Wars

by Alex Deva

  “What do you mean, alive and well? How can you not tell that yourselves?“

  “Doina, I’m very sorry. Mark and Zi have been kidnapped, together with most of the laboratory installations.“

  “Wait, wha… how the very mother of fuck,“ began Aram.

  “An army of nearly a thousand trained soldiers, all turned Eighters. And a Square who somehow helped them dig kilometres under the ground. They killed everyone in the laboratory. Almost everyone; I understand lieutenant Lawry will make it. One of our special troops somehow managed to protect her, we believe, just after he locked down the systems.“

  “What does that mean?“ asked Doina.

  “That nobody can tap into the data feed, on the… human side of it. Including ourselves.“

  “Oh, my God. How are you going to get them out?“

  “We don’t even know where they are yet. I mean, their physical bodies. Even if we could break the connection, without someone looking after them they would just wake up and, well, drown.“

  “But they’ve been in there, how long?“

  “Almost too long,“ admitted Toma. “Could you just give me a second? I need to report back.“

  “Yes,“ said the girl, tersely. “Do that.“

  The Romanian touched a few keys quickly on her tab, waited for confirmation, then stowed it away.

  “Look, we will find them and bring them back,“ she said. “Colonel Tiessler will send…“

  “The hell he will,“ said Aram.

  The woman looked at him in surprise. “What?“

  “Mark is my mate. I’m going after him.“

  “I… but you haven’t even been to Earth in two thousand years!“

  “Right. So they’ll never expect me.“

  “That is the least logical argument I’ve ever heard, and it has nothing to do with anything.“

  “Best I could come up with at the moment. I’ll think of something better when I return.“

  “Aram,“ intervened Doina. “They don’t even know where they are and what they’re doing. They can’t even talk to them.“

  “I got that,“ said the blond man, irritated. “So let’s start there. How do we get in touch? ‘Cause they need to know what’s happening here.“

  “Not everybody agrees that they do,“ said Toma. “If we’re ever to see our Sun again, we need help from someone capable of taking on the Squares, and we need it now. Things are already spinning out of control down there on Earth. If Mark and Zi don’t find help, well, we’ll all just have to become Eighters. So, many people are saying that it’s best to let them try their best, and not burden them with problems they can’t solve anyway.“

  “Even if it kills them.“

  For once, Toma was direct. She looked at them and said: “Yes.“

  “And you agree,“ said Doina. It was a statement, not a question.

  “I… I have family on Earth. They’re not doing too well right now. I want this to stop as much as anybody. People are dying every day. Every second, in fact.“

  “So what’s two more deaths, right?“

  “If they save billions? They’ll be heroes.“

  “There’s something to be said for heroes who are not actually dead,“ observed Aram.

  “And no effort is spared to keep our people alive. But you must understand that their mission comes above all else.“

  “But suppose they do find help. How are they gonna let us know?“

  “That’s occurred to us, too. With their connection locked, the only way is for us to send someone else to facilitate communications. That’s what I was about to say. Colonel Tiessler…“

  Aram stood up. “Let’s go,“ he said.

  * * *

  “Not a problem, my friend. Ask as much as you want,“ said major Petrov, clapping Aram on the shoulder with enough force to bring someone else to their knees.

  “Thanks,“ said Aram, amiably. He was strapped in a chair on the window seat of a Pinion, on his way to visit a planet which had travelled around the Sun two thousands times since he’d been born on it. He processed the thought as he did all the other marvels and surprises and miracles and apparent impossibilities with which he’d been bombarded since Doi had taken him: by simply accepting them as fact, and trying to factor them in, as well as he could, in his future decisions.

  The Pinion appeared to be in flames.

  “Why are we burning?“ he asked the big Russian.

  “We’re not really burning,“ answered Petrov, carefully un-condescending. “Some of the stuff around us is. We’re compressing the air in front of us, which makes it very hot.“

  Aram touched the plastic panels of the wall next to him.

