Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  The transmission is coming in short bursts, interspersed with crackle on the audio equipment.

  “Nomarch Cretheo, we are having trouble receiving you,” an astra daimon at one of the active stations says. “Please repeat.”

  I advance into the room, moving in closer toward Aeson, who notices and turns his head in my direction. At the sight of me his tense expression shows a moment of intense relief and a smile. He widens his eyes and nods at me, but without leaving his post—this is how I know that the situation is extremely serious.

  I smile back at him and nod my head in response, mouthing the words “everything is okay” but don’t dare to bother him beyond that. Now I’m more glad than ever that my PRT unit didn’t have to call for extraction help at a time like this. . . . Aeson doesn’t need to know about our narrow escape in Khenneb—at least for the moment.

  “What is happening?” I ask the nearest person I know who isn’t as urgently occupied with data in that moment as the others. Gennio looks up from reassembling a gadget on the side desk. “Sorry, not sure, my Imperial Lady,” he says quietly. “I believe Tammuz Station is picking up the same radiation spikes as they had at Septu Station just before the alien light grid started to form.”

  “Oh, no,” I whisper.

  “Yes, bad sign.” Gennio rubs his forehead with the back of his hand and without setting down his tools. “At least the station is already evacuated. Station Nomarch Cretheo forced everyone off station half an hour ago. He’s the only person left on board, and he’s sitting in the shuttle bay inside an ardukat with one other crew, ready to flee. That’s why their comm transmission is so poor, dual shield interference.”

  “I see. What about the station personnel, are they all on War-8?”

  “Yes. Everybody is on War-8, ready to leave. But they have Pilot fighters ready to try some things first, once the grid formation starts.”

  “So, they think they can stop it somehow?” I ask. “Nothing worked the last time.”

  Gennio appears grim. “I don’t know.”

  “It’s all shebet, nobody knows anything,” Anu says in that moment, taking a nearby chair and pulling up a mech arm monitor attached to the desk. “They should just leave while they can.”

  I take a deep breath and turn my attention back to the large screen.

  The Station Nomarch’s transmission continues to cut out periodically as he reads off the local radiation values. Meanwhile, here in the control room the daimon are running correlation programs on the data.

  And then, suddenly it happens.

  Out of nowhere, a single pinpoint of golden light appears on the lower bottom of the viewscreen, superimposed against the blackness of space. The pinpoint grows and then flares into a sphere which is comparable in size to an ark-ship. It hangs in space, motionless and inevitable.

  “Setting countdown now,” Radanthet says at one of the stations.

  Aeson immediately taps his wrist comm. “Command Pilot Ungreb,” he says. “You are advised, we have initiated the countdown clock. Synchronize and prepare for activity.”

  Moments later, another golden light sphere pops into existence. The interval between it and the first sphere is hard to gauge because it is partially off-screen. “Zooming out 20%, changing perspective,” Keruvat says. And now the view shows a wider angle.

  The second sphere takes its position and remains motionless, suspended. It is terrifying in its inactivity.

  In the workroom, concerned whispers rise, as Council Member Takhat expresses his alarm, and ACA Director Hijep Tiofon and First Priest Shirahtet both reply in comforting tones. “War-8 is equipped with the best technology and Pilots,” Director Tiofon is saying. “Trust them to have a new solid strategy in this.”

  “What strategy,” Lord Arao Hetepheret says bitterly. “You’ve seen it, our weaponry is completely ineffective against these things.”

  I watch Aeson’s profile as he continues to observe the scene at Tammuz and does not react to the IEC member comments.

  Meanwhile, the grid formation continues to build. A third sphere appears and positions itself at the same interval as the previous ones. Then a fourth, a fifth. . . .

  They keep coming.

  “How long until it is completed?” I notice the speaker is the elderly Dame Tammuz Akten, seated off to the side and watching anxiously.

  “At this projected rate, we estimate less than an hour,” Nergal Duha says from his station.

  “Command Pilot Ungreb, proceed with your weapons trials now,” Aeson says into his wrist comm.

