Resurrection Dawn

by Marc Secchia

  “New protocol. Alodeé combat skin one. Activate.”

  “Protocol activated,” said a gruff male voice. Dad had scrubbed the previous female alto. Said it reminded him too much of Mom.

  She raised her arms. “Initiate Alodeé combat skin.”

  Click. Hiss … swhoosh!

  Her skin tingled as the full-body suit enveloped her with a cool sensation, like peril tickling one’s sixth sense. Toes to neck, spreading along her skin like oil. The point of an ultra-lightweight combat skin was to ensure that a soldier could survive the most adverse physical effects – quoting from the manual. Yep. She might be smashed to a pulp and her body armour wrecked, but her combat skin would not be breached. The material had come on in quantum leaps from the early days of Kevlar and carbon fibre, she had learned during her studies. Pretty much impenetrable.

  She had not expected it to be so … sexy.

  As in, she would not be caught dead in public wearing this fancy body paint. Sure, the semi-transparent material provided decency in the strategic locations, but even those mimicked her natural skin tone so accurately, she had to pinch her flank in the mirror to assure herself that she was indeed wearing clothing. Heavens, she could see the striations in her thigh muscles when she flexed. Turn to check her rear view? Totally indecent – not that any enemy cared for decency.

  This stuff was also heck of an expensive.

  “Initiate in addition, Alodeé trousers fifteen and vest nine.”

  Whoosh! Much better. Now that her skinny butt was no longer waving in the breeze, she could face a canteen full of students without dying of embarrassment. She preferred these slightly baggy flame-orange trousers for their utility and toughness; plus, her best friend Tomaxx had once told her they looked awesome on her titchy frame.

  Only Class 3 Oraman Tanks could say things like that. Platinum blonde, crew-cut Tomaxx stood 256 cents in his socks. His bench press in the annual physical trials measured an eye-watering, not to say bar-bending, 1,309 kilos. Base record. That guy was built. Bet he’d rock the combat skin. Not that His Tankiness would place well in the obstacle trials. If he had been allowed to run literally straight through the obstacles, no problem. Easy win every time. Going up and around the different challenges was clearly not his style, but he did enjoy powering his way around the course as best he could. Poor obstacles. A range of stray rollers, hammers and mazes – when his shoulders got stuck – had suffered the ravages of his wrath.

  Her wrist Comms bracelet pinged. Time.

  “Initiate Alodeé boots.”

  She raised her feet one after the other. Whup. Whup.

  Alodeé dashed out of the airlock without a backward glance.

  The students of her age class always gathered in the canteen before classes commenced. Boys and food, she supposed. Predictable.

  She could have taken a personal skimmer-board to the canteen, but Alodeé preferred to jog the half-klom up from the heavily-shielded residential Unit 14 – effectively a suburb of Central – to the Social Hub. Gee. Imaginative. Guess the Hub was the place to chillax and meet people, which meant Dad avoided it like the plague. He had never said so, but she knew about the unspoken pressures to procreate for the good of the Settlement, to keep numbers up. The colony had weathered more than its fair share of troubles and was not exactly thriving. Too many accidents, predators and unfortunate toastings like her mother’s …

  Honestly, Alodeé. Smell a dose of morning cheer.

  Dawn in this tiny corner of the immense planet called Resurrection Dawn, she had to admit, was a pretty special affair. When one paid attention. Breathing deep of the air, scented of moist tropical foliage, organic fertilisers sprayed on the vegetable fields either side of the path and a rich bouquet of extravagant blossoms adorning the lush foliage, she lifted her gaze to the hills. Three artificial hills surrounded Central Settlement on this floating island.

  An island floating in the pristine violet-white sky; one of millions. Some were so large that a person could traipse through the equatorial jungles for days without reaching an edge. You’d be eaten first, Alodeé reminded herself with a wry grin. Half of the ecosystem must be predators. All of them fancied Humanoid meat.