  “Doesn’t feel hot,“ he said. “I guess it’s only hot on the outside. How long will this take?“

  “Just a couple more minutes.“

  “And then?“

  “We glide to a spaceport, and we land on a long strip of concrete, shaped like a circle so we don’t run out. We’ll be flying pretty fast right before we land, I can tell you.“

  “What keeps us floating in the air? Is it the same as for my Effo?“

  “Friend, if you can explain to me what makes Effo fly, I will be the richest and most famous man on Earth. Or at least I would be, if Earth wasn’t gone by then. No, the things that hold us are the wings on the sides.“

  “Really? Do they start flapping?“

  Petrov laughed, then controlled himself. “If only! No, they don’t need to flap. Air holds them, because we’re moving so fast.“

  “Wait. We’re still heavy no matter how fast we move, aren’t we?“

  “We sure are. But the shapes of the wings makes the air that flows underneath push us up, and the air that flows over, pull us up. That’s how birds glide, and that’s why they need to have some speed before they can do it.“

  “Aha,“ said Aram. “When did people figure these things out?“

  “Oh, about five hundred years ago.“

  “What? Just that? Five hundred years ago?“

  “Disappointed? I guess it feels like a lot to me. I mean, flying is no new invention, even to old guys like your friend Mark.“

  Thinking about Mark suddenly changed Aram’s mood. The Brit and his companion had almost exceeded the maximum amount of time they could be held in the telesentience vats. Toma had said that even if they got out now, there was no telling if they would recover from it.

  “Still no word?“ he asked softly.

  Petrov sighed a big Russian sigh, pulled out his tab and checked it. “No,“ he said. “They still haven’t found them. But you know, I’m sure they will. We can see everything on the surface from space, and we’re looking for any signs. Believe me, there’s just no way they can go unnoticed.“

  “On the surface, you said. So that means they’re still underground?“

  “It’s the logical conclusion. Unless that alien pancake can make people invisible, which nobody is excluding at the moment.“

  The flames began to subside, and Earth suddenly came into view.

  It was a huge, black mass, covered in pricks of light which neatly delimited landmass from water. But the truly weird things were the bright, clearly defined beams, all coming from one place — in the direction of the Sun — which lit hundreds of small places, focal points for the believers to gather and worship the Eight.

  “Horrible,“ said Petrov.

  Aram said nothing.

  Two aircraft joined the space shuttle on its both sides. The Dacian watched the one on his side with some interest. The two engines at the back gave out shiny cones of light with even shinier bulges at regular intervals. He located the pilot’s lit cockpit, and in it he saw a man with a masked face. The man waved at him; he raised his hand and waved back.

  “Standard escort,“ said Petrov. “We don’t dare draw too much attention. All militaries are crawling with Eighter spies.“

  “So what if he’s an Eighter?“ asked Aram, pointing with his head towards the pilot in
the nearby plane.

  Petrov shrugged. “There are only so many background checks we can make,“ he answered. “Either he shoots us down or he doesn’t. I’m glad that so far he hasn’t.“

  * * *

  In the huge hangar, a woman with a tight bun offered Aram her hand as soon as he got out of the Pinion. He knew who she was; he took her hand and shook it.

  “Mr. Aram, my name is Lykke Dahlberg.“

  “Yes. You’re the one who was supposed to look after Mark and Zi,“ said Aram.

  Dahlberg swallowed both her smile and her welcome phrase.

  “If you’ll follow me,“ she said, then briskly turned around and started walking. Six Rook soldiers swooped in and fell in step with them.

  Petrov’s massive frame popped out of the shuttle. “Hey, Aram!“ he yelled.

  The Dacian stopped and turned around; three Rooks turned with him, while the others didn’t, their attentions unperturbed. Aram noticed appreciatively, and then looked back at Petrov.

  “Ni pukha, ni pera,“ yelled the Russian.