  “Zooming out to 50%,” Keruvat says, and the viewscreen again changes to another buoy camera, widening the panorama and showing the entirety of War-8’s immense hull, together with the rapidly growing alien grid.

  There is noticeable vessel activity, as we see tiny dots of SPC fighter ships eject from the battle barge and begin maneuvers around the grid.

  “This is Poseidon Command Imperial Quarters,” Erita says at her station a few feet away from me. “Pilots, report.”

  A small crackle on audio, then we hear Xelio’s voice. “This is Shamash, Red Pinion Leader, reporting. Approaching hostile elements now.”

  Apparently Xelio is on site for this operation, and I feel an immediate stab of worry on his behalf.

  “Shamash, switching to your mafdet perspective now,” Erita says.

  And now we see a close-up of the grid from a rapidly moving solo-fighter ship perspective. Xelio’s fighter hurtles at a dizzying speed past the grid elements, and around him are several other mafdets, flying in formation.

  “This is War-8 Command. Red Pinion, proceed with strafing, stage one.” The command issuer voice is not someone I recognize.

  “Acknowledged, War-8. This is Red Pinion Leader to Red Pinion, engaging hostiles now.”

  “This is Ixion, reporting,” another voice I vaguely recognize comes on the audio—I struggle to think who it is and realize it’s Quoni Enutat. “Firing mixed frequency array now. Accounting for matter refraction angle, Red Pinion, be advised of possible friendly fire.”

  “This is Bast, reporting,” Oalla’s confident voice sounds. “Preparing to strafe on command. Ixion, be advised, I am on your tail.”

  So, Oalla is there too!

  And the next moment one of the mafdets on Xelio’s perspective, right, sends out an intermittent burst of plasma fire in the direction of the nearest alien light sphere.

  It suddenly makes sense why Quoni just sent out a warning of friendly fire. The plasma burst originating from his mafdet enters the sphere, and immediately it refracts at an angle and shoots right back in the direction of the SPC fighters. They swerve, narrowly avoiding the plasma.

  It’s that same dimensional matter refraction phenomenon at work.

  “Same situation as before,” Aeson says coldly.

  The other mafdets in the Pinion formation proceed to fire also, choosing different light spheres as targets. Their fire is again returned to them like dimensional boomerangs.

  So, they try different firing patterns. Different frequency modulations.

  Same result.

  All the while, the alien grid formation continues to build around them.

  “Grid formation now at 67.8% complete,” Erita says with a glance at Aeson.

  “When it reaches 85%, prepare to abort weapons trials maneuvers,” Aeson says. Then he taps his wrist comm and repeats the order to War-8. “Command Pilot Ungreb, abort maneuvers at 85%, retreat at 90% grid formation.”

  “War-8 Command, acknowledging.”

  The next few minutes are tense as we continue to stare at the screen and see the mafdets attempt to penetrate the enemy defenses, to no avail.

  “Extremely depressing,” Dame Tammuz mutters from her seat. “I see hope dwindling for the human race.”

  “This is Shamash to Red Pinion, fire in tandem, quadrant pattern. . . .”

  Plasma bursts fill the viewscreen from all directions, as mafdets continue to strafe.

  “G
rid formation now at 73%,” Erita warns.

  “. . . Babi, watch out! Sphere forming on your rear! Ixion, hard right . . . Bast, drop below, repeat . . . Nepht, another sphere forming, bank left . . .”

  At this point, the process of new sphere occurrences and grid formation appears to be speeding up. It is a grim parallel to the process at Septu when the grid accelerated toward the end.

  “Grid formation now at 84%,” Erita says.

  Aeson exhales loudly, then calls War-8. “All right, this is not working—Command Pilot Ungreb, cease operation and retreat from sector. We’re done here.”

  The next moment, Command Pilot Lafaoh Ungreb’s resigned voice sounds on the speakers, “This is War-8 Command, calling all ships. Cease all weapons trials operations and return home. We are leaving the sector in five daydreams.”

  “This is Shamash, Red Pinion Leader, acknowledging,” Xelio’s voice comes rough with disappointment. “All units disengage, I repeat, disengage.”