  In the twenty Standard years since the near-disastrous First Landing, those hills mounded atop the shells of their colony ships had sprouted exuberant jungles of foliage, hiding the vast underground complexes where the Humanoid settlers had first sheltered as they prepared to conquer a giant world they did not understand in the first measure. Conquer? How arrogant – or ignorant – they had been. This gas giant world measured a mean 63,851 kloms in radius. The planetary rotation of 37 standard hours per day meant that it bulged a little around the midsection like a middle-aged man. Technically, it was an oblate spheroid.

  She filed the definition for the astrophysics exam, coming up next week.

  Humanity, having landed in the sixteenth of thirty-nine known atmospheric layers, had explored only a tiny fraction of its immensity. Could one have flown around its equatorial circumference at this level, called A-16, short for Atmospheric 16 with A-0 being the supposed planetary core, that would be a journey of 321,187 kloms. One small problem with that idea. Probes vanished into the delightful violet yonder. 100 or 200 kloms and the instrumentation failed or something ate them – no-one knew. Few ever returned.

  Who knew what might be out there?

  Her eyes turned toward the mauve skies, streaked with the first brilliant orange flames of a sunrise that would spread across the heavens during the next hour like an immense bonfire. The rich colours flamed around flotillas of drifting islands. Tangles. Skeins. Ropes of islands, at many atmospheric levels. Avians, reptoid birds and innumerable insectoid creatures flitted around the islands in her line of sight, giving them an air of busy hives. Waterfalls leaped off into nothingness. Storm clouds greedily mobbed what must be a flotilla right overhead. That explained some of the moisture drifting in the air. Like most phenomena of Resurrection Dawn, however, nothing followed the standard astrophysical or geological laws even the most arcane corners of their scientific databases could shed light upon. Humanity had colonised tens of thousands of exoplanets. None like this.

  To her right hand, a few kloms off, a turquoise waterfall spiralled off an island, only to wander about tying itself into several knots before pouring back upward into the base of another landmass. From that same wall of floating greenery, several large insectoid reapers broke away. They looked like pictures she had seen of pterodactyls, only these yellow beauties came furnished with a 50-met wingspan and a beak capable of puncturing plasteel armour. They hunted in family units up to a dozen strong. Shoot them down and they’d reform from their individual body units and be back on your tail within an hour, severely irked. Plasma cannons set to total vaporisation were the only effective means of destroying them.

  She started as a quartet of sable canids materialised out of the undergrowth bordering a vegetable field. The massive beasts stood chest-high to her, baring their 9-cent fangs in lazy yawns as they recognised her and rushed up with excited bounds. No barks. Those only sounded when danger threatened. Canids during the day? The base sensors must be on yellow predator alert at the very least.

  Must have missed the memo.

  “Hey, boys!” she called, whistling them over. Wagging their stubby tails, they licked her half to death. Four monstrous tongues at once.

  Ugh. Hot breath and dog slobber. My shower was for what, exactly?

  “Usual morning race?” They panted and whined eagerly. “Ready, steady – wait for me, you stinking slug-a-cheats!”

  The massive, purebred canids were dogs in the sense, she understood, that people had once kept smaller canines as pets. Canids had been carefully designed and bred for strength, speed and intelligence. As a supplement to Settlement guards and sensors, their animal instincts had many times saved colonists from the more charming renditions of the local wildlife.

  Their snide backward glances infuriated her. Picking up h
er knees and pinning back her upswept, pointy ears, Alodeé took off. Faster. Faster! Her boots blurred beneath her.

  Jumping juice, I’m shifting!

  For 30 secs or so, she actually paced the canids, arriving at the canteen with a screech of –

  * * * *

  “Hold on.” Scratching the nape of his neck beneath his neat black hair queue, which touched the back of his shoulders, Dymand said, “You paced canids?”

  “Seemed so. Maybe they were holding back –”

  “Canids don’t hold back. They’re trained to win – battles, mostly. Canids sprint at 100 kloms per hour plus.”

  His dark eyes questioned the truth of her claim.

  Not the strangest thing by half, Dad …

  She shrugged. “I never lie, except in my pod to go to sleep.”

  “Ha ha. Go on.”

