Noah's Ark

by Vijaya Schartz

  “My experiment was the main purpose of this expedition.” McLure indulged in a self-satisfied smile. “Noah’s Ark, our vessel, was named after the legend of the repopulation of our home planet following a great flood, many millennia ago.”

  “I see...” Ktal glanced sideways at his subdued companion.

  Kuhr, the golden Godd in crimson robes raised his reddish brow. “The embryos could be genetically modified to adapt to the particular conditions of this planet.”

  Ktal nodded. “We could start the experiment in the tropical warm zone, since it's a natural microclimate and already has a vegetation that will help speed up the process.”

  “How many species are you talking about?” Kuhr turned to McLure, his fiery eyes unblinking.

  McLure reveled in the recognition. “I have close to a thousand. I suggest we first release the smaller creatures, let them thrive and multiply for a while, then we can release the larger species. The smallest of all would be insects.”

  “Really? Pesky insects?” Ktal's expression would have been comical in less formal circumstances.

  McLure smiled, delighted to be the expert over them. “Insects are the basic food for birds. And the settlers will need bees for their honey, and to pollinate the crops we intend to grow.”

  Ktal leaned back in his seat. “I can see the many advantages of your project for this planet.”

  Kuhr nodded. “We have the means of seeding the entire experiment within time-release capsules that would automatically trigger the various stages in the right sequence, at the desired intervals.”

  “I look forward to the peaceful cooperation of our two races to make this barren, frozen rock a nest of abundant life and new civilization...” McLure enjoyed the warmth of recognition. “This could even be a place where your kind would enjoy living in the near future.”

  “I understand.” Ktal picked up the tablet from the table. “May we keep this for review and reconvene tomorrow?”

  “I would be honored to work with you.” McLure rose, bowed slightly, and left the Goddian conference room with a spring in his step.

  They seemed open to his project. This could be the start of a wonderful new collaboration for him. An exchange of ideas at the highest level. McLure had always belonged to the intellectual elite, first on Earth, then on Mars, and this wouldn't be any different. His superior mind was bound to be recognized by any evolved race, including the Godds.

  * * *

  Trixie stood, surrounded by other workers in purple coveralls, as the cage elevator dropped deep into the bowel of the duranium mine. Her heart raced at what she would discover. When the elevator stopped, she stepped out with the others. Bright lighting prevailed in the spacious excavation, but she couldn't see any light source. The illumination seemed to emanate from the wall surfaces and lofty ceilings, like on the Goddian ship.

  The suits, gloves, and boots, of unknown material were designed to protect the skin from the abrasive dust. A comfortable face mask with a clear visor would filter the dust, shield the eyes, and neutralize the smells... and the deadly gasses. At least, that's what she'd requested. She hoped she'd never have to find out whether or not that last feature worked.

  The muffling ear shields prevented her from hearing the hum of the ventilation vents. Still, she could feel the vibration through her soles, and see the powerful flow of air blowing the flimsy test ribbons straight out from the grilles.

  So far, all the conditions she'd requested from the Godds for the workers had been met. She'd insisted in coming down to work with the very first team to see it for herself. Trixie realized with satisfaction that the Godds could be trusted to deal fairly with their workers. They'd fulfilled their part of the agreement. A small victory for the Human race, given the circumstances.

  Trixie and her group walked along the wide square cut tunnels with walls at perfect ninety-degree angles. As instructed by a disembodied recorded voice, they followed the right wall, remaining inside the marked yellow lane painted with arrows on the smooth floor, for the safety of pedestrians.

  In the center lane of the wide tunnels, a convoy of giant extraction engines rolled alongside them, quietly, on soft caterpillar wheels. The massive diamond grinding heads made them look like crawling behemoths. But no one drove the huge machines. They seemed autonomous.

  Trixie wondered where the Godds kept the remote control. In a computerized operation room somewhere near? Not likely. They wouldn't dare come down into the mines themselves and they wouldn't trust workers to operate their expensive machinery. They probably controlled the engines from the Goddian ship in orbit.

