The Last Aeon

by Richard Fox

  “The Karigole are a threatened species,” said one of the kindred. “They’ve renounced space flight and have regressed to a tribal society. Why would they come here?”

  “It’s not the Karigole.” Makarov sighed. “It’s someone with Karigole technology.”

  “Admiral,” Andere said, swallowing hard, “there’s something on sensors.”

  Makarov looked to the course projection from the rogue wormhole, but there was nothing new. The XO swiped a hand across a screen and the tank zoomed in toward Ouranos. A long, jagged shape coalesced over the southern oceans in low orbit.

  “No…” Makarov felt the blood drain from her face. “How could they be that fast?”

  She touched the new contact and a Toth dreadnought—the Last Light— appeared in the holo tank. The ship was irregular but resembled a battered spear tip, while the surface looked like an enormous coral reef had launched into the void. At almost twenty miles long and five miles wide, it dwarfed the Warsaw and the Cyrgal ship. Makarov noted cannon emplacements made of crystals the size of houses and watched as dozens of smaller contacts poured out from the bottom of the ship and streaked toward Ouranos and the Aeon’s island.

  “What is this?” asked one of the kindred.

  “The Toth are here,” Makarov said. “And they’re here for the Aeon. That’s the only explanation.”

  “This can’t be,” the veiled Cyrgal said. “There’s been no contact with the Toth since…since…”

  “They are here now!” Makarov shouted. That humanity had wiped all life off the Toth home world as part of the pact with a Qa’Resh entity and to bring an end to the Ember War was not a detail she needed to share with the Cyrgal. “That is a Toth dreadnought. My mother faced one during their incursion against Earth years ago. Their ships are resilient, armed with energy cannons that can—”

  “We must attend a committee hearing,” the cyborg said and the kindred’s screens snapped off.

  “They have to discuss this?” Andere asked, an eyebrow raised.

  “Rail cannons ready to lay on target!” Eneko shouted across the bridge.

  “Hold,” Makarov said.

  “Admiral, the longer we wait, the—”

  “The Toth aren’t stupid, guns.” Makarov opened a menu in the holo tank and a cone extended from the Ibarra fleet toward the Last Light. The cone touched Ouranos’s oceans and a coastline far from the Aeon’s island.

  “If our rail shot misses, it’ll hit the planet,” Makarov said.

  “The almost completely uninhabited planet,” Eneko said.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Makarov swiped a finger down a screen and opened a channel to her wing commander. The head and shoulders of a woman in a void flight suit appeared in the holo tank.

  “Admiral,” the pilot said, “my Shrikes haven’t fought Toth dagger fighters before…there will be a steep learning curve.”

  “Get Raptor bombers armed with cap-ship missiles void ready,” the admiral said. “We’re in for a fight.”

  The kindred reappeared.

  “Ibarra ship,” the cyborg said, “your presence has been granted a temporary acceptance, with conditions. You must join in the efforts to safeguard the Aeon.”

  “Certainly,” Makarov said. “I can have rounds in the void in—”

  “And you must not endanger the Aeon in any way. Violation of either provision will result in your immediate designation as a hostile presence.”

  “I don’t have a clean shot at the Toth,” Makarov said. “I can maneuver to assist, but if you want a guarantee we won’t pound Ouranos dirt or water, it’ll take us time to get into the fight.”

  “The Toth have refused our hails,” said a Cyrgal female with a large jewel stud between her eyes. “Rudeness will not be tolerated. Please sign this joint action agreement.”

  A form that stretched from the top to the bottom of the holo projection appeared in the tank. Makarov swiped a hand to scroll up and text flew by. She swiped again. And again.

  “You know what?” Makarov asked. “I won’t shoot Cyrgal and Cyrgal won’t shoot us. Agreed?”

  “That is the essence of what is proposed,” the jeweled alien said.

  Makarov flung the agreement off to the side with a flick of her wrist.

  “We’ll shake on it later,” Makarov said. “Earth got a good look at wrecked Toth ships after my mother beat the snot out of them. That fight was a while back. I don’t know if the Toth have changed much since, but I’ll send over technical readouts now.”