  * * * *

  Arm wrestling. Those Class 3 boys. Never lost a chance to flex their beef. The vigorous match going on in the corner of the main canteen room, surrounded by cheering students, was an interplanetary affair if one took origins into account – Tomaxx of Oraman against Erban of Hamaran. Famous allies; famous rivals. Both Class 3 Humanoid worlds followed honour codes to a degree some might call insane, but they loved to work out their differences in rigidly codified combat. Arm wrestling being a devolved form of combat, she thought; at least the way they played it. The wrestling table over in the corner had been replaced five times that she knew of in the last three years, since she finished formal schooling at fourteen and moved to being a full-time student.

  Each time, it was built stronger.

  Each time, some Class 3 hulk twisted it into a sorry metal pretzel.

  Erban was wider than Tomaxx, a twenty year-old built like a human bulldozer, but Tomaxx was the reigning champion. Stupidly strong and even more stupidly good-looking. Judging by the noise, as she joined the crowd, peering over the top of most heads, there must be a few stiff wagers on this bout.

  The rules were simple. Each combatant must keep his elbow on one pad and strive to forcibly touch his opponent’s hand or wrist to a pad at the opposite side of the table. They could grip or brace themselves against the table in any way they wished in order to exert more leverage. Tomaxx had his hip wedged beneath the table to help him drive with his favoured left hand. The table groaned under the combined pressure – a couple of kilotons, she imagined – and the knuckles of their clasped paws stood edged in white. Muscles bulged like mega-serpents beneath their new combat skins.

  Yummy, her treacherous brain insisted. No drooling and that’s an order.

  A few secs after she arrived, Tomaxx executed a cunning twist of his wrist and slammed Erban’s hand against the pad.

  “YES!!” he roared.

  “Winner’s Tomaxx, yet again,” declared the judge, Isska, holding up one of their left hands to indicate the Oraman.

  Cred tokens clinked as they changed hands.

  Isska was a Class 7 Troome, a genderless Humanoid race who, rumour had it, procreated by budding and could morph random body parts just for the fun of it. One of their motile gaits was called, ‘blooping,’ which Alodeé had always thought was a rude joke until she had found its scientific definition. The budding ritual was sacred and secret to the Class 7s. Their smooth green face was almost the same colour as Alodeé’s, but very large ears crowned a round face set upon a smooth, mounded grey body that looked as if someone had taken a pump and enlarged it until it threatened to pop at the seams.

  Be kind, Alodeé, she admonished herself. Isska’s a friend. How does a person ever learn not to see differences? They matter enormously and not at all. Appreciate them for who they are – an incredible engineer and a perceptive soul.

  Tomaxx flexed up a few poses for his adoring crowd. He’d knock himself out with his chiselled biceps in a min.

  “Come on, who’ll take me on? I’m feeling generous this morning,” he boomed. “Crown’s up for the asking. I’ll play nice.”

  The student crowd had plenty of suggestions to make regarding his challenge, not one of which involved being squashed by the pumped-up Oraman. Sensible. Self-preservation, more to the point.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Alodeé almost glanced behind her. I said that?

  Laughter beat against her ears as she pushed forward through the crowd. “Somebody’s got to help him show off a bit more,” she said to no-one in particular. “He’ll be insufferable otherwise.”

  Erban roared, “Already is!”

  “Come on then, titch!” Tomaxx roared. “Table’s over here. Lay on the wagers, folks.”

  The general grumbling assured Alodeé that absolutely no-one planned to wager on her success. Nor would she have done so. Complete waste of good creds.

  She wagged a finger at her friend. “Promise to be nice?”

  “I’ll make you look good before I crush you.”

  “Crushed bitter aloes? Ooh, count me in,” called a snide voice.

  Her heart lurched. First boy I kissed. Class 1 Yane. How did I ever think he was handsome? His nickname for her was bitter aloes, given to her after their breakup, which she suspected had everything to do with her having grown taller than him. Now, she towered over his 167 cents. I was such a freaking idiot back then, so insecure. Not today. Not happening.

  “You’re welcome at the table, Yane,” she offered.