  “This is Ixion, let me try one more thing,” Quoni’s calm voice comes with a brief crackle.

  We still have Xelio’s perspective on screen, and he banks hard to follow the flight of another mafdet which must be Quoni, as he hurtles forward in parallel to the grid formation.

  “Ixion, what are you doing? Disengage now.”

  But Quoni’s mafdet continues moving on its course, flying to the active edge of the grid where it is forming. He passes the last sphere that just appeared from a pinpoint in space, and then keeps going—advancing the exact interval distance to the spot where the next sphere will form.

  Here, Quoni’s mafdet comes to a hard stop. It hangs in space, perfectly motionless—a plasma-enveloped tiny needle in the haystack of space—a mere dot of violet brightness compared to the row of great golden spheres lining up behind it—and yet, pulsing with its own purple plasma force field. . . .

  “Bashtooh, Ixion! Get out of there now!” Xelio commands in a hard voice.

  “What the hell is he doing?” Radanthet shakes his head.

  “No . . . no! He’s going to be incinerated! Or crushed!” Erita slams her palm against the desk surface, hard.

  “This is Ixion,” Quoni’s absolutely composed voice sounds, and for the first time there is a hint of humor in his no-nonsense tone. “If I’m right, you’re buying me drinks in Poseidon. If not, tell my brother and uncle that I went to meet my ancestors in a golden flash of light, thinking of them fondly.”

  “Quoni, you crazy hoohvak,” Keruvat breathes.

  But Aeson is staring, and shaking his head, even as everyone else is frozen in terrible anticipation.

  Because in moments, there will be another alien light sphere object forming at the exact coordinates which Quoni’s mafdet is now occupying. What will happen? What can happen?

  I put my hand over my mouth. My pulse races with horror at what’s about to take place, but I am unable to look away. . . .

  The moment when the next sphere should explode into being from a pinpoint of light is now.

  The moment comes and goes.

  There is nothing.

  Quoni sits inside his mafdet in the alien formation.

  He is now a part of the grid.

  And the grid has stopped forming.

  There are loud exclamations of relief and even laughter in the SPC command room.

  “I can’t believe he did this!”

  “Is it over? Did he contain the grid formation?”

  “Too early to tell—”

  I exclaim along with everyone else, and Aeson turns to me briefly with new energy in his eyes and a hopeful expression—the most hopeful he’s been in days.

  “This is War-8 Command, it is quite a new development. Inquiring how to proceed?” the voice of Command Pilot Ungreb sounds on the speakers.

  “This is SPC Command, hold your retreat, maintain your position for now,” Aeson replies.

  “Shamash to Red Pinion, all units hold position. Ixion, your status? Report immediately!”

  “This is Ixion, I’m still here. No energy fluctuations at my coordinates.”

  “Ixion, this is Tefnut,” Erita says from the workroom. “If you get back to Poseidon and you are still not dead, I will kill you myself.”

  Keruvat chuckles.

  Seconds tick, as we watch the now dormant, unfinished grid, with Quoni positioned at its end.

  And then suddenly, something new happens.

  The grid elements start to rearrange themselves.

  Not all of them, just the ones that are at certain end locations that determine the very geometry of the diamond shape.

  Those few spheres relocate at high speed and begin forming a new grid, a few mag-heitar from their original location. Quoni’s position is now meaningless as his mafdet remains sitting in space, alone.

  Oh, crap. . . .

  “It’s resumed building the diamond formation,” Aeson says bitterly. But then he takes a deep breath. “But now we know at least one thing can be done to affect it.”

  Aeson makes another call to War-8. “This is the SPC Commander. I want to see how long you can keep this grid from completing itself. Dispatch all fighters to engage in blocking maneuvers, the same way as Pilot Quoni Enutat. Let’s try to prevent each new element of the grid before it can form by taking its position in the grid.”

  And for the next hour there is absolute mayhem, as SPC Fleet ships play a crazy boardgame with the alien enemy around the orbit of Tammuz.