  Makarov glanced at the blue icon still on approach to Ouranos. The cloaked Destrier lander was still on the way, still hidden. The Armor’s ticket off the planet was vulnerable, but protected for now.

  Hurry up and get the Aeon out of there, Martel, she thought.

  Chapter 15

  Trinia came out of the jungle and went to the narrow channel separating the two islands. A group of nine Cyrgal stood on the other beach. The males had the double set of arms and carried plasma rifles; the three females had no augmetics.

  The Cyrgal went to their knees and kowtowed as Trinia approached.

  Marc was a step away from leaving the jungle when Roland grabbed him by the shoulder.

  “Stop,” the Armor said. “Don’t risk it. Those plasma weapons don’t tickle.”

  “This whole thing will be a lot easier if I can convince the Cyrgal to stop being assholes about us being here,” Marc said, trying to shrug off Roland’s grip and failing. “You mind?”

  “Hit the deck if things go wrong,” the Armor said. “My mission’s to bring her back safely.” He let him go.

  “I didn’t think it was possible to like you even less, but here we are.” Marc ran after Trinia.

  The Cyrgal didn’t react as he caught up with the Aeon.

  “What’s the plan?” he asked.

  “You stay silent while I convince them to let you leave,” she said.

  “Are you their prisoner? The Ibarra Nation knows a thing or three about jailbreaks—loud, messy jailbreaks.”

  “You are no different than when we spoke through the probes.” She shook her head.

  Trinia stopped just short of the waterline. She spoke in Cyrgal and it took a moment for the box on Marc’s wrist to translate.

  “Tan-Mi, this isn’t necessary,” she said, loud enough for her voice to carry across the ten yards of water. “Return home.”

  “Mother of All,” said a Cyrgal female as she pushed up from her bow, “your holy place has been disturbed. Let us cleanse it of the impure.”

  “What did they call you?” Marc asked.

  “Silence,” she hissed at him, then raised her voice. “Tainted flesh has not crossed the threshold.”

  She knocked on the top of Marc’s head, sending a ring across the water. The rest of the Cyrgal got back to their feet, lowering the barrels of their plasma weapons toward the sand.

  “The sanctity is preserved?” a male asked.

  “As ever,” Trinia said. “Do not attack the walkers. They will not attack you. This is my wish.”

  The Cyrgal went to their knees and bowed again.

  “I can’t stand it when they do that,” she muttered.

  “Let me talk to them.” Marc raised a hand but Trinia pushed it back down, a grimace across her face as the cold bit into her flesh. She used her other hand to turn him around and push him back to Roland.

  “You have nothing to say to them. Tell your soldiers not to fight them. Understand?” she asked as they walked together, Marc struggling to keep up with her longer stride.

  “I can tell them that.” Marc shrugged. “You can tell the big murder machines that too. See how that works out for you.”

  “You put savages in those weapons?” she asked.

  “There’s no such thing as a dangerous weapon,” Marc said, “only dangerous people. Would be a waste to put a shrinking violet in there.”

  Roland had his helm angled up toward the volcano’s flank.

  “You saw aliens and you
didn’t kill any.” Marc gave Roland a thumbs-up. “Knew you had it in you.”

  “There’s something strange happening at the crash site,” Roland said.

  “Can you show us?” Trinia asked.

  Roland did a double take at her, then extended a hand to the ground. The holo projector on Marc’s wrist came to life.

  Within the projection, the Cyrgal aircraft was wedged against a crevice running up the volcano’s flank. The wings were broken, its spine cracked, and smoke seeped through the hull. A line of Cyrgal bodies lay on a field of rocks next to the crash and above the tree line. Three groups of Cyrgal stood in bunches while a single alien went from body to body. The loner wore a flight suit marred by fire, one arm secured to its side and covered by blood-soaked bandages. The wounded alien put his good hand under the neck of a dead Cyrgal, lifted it slightly, then went to the next body.

  “Tragic,” Trinia said. “Better if they’d all died in the crash.”