  One of the Rooks leaned closer and said: “He wishes you good luck. Say, k chortu.“

  Aram did his best to repeat the phrase loudly for Petrov to hear. The Russian major gave a loud, approving laugh, and then disappeared back into his Pinion.

  “What did I just tell him?“ asked Aram.

  “Literally, ‘to the devil’,“ answered the Rook.

  “What?!“

  “It’s an ancient Russian hunting wish. He wished you to catch nothing, and you answered something like the hell I won’t“.

  “K chortu,“ repeated the Dacian. “I like that.“

  “I knew you would,“ nodded the soldier, grinning.

  In front of the group, Lykke Dahlberg rolled her eyes. Nobody saw her.

  XXII.

  “Rrapi, wake up, dude. Wake up and slow down.“

  The alien twitched a few of its frontmost limbs and jumped like a spring. It turned towards Zi, and a stream of words burst out of some place on its body, far too quickly to be understood. Mark and Zi reached out with their hands as if trying to stop the torrent.

  Mark was sitting down on the infinite floor, with his back on the infinite wall. He was feeling unwell, in a way he was not familiar with. He felt extreme tiredness, but without that accompanying muscle pain that usually heralds physical fatigue. It was just the odd feeling that ordering an arm or a leg to move took a lot of special convincing.

  He knew why, of course. It had been over three days since he’d slept. Or since his brain had slept, because his body had been sleeping the whole time, which was also part of the problem. The entire setup, where the brain was actively working with a computer simulated body, while messages from his actual body were censored and filtered — not to mentioned sent across the galaxy and back — was highly unusual for a human being. Nothing even close to it had been part of the Brit’s education or training. The nearest thing to it was, of course, torture. Torture was also a way to disorientate the nervous system, either by overloading it with pain signals or by depraving it of any signals whatsoever, to the point where consciousness would panic and break its self-imposed barriers.

  Except this time there was no torturer, and there wasn’t even any pain. He could still move, he could talk, he could pick his nose if we wanted, it just felt like a really cumbersome enterprise to set in motion.

  And his skin itched. He assumed that the effects of being completely submerged in fluid for days on end would eventually overrun the telesentience system’s ability to mask the alarm signals coming from the peripheral nerves. He perceived them as an undefined but universal itch, on which scratching had no effect at all.

  But most worryingly, it was becoming hard to breathe. For stretches of time, which had started as short but were growing longer and longer, breathing had become a conscious effort. It wasn’t as if his throat was blocked, or as if there was no air. It was simply that, if he didn’t command his diaphragm directly, it wouldn’t go to the trouble of expanding his thorax. The fact that some basic functions of his autonomic nervous system were on their way to jump the fence into volition felt rather alarming.

  Zi was faring much better, despite the fact that he’d been in for a few minutes longer. Mark put it down to previous experience, although he had to admit it was also possible that mankind — and, in particular, mankind’s elite soldiers — had become a little more advanced biologically, in the past three hundred years.

  Or maybe Zi was just better.

  Rrapi’s twitches subsided and turned into human-speed gestures, as it drugged itself into an adequate slow-down.

  “No, I do not have any news, and yes, we are still working on it,“ it said, before Zi had a chance to open his mouth again.

  “Listen,“ said Mark, working through each sound. “Never mind fixing the entire complex. Can you add one more transceiver to it?“

  “What? Why?“

  “We’ve lost our back channel. Our people will be trying to send someone to help.“

  Rrapi stopped and leaned towards Mark.

  “You are unwell. Are you experiencing your biological limits?“

  Mark smiled tiredly. “That’s one way of putting it,“ he said.

  “I’m guessing you don’t want visitors dying on your station and on your shift,“ suggested Zi.

  “What? It is not our fault that you have lost comms,“ said the alien.

