Origins

by Jamie Sawyer

  Professor Saul stood with his hands behind his back, good eye and bad eye focused on the view-ports as though the imagery enraptured him. “There are seas and jungles down there,” he said, waving at the window. “Mixed with strings of volcanic mountains. We should be making recordings, conduct some remote examinations. My colleagues in the xeno-biology department would kill for an opportunity like this.”

  I cringed at his choice of words, but Saul didn’t seem to notice. There’s a lot out here that Science Division would kill for, I thought, as I looked out of the observation window. Beyond the arc of Devonia, the Arkonus Abyss glittered: its relationship to Devonia still unexplained.

  “I’ve never seen a world quite like it,” Mason said.

  Jenkins snorted. “That’s not saying much. You haven’t seen many.”

  “Well, have you?” Mason asked.

  Jenkins folded her arms. “No,” she said, reluctantly. “I haven’t.”

  “No one has,” Saul said. “Not properly, anyway. The reef worlds are so deep in Krell territory that their exploration was previously thought too perilous…”

  “But this isn’t anything like what we’ve been told to expect,” Mason said. “Of a reef world, I mean. During Basic I saw images. Vid-files, sensory simulations.”

  “The Krell reef worlds are second to hell,” Martinez said, never taking his eyes from the shimmering planet. “That’s what Science Division has always told us.”

  “Maybe we were wrong,” Saul said. His expression spoke of the elderly professor we had grown to know in Damascus, not the war-shattered survivor of Capa.

  “You’re gonna need to rewrite those books, Prof,” Kaminski said.

  Saul nodded. “So few, even of Science Division, have actually managed to witness the Krell in their natural habitat.” He waved a finger at the window. “But I have some reservations about this planet. At that mass, it shouldn’t be capable of retaining an atmosphere.” He shivered; it was unclear whether the response was as a result of the information or the cold. “It has an extreme density. Something doesn’t sit right with me.”

  “That’s assuming that this is their habitat,” I said, “and not… something else.”

  “Whatever it is,” Loeb said, “the Krell are here in force. Shower and shit, Harris. Shower and shit. You said it yourself: there’s water down there, and the Krell are here en masse.” He pointed to the tactical display, currently showing a tri-D rendering of space surrounding the Devonian body. “There are numerous Krell bio-ships in high orbit; a sizeable war-fleet.”

  “Christo…” Jenkins whispered, and Kaminski whistled in surprise.

  I counted fifty or so ships, of varied threat designation. Easily enough to take down the Colossus.

  “Looks like their scout reported in,” Mason said.

  “No,” Saul said, biting his lip. “The Krell have been here far longer than that. See their orbital stations?”

  On the scopes, black against the blue of Devonia’s seas, were coral-like growths that orbited the planet in a wide arc. There were several of them: grown to enormous proportions, spiralling out in weird anti-symmetrical shapes. From this distance, with the scopes at full magnification, it was just possible to make out bio-ships docking in the shell-like hangar bays. Blue light spilled from the innards of the Krell station-docks, betraying any suggestion that the structures were inactive. As those scattered and battered hulks of living carapace passed in front of the electronic eyes, I caught sight of markings like deliberate brands on their outer hulls. It might’ve just been a trick of the light, or maybe I was just strung out, but the flesh-burns looked a lot like the markings we’d seen on the Krell prisoners from Capa V. Are they of the same war-fleet, I wondered, or is this just a coincidence? The Krell rarely carried markings, rarely differentiated one shoal from the next, and that the stations carried identifiers at all was surprising.

  “To date,” Loeb said, “the Krell haven’t reacted to our presence. We can only assume that we’re out of their sensor range.”

  More surprises, I thought. I knew that it wouldn’t stay that way.

  I pressed both hands down on the display, concentrated on the live-feeds. “What can we expect when we get down there?” I asked.