  “What is this?” Roland asked.

  “Cyrgal kindred give birth at once. Between six and nine in a litter,” she said. “They’re almost inseparable after that. They learn together. Work together. Fight together. No Cyrgal ever does a thing alone. Ever. Litters won’t breed until they’ve bought the right to marry into a clan. Then the bonded groups form a kindred. Most Cyrgal buy their way in through military service or labor work. When there are casualties or an accident that kills all but one of a litter…”

  The lone Cyrgal stepped back from the dead and touched a hand to his forehead.

  “The survivor is xeren. Alone. Not part of the fundamental group of their society. The survivor will never be allowed to form a kindred and they become pariahs,” Trinia said.

  The lone Cyrgal went to his knees and bent forward, holding his head straight from his shoulders.

  A pair of Cyrgal males from a group flanked the kneeler and drew short swords from scabbards at their waists. They both set the blades to the survivor’s neck.

  “Wait,” Marc said, “they’re not going to—”

  The Cyrgal raised their blades together and beheaded the survivor with matched strokes.

  “Oh,” Marc said faintly.

  “Now they’ll gather up the bodies and take them back for recycling,” Trinia said. “Do we need to see that?”

  The holo switched off.

  “A waste,” Roland said and escorted Trinia and Marc back through the jungle.

  “You never learn to appreciate another culture?” Trinia asked him.

  “Their business is their own, but that doesn’t mean I have to agree with it,” Roland said.

  “And what would humans do with someone society cannot utilize?” she asked.

  “We had—” Marc started.

  Trinia shushed him.

  “‘Society’ implies a desire to be a part of something greater than oneself,” Roland said. “Hermits self-select out of interaction. The individual can always contribute.”

  “That is how humans and Cyrgal will differ,” Trinia said. “The group is everything for them. They are individuals that refuse to act as such. Lone action is forbidden. Consensus must reign.”

  “How do they ever make decisions outside their own groups without a leader?” Roland asked.

  “Smart.” Trinia touched two fingertips to her temple. “They are a fractured people. Divided up into thousands and thousands of clans that agree on nothing and never act as one…unless they’re threatened. Once they recognize the whole is in danger, they cooperate. They united when they learned of the Xaros threat and managed to settle several worlds…though their colonies soon fell to civil war and nearly failed. The threat of local extinction put an end to the fighting once all sides were barely able to keep going.”

  “Religion doesn’t do it for the Cyrgal?” Marc asked. “What was that ‘mother of all’ business.”

  “Ugh…” Trinia wiped a strand of sweat-logged hair from her face. “Ancient and very inconvenient myth. A female deity was alone on her mountaintop and decided to bless their home world with the first Cyrgal litter. When they found me, it triggered some old memories and a few kindred drew the unfounded conclusion. They tried to convince the rest of the settlers and a disagreement ensued. Clans fractured and the Tan Sar took up residence on the southern island and declared my hut sacred ground. The Kul Rui Gasslan is still negotiating with them. I’ll die of old age before they come to a conclusion.”

  “And I thought old Earth governments were a pain,” Marc said.

  “Didn’t take us long to have our own falling out after the Ember War,” Roland said.

  “There’s still hope for a united humanity,” Marc said, “but not while the Union has a death sentence on most of the Nation.”

  “What?” Trinia asked.

  “There was this kid named Hale,” Marc said. “Not the best guy to negotiate a treaty…”

  ****

  The three returned to the silent village and Roland’s IR came alive as the rest of his lance connected to his Armor through IR lasers.

  Nicodemus, Martel and Morrigan stood guard around Trinia’s hut.

  “Sir.” Roland saluted Martel with a fist to his chest.

  “Water landings…not the best way to arrive,” the colonel said and returned the salute. A dead fish slipped out from between Armor plates and flopped to the ground. “It’s good you and the Nisei used the thumpers to contact us. Someone was heading out to deep sea.”

  “I got turned around is all,” Morrigan said.

  “You going to drag me away if I don’t go peacefully?” Trinia asked Marc.