  At regular intervals, tall rectangular openings in the side wall offered a glimpse of vast cubic chambers hollowed into the rock. With many bunks carved into the walls, all the way to the high ceiling, they looked like they could house hundreds of workers. During the negotiations, Trixie had refused permanent housing on the premises. She'd insisted that the men and women return to the citadel after each six-hour shift, to enjoy their community life.

  No one under her protection would be treated like slaves. Quality of life meant everything to the settlers, and she would make sure they lived in satisfactory conditions, even if they had to work hard for it.

  Chapter Nine

  Over the next few days, Kostas settled into his new routine. After six hours in the mines, he worked eight hours at the forge, then before his sleep period, in late afternoon, he went to the esplanade to train the first garrison of Protectors of the citadel. As usual, Viking, the big yellow cat, followed him along the cobbled streets. Lately, the feline shadowed him everywhere, except into the mine.

  Tom, Cheng, and Tabor the equine leader, also taught their own brand of combat techniques at different times, as their work shifts allowed. Tom and Cheng insisted on teaching firearms and modern weapons. Kostas and Tabor, however, firmly believed blades were the future of Kassouk's elite fighting force, since the power packs would only last a few months.

  As the member of the expedition best versed in ancient weapons, Kostas took the responsibility upon himself. It would take a great deal of practice for novices to become proficient in the art of the blades, so he opted to start teaching basic techniques immediately, so they would be ready when the guns lost power.

  Under the pale, declining suns of a late winter afternoon, twenty young men and women, a score as the settlers counted, each armed with wooden bokkens the length of a katana sword, lined up in three rows. Such a small number... but each day one or two more volunteers joined the ranks.

  At the outer edge of his field of vision to the right, Kostas saw Viking, trotting toward the low wall delimiting the esplanade. The cat leapt to the low top, sprawled there and groomed himself, eyeing the students with obvious disdain. Viking, as an accomplished rodent hunter, needed no training. Still, he seemed to enjoy watching practice with a critical eye.

  As Kostas approached the students, he hid his surprise. Trixie was among them and stood in the first row. His heart rate accelerated. Even in Fleet issue navy sweats, she managed to look damnably sexy. Avoiding her on the training grounds would be impossible. Damn!

  The recruits bowed together, Samurai style. Kostas noticed with a teacher's pride that they had already assimilated the respect part of his previous lessons. He bowed in response, acknowledging their courage.

  Drawing from his belt a blackened sword, the one he'd forged that day, still rough and un-sharpened, Kostas struggled not to let his gaze stray toward Trixie. As he demonstrated the two-handed grip, he focused on the perfect balance of this brand-new blade despite the hastily wrapped handle.

  “This is the correct way to hold a katana, the Japanese long sword.” He demonstrated as he spoke. “Right hand in front. Left hand behind it on the long hilt. Left foot forward, right foot back in a line, to offer the narrowest target. For today's first move, you step with the right foot as you swing, like so.”

  He demonstrated the wide sweeping motion several times, then he returned the rough
sword to his belt. “Your turn.”

  As the students swung their wooden bokkens over and over, Kostas walked from one to the other and corrected their posture. “Keep your center of gravity low. Focus just below your navel to keep your balance. Knees slightly bent.”

  As he approached Trixie to correct her, Kostas hesitated. He would have to touch her. Just the sight of her caused fierce reactions below his center of gravity... but he must correct that stance. He would never forgive himself if a filthy Zerker killed her. She, of all people, had to survive the bloody battles they would certainly face with the Zerkers.

  Kostas laid a hand on her shoulder and pushed down gradually, her warmth spiraling through him. Trixie wobbled, easily unbalanced, and he caught her waist.

  “Ooops!” She giggled and her lovely face reddened. “Sorry.”