  “Weather patterns will be extreme and violent,” Loeb said. “It’ll be hot, humid as all hell. The greenhouse effect, on a massive scale.” Loeb pulled his chin. He hadn’t shaved in days, and white whiskers sprouted from his rough face. “The clouds lock in surface heat, warming up the atmosphere. Barely any polar ice. That same cloud cover is acting as the best goddamned defence to our sensor-suite known to man.” Loeb shrugged. “Could be some sort of natural phenomenon, or it might be a defence manufactured by the Krell. Whatever it is, it’s acting as a shield and blocking our scans.”

  “Looks like boots on the ground are the only option,” I said.

  “This is getting to be a regular thing,” Jenkins said. “Just leaves the decision as to how we get down there.”

  Martinez paced the table, muttering to himself in pigeon Spanish. “There are enough ships there to cover most approaches to the surface. Getting down there without being seen is going to be tough…”

  It would be out of the question for the Colossus to make the landing. She would almost certainly be seen by the Krell en route, even with stealth systems, and even then she wouldn’t be capable of planetary insertion or flight. The local gravity would tear the old warship to pieces on the way down; no one had even suggested that as a viable tactic.

  I nodded. “This is where you come in, Lieutenant James.”

  Being skinned, and dressed in his flight-suit, James was coping with the cold better than most of the crew. He stepped up to the display. “The Dragonfly gunships will handle atmospheric flight just fine, and we have two of them in the hold.” He indicated an approach vector through the high clouds. “Best window of opportunity will be in about an hour. With a low angle of descent, we can break the ionosphere there. We’ll follow the coordinates given by Dr Marceau, and that should put us down in a little place I like to call the Maze.”

  Devonia was unexplored territory, but James had taken the liberty of labelling some of the visible land features down on the surface. “The Maze” was a series of ravines and gullies, cast from black rock, scything Devonia’s equator.

  “What about the Krell?” Mason asked.

  James whistled. “I’m pretty sure that we can evade the war-fleet in orbit. It’s at low anchor, but a single ship straight down the pipe will be a hard target to spot.”

  “All right,” I said, “this is it, people.”

  I looked at the faces of the Legion. They knew what was required, knew that this wasn’t just another mission.

  “The Colossus will retreat to a safe orbit,” Loeb said. “We’ll remain on-site, and try to fix the life-support module.” The tactical display pulled back, to three small moons spinning around the blue and green marble of Devonia. “We’ll be anchored in orbit around Devonia III; the largest moon. It should give us some decent cover from that war-fleet.”

  “For a while, at least,” Kaminski said. “But once those fish heads come knocking…”

  “We’ll pull out,” Loeb said. “In her current state, this ship won’t be any good in a fight. If the mission on the surface goes wrong, there’s every chance that the Krell will retaliate. We’ll be going dark, and run a tight orbit around the dark side of the third moon. What with the interference caused by local debris, I’m confident that we can remain hidden until you need us. While you’re on the surface, we won’t be able to risk any communications. I doubt that surface to sky would work anyway – given all that cloud – but we cannot risk attracting the Collective.”

  “Understood.”

  “You want to speak to us,” Loeb said, “your options will be limited.”

  “The Ares suits are equipped with ground-to-orbit flares,” Martinez said, “but using those is going to attract a lot of attention.”

&nb
sp; “If you set off a flare, don’t expect a response any time soon,” Loeb said. “And don’t forget that we only have those two Dragonflies.”

  “The fastest way to travel,” I said, “will be by extracting.”

  Except, I thought, if we do that, Elena and whoever else is left down there won’t have a way off-world.

  “Gaia’s luck be on you all,” Professor Saul said.

  Loeb clambered down from his command throne. He awkwardly thrust out a hand, in my direction.

  “Pleasure serving with you,” he said. “Just in case we don’t meet again.”

  I shook his hand. “And you, Admiral.” To the Legion: “Saddle up. I want us sim-capable in an hour.”

  “Affirmative,” the CIC rumbled.