  “We need your help,” Marc said. “We won’t force you.”

  “Then get off my island. Let me die in peace,” she said.

  On Roland’s HUD, he saw a private channel open between Martel and Marc. The silver man’s surface rippled as he spoke with the lance commander.

  Trinia went to Martel and knocked on his breastplate. “You’re the head man, yes?” she asked. “I wish to examine one of you.”

  Ripples emanated down Marc’s arm to the wristband.

  “Noninvasive, I promise,” she said.

  “Roland.” Martel pointed at him, then to Trinia.

  In his womb, Roland grit his teeth. First nursemaid for Marc Ibarra, now this. He was the junior lancer and would always be first for any extra duty that came up until he was promoted ahead of the rest of his lance mates or they were replaced with a junior soldier. The former was likely impossible, given how long the other three had their plugs, and he never wanted the latter to come to pass through death or injury.

  “Sir,” Roland said.

  Trinia motioned for Roland to follow and gave Marc a dirty look as he tagged along. She went to the long building across from the unfinished triptych. Roland ducked inside and watched as she struggled to lift a door hidden in the floor of the space. Ornate, wrought-metal chairs along the walls were the only other feature.

  Roland grabbed the door edge and lifted it up. The middle of the thick hatch was a silver metal that glinted like a geode.

  “Quadrium,” Marc said. “The Xaros drones couldn’t scan through it. Kept them from ever finding my secret facilities in Phoenix and a few bolt holes across the solar system.”

  Stairs led down a wide, winding tunnel.

  “Come.” Trinia hiked up her tunic and hurried down the steps. Roland struggled with the oddly sized steps, designed for the taller Aeon and not to scale for his Armor…or for Marc.

  “I’m like a toddler sneaking into a basement,” Marc said.

  Roland continued down and activated a floodlight inside a hatch on his left shoulder for the shorter man’s benefit. The staircase ended in a room the size of the briefing hall on the Warsaw, the ceiling polished rock, the walls lined with Aeon equipment. A sliver of glass floated over a dais in the middle of the room.

  “Your probe.” Marc peered up at the sliver, his fingers rubbing against each other as he fought back the urge to touch it.

  “
Dead,” Trinia said. “It self-destructed the moment I returned during the Xaros attack on Bastion. Just a hunk of crystalline material now.”

  “Mine switched off after the last Qa’Resh wished us well,” Marc said. “We need one to help Stac—” He looked at Roland and caught himself. “It would be useful to have another. Is all.”

  Trinia opened a case and removed a wire gauntlet. She slipped it over one hand and the fingertips glowed to life.

  “All my old equipment still works.” She reached toward Roland and he took a step back.

  “It’s not like she’s going to take your temperature the old-fashioned way,” Marc said.

  “Passive sensor,” she said, touching the gauntlet, “won’t interfere with your systems.”

  Roland locked his arms at his sides. Trinia came closer, and he got a good look at her. She was less humanlike than he first guessed. Tiny membranes fluctuated next to her eyelids and the strands of what he thought were vines wiggled slightly along her hairline.

  “You’re past puberty,” she said as she made a circular motion over his chest with the gauntlet, “but not too far into adulthood. A number of contusions and abrasions…stem-cell treatments to one arm. Is the synaptic feedback from damage to your Armor so strong that your body manifests it as an injury?”

  “I am Armor.” He moved the foot on the plasma-scorched leg from side to side. She moved her hand lower and Roland swore he felt a tingle along his true leg.

  “No such injury to that extremity…”

  “I got hurt out of my Armor,” Roland said.

  “Why would you get into an altercation outside this.” She moved behind Roland and swept her hand slowly across the upper housing of his suit’s integration system with his womb.

  “Not my choice. Some old friends and I…had a falling out.”

  “Marc shared a number of human stories with me while we worked together. Human male conflicts that are not fatal can sometimes resolve the dispute, true in your case?” she asked.

  “No. Not in mine,” Roland said. The image of Aignar lying on the prison floor, limbs damaged and prosthetic chin dangling open, made him sick to his stomach.