  “Never apologize. Just anchor yourself,” Kostas said as firmly as he could manage. “Imagine that your feet are rooted deep into the ground, like a powerful tree, and nothing can topple you.”

  “Like mind over matter?” She smiled, her clear blue eyes sparkling.

  “Exactly. Now try again, with focus and concentration.” He pushed her shoulder down, roughly this time, and she remained solidly anchored. “That's it. Practice this kind of conscious balance until it becomes second nature.”

  Kostas left her reluctantly, his hand lingering on her shoulder, resisting the urge to grab her and crush her into his arms.

  Wrenching himself from her proximity, he returned to the front, borrowed a bokken from a front row student, and faced the rows again. “Now, I'll demonstrate the purpose of this particular stroke.”

  He motioned to Trixie to come forth. She stepped forward from the line and faced him.

  “You attack me this way.” Kostas held the bokken by the blade, like a club. In slow motion, he mimicked a front leap attack the Zerkers had favored during the cave raid.

  As he repeated the move several times, Trixie watched attentively, then nodded in understanding.

  Kostas handed back the bokken and drew his unfinished blade. Trixie dutifully reproduced his slow attack. Kostas parried slowly as well, demonstrating without touching her the slicing of the arm holding the club, then pivoting on one foot, in a smooth, complete circle, to cut off Trixie's head from the back. His blackened blade stopped just an inch from her nape.

  Kostas stepped back to his initial position, facing Trixie again. “All right. Now, same attack, but like you really mean to kill me.”

  Trixie paled but nodded and attacked with more force, a look of determination hardening her features. Kostas repeated the same moves faster, in perfect synch with the speed of her attack.

  “Good. But that's not enough. Imagine you are a Zerker with a club and your life depends upon killing me.” Kostas smiled. “And yell to give yourself courage. You were at the cave. You know what I mean.”

  Trixie's eyes widened and he saw her swallow, probably at the gruesome memory.

  Then she charged with ferocious fury, screaming like a banshee. Kostas easily deflected the attack with the exact same move, again stopping his blade an inch from the back of her neck.

  Kostas faced her and bowed, incredibly turned on by the sheer intensity he'd just glimpsed in Trixie. “Thank you. That was a worthy attack.”

  Trixie effected a slight bow, but not before he could see the blush on her cheeks, then she jogged back to her place in the front line.

  He cleared his throat, pushing away lusty thoughts. “Trixie!”

  She turned around. “Yes?”

  “A swordsman does not jog with bouncing steps.”

  Trixie frowned prettily. “I don't understand.”

  Kostas turned to the entire class. “The bouncing action pounds the ground, alerting the enemy to your presence. Energy is wasted going up and down. It shakes your body and pummels your leg bones, your spine, and your heart. It also makes scabbards and harnesses jiggle. For all these reasons, a Samurai runs like this.”

  Left hand holding the scabbard at his belt, right hand on the hilt ready to draw, knees bent, back straight, Kostas lowered his center of gravity. Then he skittered with quick wide strides like a spider, up and down the lines of students, faster than a runner, like a silent ninja.

  This kind of blur, this silent streak in the scenery could easily be dismissed by the casual eye. At least that's how his genetic brain conditioning program had described it, while he was growing in his tank, in limbo.

  Kostas regained his place in front of the class. “An ancient Samurai could run like this for miles, usually standing up, but they could also do this on their knees. To test your balance, try to carry a cup of water in front of your navel while you walk this way, until you don't spill a drop. It takes practice.”

  A surprised murmur rolled over the students but stopped when Kostas stared at them. “Now let's rehearse the defensive move I demonstrated just before this. First without a partner. Then, when you can stop your bokken in full swing, pair up and practice with a partner. We don't have holographic training partners, so be careful with each other. Even without a sharp blade, the blow from a wooden bokken can kill.”

  The students gave a slight bow.

  “But during an attack, you never hold back. Always swing full strength and beyond. In order to sever a head, or any body part, you have to extend the arc of the blade at least six inches, preferably a foot beyond the intended target.”