  An hour later, in the increasing cold of the SOC, the Legion stripped and began to mount the tanks. Such a familiar process, but rendered new by the circumstances. The tanks were covered in condensation, their innards warm, blue, inviting.

  I glanced around at the Legion. Strange: each of my squad had retained their extraction-stigmata. Not real injuries, but rather physical reminders of the wounds we’d suffered during the Endeavour operation. Jenkins was the worst, a heavy red welt across her midriff. Potent imagery rose in my memory – Jenkins screaming as the door came down to cut her in two – and I struggled to contain it. My own skin was lacerated with similar red marks, and I could still feel the tang of bio-toxins at the back of my throat – persisting in the fibres of my real body in a way that should not have been possible.

  Dr Serova frowned at each of us as we went through the connection procedure, inspecting our bodies.

  “Is that normal?” she enquired.

  “Nothing is normal where the Lazarus Legion are concerned,” Kaminski said. “Don’t worry about a thing, Doc. We’ll be back before the day’s out, and maybe this whole war will be over.”

  “Right on,” Martinez said, bumping fists with ’Ski.

  “Still got your sword, eh, Mason?” Jenkins asked, as she hooked herself up. “That come all the way from Calico with you?”

  Mason had hooked her sheathed mono-sword, her trophy from Damascus, beside her tank. “Never know when it might come in handy,” she said.

  “Things’d have to be pretty desperate before I’d trust you with a Directorate-issue mono-sword…” Kaminski joked.

  “Desperate times,” Mason said, “desperate measures. I’d rather have a sword than nothing.”

  I clambered into my tank. The amniotic was a grateful source of heat, and the interior of the simulator felt comforting and mundane. The various data-jacks connected to my hungry ports, and with each barb of sensation I felt closer to making transition. Finally, the respirator mask slipped over my face.

  “See you on the other side,” I said.

  “This life or the next,” Mason added.

  “The simulants are loaded into the Dragonfly,” Dr Serova said, her voice projected into the comms-bead in my ear. “Are the operators ready for transition?”

  Kaminski banged his head against the inside of the tank. “Get us out there!”

  “Transition commencing in three… two… one…”

  In the split second it took to make transition – to establish the neural-link between the simulator-tank and my simulant – I travelled the length of the Colossus.

  I opened my eyes in the primary hangar bay, and I was a new man. Every ache and pain in my real body was gone, replaced by the needle-sharp senses of a simulated body. Jesus, this feel good. The Lazarus Legion were in the passenger cabin of the Dragonfly gunship, like me all wearing Ares battle-suits and strapped in for the drop.

  “Transition confirmed,” I said into the communicator.

  There were clipped responses from the Colossus’ medical team, and from the CIC, but I largely filtered those out. It was difficult to focus on much more than the visuals projected onto the inside of my tactical helmet. Accompanied by a countdown from the Navy crew, the Colossus’ hangar door yawned open, exposing the bay to hard vacuum and by degrees also revealing a first-hand visual of Devonian space. Despite being skinned, despite whatever we were about to face down there, it was still a breathtaking sight. The vibrant greens and blues swirled across the surface, almost appearing to move as I watched them. The thick jungles were so very like those I’d seen on tri-D programmes of Old Earth – back before the war, before we had turned it to shit. The impact of the visuals wasn’t lost on the Legion, either. Even Kaminski was quiet, absorbing the sight.

  “You are cleared for take-off, Dragonfly One,” declared the CIC.

  Lieutenant James sat up-front in the cockpit, banks of glowing controls in front of him. He turned to us and grinned through his aviator-helmet, the visor turning transparent. Mason sat beside him, acting as co-pilot in the absence of any other flight crew.

  “Let’s go kill some shit,” James said. “Permission to launch, Colonel?”

  I slapped a hand against his flight-suit. “Affirmative.”

  The Dragonfly engines ignited immediately, and I was slammed back into my seat, body vibrating with the thrum of the gunship’s thrusters. The world around me became a blur of light, the interior of the hangar bay replaced by the silky blackness of Devonian space.