  Each time one of the Atlantean ships slips into position and blocks the alien building process, the grid pauses a few moments then begins to reform nearby. It happens over and over, and with each new iteration the grid starts to reform a little faster. . . .

  It’s almost as if it’s learning.

  Everyone here in the workroom SPC command center, and around Tammuz, on board War-8, watches in grim fascination.

  “Now 86% complete. Even with our fancy blocking maneuvers there are new spheres being added, one way or another—so the grid object is still growing overall.” Erita says.

  “It appears to be taking into account our own flight speed,” Keruvat observes. “These grid elements are rearranging their formation too fast for us. . . . Soon, our ships will be unable to keep up.”

  Aeson nods. “And—the time is now.” He then calls the Command Pilot of War-8 and orders him to abandon the operation and retreat immediately.

  “Retreat confirmed,” Command Pilot Ungreb responds. “We put up a good fight.”

  Moments later we watch the SPC fighters abandon their action at the grid and race back to War-8.

  With no more ships blocking its progress, grid formation now resumes in full force.

  This time, however, the grid is still incomplete, in the final stages of forming, when War-8 receives all ships—including the ardukat safely bearing Station Nomarch Cretheo—and taxies outward from the orbit of Tammuz, leaving the evil alien grid and the completely empty Tammuz Station behind.

  The immense battle barge accelerates into Quantum Stream space just in time to avoid the blinding supernova of white that comes from the completed alien grid as it begins its feast of destruction. . . .

  Fire rains upon Tammuz Station. Its debris fill the orbit of Tammuz with orange, persimmon and coal-red plasma—bright and strangely beautiful against the rust-red planetary surface features far below.

  “No one got hurt, this time,” Keruvat says softly in the suspenseful silence of the workroom.

  “Yes, but think of all that property damage,” ACA Director Tiofon says, shaking his head. “How many billion iretar are lost with all that station technology going up in flames? I shudder to think. . . .”

  And we continue to watch, thoughtful and mesmerized by the apocalyptic destruction.

  For as long as they are functional, the remaining space buoy cameras show us the infernal red sight—long after the Tammuz alien grid is dormant again, like a grim sentinel of what else is to come.

  Chapter 91

 
Later that night, after my husband finally has the opportunity to escape the endless SPC meetings, the political fallout, and the rest of the business of this very rough day, Aeson and I eat a private niktos meal together, just the two of us. That’s when I tell him about the pegasei mission at Khenneb.

  “The pegasei are all free now, Aeson,” I say with energy. “We definitely got the last of them liberated from this most ancient, horrible, weird confinement you can imagine. . . . They were starving.” And I describe the collapsed-dimensional “bubbles” forged as a result of ancient humans unsuccessfully trying to make another dimensional rift here on Atlantis.

  Aeson pays sharp attention at once.

  “Those cruel people must’ve figured out that withholding light was the way to keep the pegasei permanently weak and imprisoned. Or maybe they just didn’t have a clue. In any case, we gave the pegasei tons of light to feed on, and they expanded in mass and volume and burst the confinement bubbles in the process,” I conclude. “Not sure if any of this is helpful to know—for our greater problem.”

  “You mean, in terms of the matter refraction phenomenon?” He nods. “Yes, it does indeed suggest some kind of quantum-level similarity to the spheres in the alien light grid.”

  “Maybe if you fed those alien grid objects a bunch of light they would also explode?” I make a dumb joke, trying to get Aeson to smile after this long, horrible day of depressing events at Tammuz.

  But it’s not working.

  Aeson has been immersed in a sea of quiet, thoughtful despair, ever since what happened at Tammuz. Yes, no one died today, but the cumulative result is still unrelieved futility.

  Aeson knows that Ishtar and the outpost there are next in line for the alien attack.

  And then, Atlantis.

  “At least now the pegasei will travel back along the wormhole into the rift on Earth,” I say with another attempt at optimism. “Once the rift is closed, who knows, maybe these alien grids will stop coming.”

  “Maybe,” Aeson says softly, taking a swallow from his glass of qvaali.