
She must have read his eyes. “Of course I told him where to go. But it was around that time that Bill – Bill Carlson, that is – when Bill and I noticed a change in him. He takes medication every morning, and Bill wanted to find out what it was. He even joked that maybe one day we could poison him that way. But we did finally find out. It was –”
“Retrocan.” Blake was guessing, but as soon as he said it, everything fell into place.
She smiled. “You’re as sharp as my father was. How did you know?”
“He smokes enough to be dead ten times over. His family were originally tobacco barons, growing fine-grade GM in the Himalayan foothills. The scientist who invented Re
trocan was Indistani – designed not just to prevent lung cancer, but to re-boot the whole industry.”
“Except it was found to have chronic aggressive side-effects, with hints of paranoia.”
He nodded. “Explains some of it. He must be way over the normal dose. Probably also why he extended Glenda’s life – he sees his future fate.”
Antonia folded her arms and spoke to the floor. “I got to know his physician quite well. He … fancied me. I mean nothing ever … Anyway, Shakirvasta only has five years, maximum.”
“So, he’s in a hurry to make his stamp on this world.”
She looked up, her almond-shaped eyes pleading. “Blake, where I come from, we’ve seen this so many times. It can take decades, generations for a society to recover from his type of politics. Already people just go missing. That creates such a fear in everyone else left behind, their families…”
Blake nodded again. But he realised they must be running short on time. The guards would call for Antonia soon. “I have a question, Antonia, about Carlson – Bill. The accusations – were they true? Did he try and assassinate Shakirvasta in the end? Did he try and poison him?”
Antonia walked to the chair and sat down. She placed her hands in her lap, and shook her head. “We joked about it, nothing more.”
He coughed. After a silence: “When is my execution scheduled?”
She leant forwards in the chair, her hands cupping her chin. “He hasn’t decided, but I think it’ll be at dawn. He keeps everyone wrong-footed, as you know. Bill’s hanging…” Her voice choked off. She collected herself. “There were protests. Three people injured, one critically, more than twenty arrested.” She looked up at him. “There have been rumours about yours, many more people threatening to demonstrate. I don’t think he wants a repeat performance. Carlson was a test. Shakirvasta won’t want you as a martyr. Even Josefsson is starting to fray at the edges, after Carlson’s hanging, he fears how far Shakirvasta is prepared to go.”