  “Who do you think will care when the news comes out?“

  “Hum,“ pondered Rrapi. “This is one more complication. You should have just gone home. I think that the other visitors have begun leaving the station, which is only sensible.“

  “And which also leaves a bunch of available transceivers,“ said Zi.

  “Yes, because our attackers have locked the main comms array, and no, because our attackers have locked the mains comms array.“

  “What?“

  “They’re not used, but they’re not available either. They are unreachable for the time being.“

  “Can you fix that? Open up one of them?“

  “I would not have enough control to filter who comes through. It could be any new visitor.“

  “I assume that by now your regulars are aware that the station isn’t operational.“

  “Some may be, some may not. And then, there are always the newcomers.“

  “But don’t new visitors require configuration? You know, understanding their systems, adapting to their interface and all that? If nobody does that for them, they can’t get in, can they?“

  Rrapi pondered for half a second. “That is indeed the case,“ it said. “If I managed to open one transceiver, it would be likely that whoever connected to it would be one of your people.“

  “So, can you do it?“

  This time, Rrapi was silent for a longer while.

  * * *

  “Welcome back, madam.“

  Ambassador Jox pushed herself out of the telesentience pod and into the surrounding pool. With a few powerful strokes she raised to the surface and grabbed her assistant’s hand.

  “Hello, Trin,“ she said, getting out of the deep basin. “All well?“

  “Yes. I am sorry you had to return early. I understand the diplomatic complex was under attack?“

  “It still is. Very annoying.“

  “Doubtlessly our trade relationships will suffer,“ said the assistant with precisely the appropriate amount of displeasure.

  Jox stepped inside a static field where her skin cleaned in a few seconds. Trin offered her a suitable garment, which she quickly put on.

  “Have you done what I asked?“

  “Yes, madam. The Chief of Warfare offers her compliments and expects you tomorrow.“

  “This cannot wait until tomorrow. I need to see her now.“

  The assistant registered his further displeasure by slowing down a notch and falling behind a step or two. His boss, a career diplomat, was the last person to forget the written and unwritten rules of t
he high society. If a meeting was set for a specific point in time, it would take place at that point in time, not later and not, under any circumstances, sooner.

  He caught up with the ambassador. “You do not seriously believe those humans?“ he asked, neutrally.

  “I am really unsure what I believe, Trin. Their argument seemed like it at least had the potential to make some sense. Things did appear to indicate that we might hold the solution to their Square infection problem.“

  “But we do not,“ said Trin. “And even if we did, we would never dare provoke the Eight. And even if we had some kind of secret weapon that actually worked against the Squares, we would have to eradicate every last one of them, or else risk being destroyed by those who are left.“

  “Believe me, I did not make it to the diplomatic corps by not pondering on our relationships with the Eight and with their proxies,“ said Jox. “And yet, it may not hurt to ask.“

  “Ah, but it will,“ said Trin. “Asking the wrong questions, especially when they involve warfare against the Eight, can be seen by some people as an unforgivable crime. By some people who are best left unantagonised,“ he added.

  The ambassador turned a right, walked several steps, then waited. Trin glided by and opened the door, stepped in, and performed an elaborate inviting gesture. Jox replied reflexively and then entered her office. As her furniture emerged from the walls, she walked to a gently oscillating surface and sat on it, riding it with her legs on either side.

  “It feels good to sit on something real,“ she said. “And now, Trin, please get me the Chief of Warfare.“

  “Madam ambassador,“ began Trin, uncertainly.

  “Not today, Trin. Now. Just do it — on my authority.“

  Her assistant’s hesitance was just on the right side of politeness, as he walked out of the room in silent, if protesting, obedience.

  A thin wall of falling droplets appeared in front of the ambassador, splashing on her seat and on the floor around her. On its way from ceiling to floor, each electrostatically charged droplet changed its colour so that the entire liquid curtain made for one big screen. The animated logo of the Warfare Column filled it; it took a few long moments for it to be replaced by the image of its chief.