  “Oh no, I’d rather see the Stick try to beat the Boulder,” he grinned. Ugh. Never short of a belittling word. “Come on, Alodeé – fight your boyfriend then.”

  The crowd inhaled collectively at the insult.

  “Oh, shut the systems, Yane,” someone called. “That’s low, even by your standards.”

  “Classist capybara swine,” another muttered.

  Blonde-haired, green-eyed Yane came from Hazmuri Falls, she remembered, a community renowned for their rigid beliefs and strict Classism. None but Class 1 Humanoids lived there. Her father said that no others would be welcome.

  Yane said, “Well, if bitter aloes arm wrestles as badly as she kisses …”

  Hoots of laughter!

  Blushing the colour of her hair, Alodeé cast about for a snappy rejoinder. The students hushed slightly as she struggled for words. An idea popped into her mind. “Anyone got a rubanana?”

  Startled silence.

  “Here we go.” A Class 2 girl, Maruski, who had sleek feline features and silky tan fur, tossed one over to her. Baring her elongated canines, she purred, “Going to shut his gob with that?”

  “Nope.”

  I noticed our friend fancies his combat skin and no other clothing, that’s what.

  Smiling as sweetly as she dared, she waved it toward Yane. “Here, have a present.”

  He scowled at the fifteen-cent purple rubanana fruit, eyes bulging with suspicion. “Don’t need it.”

  “Sure you do. Pop it into your trousers – then you’ll look like you have something down below. Trust me, I’d know.”

  A lie, but an amusing one. Yane could only gape at the fruit like a startled fish. Collecting handslaps amidst the biggest roar of laughter yet, she approached the table. Tomaxx’s pearl-white eyes struck her as troubled. He thought her comeback unwise. Perhaps it was. Yane had a vindictive streak as wide as the three planetary bands often visible beyond the atmosphere.

  Vexed in turn, she spluttered, “So, let the best woman win?”

  “I’ve a reputation to keep up,” he growled. “You won’t last 5 secs, Alodeé.”

  “What, Ashamixx is watching?” she hissed for him alone and winced. Oh, badly played. I didn’t mean that … cruddy trousers, I did. Ugh.

  Despite that he caught her dismayed reaction, her friend’s expression as he offered his massive left paw was not a kind one. She had known him since forever – indeed, since she remembered crawling all over his war games figurines in the crèche. Nineteen year-old Tomaxx had never been able to stand being shamed, least of all in front of a crowd. Settling in, she tried to brace herself against the w
restling table, gripping the padded edge with her right hand and setting her stance.

  “Ready, Alodeé?” he mocked.

  The giant’s grip curled about her slim hand, absolutely swamping her fingers. A brief image of herself as a toddler holding her father’s hand flashed in her mind. If Tomaxx squeezed, her fingers would be mashed sausages.

  She nodded. “Ready.”

  A strange roaring filled her ears. The best she could hope for was to resist enough that he did not slam her bodily through the table. Since the incident with the canids that morning, however, unfamiliar heat had stirred in her breast. She did not want to lose, did she? Her heartbeat buzzed madly, fluttering so fast she felt as if she had swallowed a live electrical wire. How many beats per min?

  No fainting, honestly!

  Isska checked their grip with two right hands this time. “Ready? Ready? I’ll count you in. Three … two … one … fight!”

  The crowd roared. Tomaxx smiled down at her, inviting her to begin. Best shot, girl. Her slim, wiry muscles leaped into relief beneath the combat skin as she gave it her all. Budged his hand a couple of cents; that only because he was not trying. At all.

  Then, he cranked up the pressure. Alodeé locked up every muscle in her body. Her back twinged as she tried to stop him – and did, momentarily. To her surprise and the shock that registered clearly in the depths of his pearl-white eyes, she tracked the quivering of his muscles as she forced him to exert something of his real strength. Really?

  Grit the teeth. I will not give in. I … will … not!

  “No!” she yelled.

  “YES!!” he roared back.

  Their arms quivered as the position shifted inevitably toward his win. Grieving lumoslugs, he was so powerful! His forearm had to be twice the thickness of her thigh.