  * * *

  As she swung her makeshift blade, Trixie enjoyed the intense practice. Besides keeping her warm on this winter afternoon, it provided a perfect exercise for her body, toning arms and legs and sharpening reflexes. Work in the mine was only back breaking and held no rewards. This swordplay offered a physical and mental challenge.

  Of course, she had to concede that the scenery was not bad either. Kostas looked particularly fit in his black cargo pants and sleeveless tank top. Did the man ever get cold?

  She found herself striving for excellence, to compete with the other female students, in order to get noticed and receive praises from this handsome teacher. Trixie hated herself for acting like a schoolgirl, but she couldn't let any little hussy get her claws on Kostas. After all, she'd noticed him first. Her old prejudices against soldiers be damned.

  The expedition was marooned on this frozen rock, with no hope of ever returning home. Trixie realized that if it came to that, of all the men on this planet, Kostas was the only one for her. If she didn't intend to remain celibate all her life, she would have to stake her claim, and soon.

  She refused to think or act like her father. Kostas was worthy of her attentions. Strange how her views had changed in just a few days. She would have to reconsider her entire value system under the light of her new circumstances. Wraith!

  Her arms started to ache from the repeated exercise, as Kostas took his time walking from student to student and giving advice.

  Trixie had volunteered for the new garrison of the citadel in hopes to spend time with him. She wanted a chance to talk. Of late, however, Kostas lived like a recluse and never showed up in the refectory anymore. She missed his company.

  No one else had ever made her feel so safe and free at the same time. The previous male figures in her life had always suffocated her and attempted to control every aspect of her life. Her father... the rich and depraved husband he'd chosen for her... or rather for his own financial interests. Wraith!

  She told herself Kostas was different. Still, the strength of her need for him frightened her. Was she going to harness herself to another strong man? Replace her father with yet another dominant male in her life? She hoped not. Where her father would have barged in, Kostas stepped back and gave her support and space. She respected that in him.

  As Kostas made his way toward her down the line of students, correcting their postures, Trixie slouched a little. Sure enough, he came to her and held her around the waist as he straightened her shoulders and molded his body against her back and legs, spooning her in a wide sta
nce.

  “I want you to feel the correct posture and balance,” he said softly in her ear.

  She could feel it all right, including the searing heat emanating from him and flushing her through the black fabric of his tank top and cargo pants. He kept the position longer than necessary, as if reluctant to let go of her. His hand lingered at her waist, blazing a trail of delicious prickling sensations. Did he do it on purpose? Did he know what that did to her? How could he not?

  When he finally moved to the next student, Trixie missed his intimate contact, but the jubilation at his obvious interest for her bubbled in her chest.

  Was he toying with her, or could he possibly be attracted to her? Most likely he saw her as a quick roll in the hay, as the settlers liked to say. But somehow, even that incongruous picture didn't repulse her. Wraith, she'd been celibate way too long. She wondered how long Kostas had been without a woman... They'd left Mars almost two months ago... but he couldn't possibly like her. It was the deprivation talking, right?

  Thinking back, he'd always been polite, proper, reserved. He even seemed to be avoiding her. Now, however he acted boldly out of character. Maybe she was just imagining things and he was only teaching her. Yet, body heat didn't lie.

  Practice went on for over two hours, but it felt too short. By the time Kostas saluted and dismissed the class, the twin suns lowered to the horizon in a pink haze.

  Trixie wiped her brow with a sleeve and slowly walked toward the side of the practice yard to return her wooden sword to its storage crate. Kostas patted a student's shoulder and the man smiled, bowed and left.

  “Where do all these wooden swords come from?” Trixie asked before Kostas could walk away.

  He joined her near the titanium crate. “They are called bokkens. From the ancient Japanese word 'bo,' meaning wood, and 'ken,' meaning sword. A thousand years ago, the craftsmen who still knew how to make them in the Samurai tradition, were considered national treasures.”