  “Launch confirmed,” the Colossus’ CIC declared. “Gaia’s speed be on you. Commencing retreat pattern…”

  Behind us, the Colossus began to ponderously pull back, thrusters firing on low emission.

  “Commencing atmospheric breach…” James said. “Here goes nothing.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE GREEN

  The Dragonfly clipped a brace of clouds, the engine pitch shifting in response to turbulence. The gunship was designed for lifting and light combat; equipped with chemical thrusters, ideal for trans-atmospheric flight.

  “Apologies for the bumpy ride,” James said, from the cockpit. “All this cloud cover is playing havoc with the pitch controls.”

  “Just keep us out of sensor range, and get us some eyes on the planet,” I said.

  “I’ll settle for just staying in one piece,” Jenkins said.

  With the whole crew made up of sims, James could afford to focus on speed over comfort. We were flying fast and my medi-suite was administering a regulated cocktail of anti-sickness drugs.

  The flightpath stabilised a little, and our velocity reduced.

  “Should be getting some visuals any minute now,” Mason said over the comm-network. “We’re coming up fast on Dr Marceau’s coordinates…”

  I tapped into the exterior cameras; switched from tactical to optical display, and watched the Dragonfly’s descent. Thick cloud, rapidly clearing into wisps of mist, streaked past the cams. We emerged from the cloud bank a moment later, and the descent pattern levelled out.

  “Welcome to Devonia,” Mason declared.

  The landscape was black and ragged, composed of what I guessed was volcanic rock. A series of tight ravines and canyons – James’ Maze – etched the surface. Criss-crossing the planet in bizarre geometric shapes, they looked almost planned: swathed in a thick mist that provided perfect cover for whatever lurked inside. Where it broke, I could see alien impressions of trees – growing denser now, carpeting the ground in a thick jungle. The flora and fauna were bizarrely coloured – mostly distinct green, but also bright reds and nausea-inducing yellows.

  The sky overhead was even worse. Devonia Star had burnt through the cloud cover, but some trick of the atmospherics diffused its light and gave the entire vista an unpleasant haze. The perpetual twilight was strangely disorienting. Above all of that, bright enough that it shone like a second star, was the Arkonus Abyss: a rent in space-time that seemed to hover on the horizon.

  At this altitude, we were an easy target for any orbital eyes the Krell might have. It was making me nervous. I tagged one of the trenches below.

  “Take us in that direction, James,” I ordered. Elena’s coordinates had been broad and imprecise; we had a lot of ground to c
over.

  “Anything you say, Lazarus.”

  The gunship dipped into one of the canyons, cutting the mist like a knife. The walls on either side were precariously close but James was an expert pilot, weaving among the twisting network.

  “Maze is right,” James said, his voice vibrating gently in time with the gunship engine. “Local conditions are a refreshing thirty-eight degrees Celsius. Gravity is slightly less than Earth-standard; you’ll probably barely notice the difference.”

  “What about the atmospherics?” Jenkins asked.

  “You want to show your pretty face to the locals?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Then you’ll be glad to know that it’s breathable.”

  I wasn’t surprised by that. The Krell had resistance to certain atmospheric vulnerabilities beyond those of a human – being able to survive in vacuum for longer, for instance, that indirectly impacted their ability to resist airborne poisons and contaminants. But the Krell were, broadly speaking, oxygen breathers like us. That was one of the many reasons, commentators liked to speculate, for the First Krell War: two species squabbling over the same real estate.

  “If it comes to it,” I said, “better you extract than be taken prisoner by the Krell. This is their world, and they’ll be playing by their rules—”

  “Hold on!” Mason interrupted.

  I expected to feel the sudden impact of Krell ordnance; perhaps the chime of the Dragonfly’s auto-defensive systems as we were fixed with hostile fire. The rest of the Legion braced, immediately dropped into combat mode in the same expectation.

  “What have you got, Mason?” James asked.