The Risen Gods

by Frank Kennedy

  Ophelia gave him instructions, made certain he programmed in the ship’s coordinates and fed the proof back to her. He did so merrily when she transferred 15-K credits to his business account.

  “Be there,” she told him. “The next time I signal, you will have forty seconds to act, or I will rescind the credits.”

  “I will be there,” he said. “How many passengers?”

  “You will know soon enough. Mr. Bouchet appreciates discretion.”

  She disconnected the pilot. Her air cavern held eight more minutes supply. Ophelia felt a tingle of additional tension as she prepared her next move. The ship’s arrival wouldn’t matter if this communication proved unsuccessful. The trick was being able to find him amid the clutter of military-assigned amp stacks. Sexton Marshall showed her the techniques and provided her with authorization codes months ago, a necessity for maintaining their quiet alliance.

  She opened a holocube at twelve feet below water. Stream filters trickled down as if sliding on ice. She spoke to the glass.

  “Open InterStream diode. Command authorization 1-12-Tomelin-X-Invidious-TellSync.”

  When the action completed, she said: “Find UG property First Specialist Valentin Bouchet. Identify by registry code.”

  The result came back in seconds: Q#Z,1,06.

  “Initiate contact with UG authorization stack for Bouchet.Valentin. Q#Z,1,06. Override internal security field. Command authorization Classification.G3Tomelin.”

  She waited for the field, knowing this was her riskiest move. In her years in his father’s employ, she saw Valentin twice, both times at a distance, never sharing a word. Even on the Scramjet from Seneca, they were strangers. But he had to know how important she was to the hybrids. Ophelia’s concern: Was he irrevocably loyal to his new brother?

  The field opened, and she waited. Valentin did not tap his amp. She didn’t want to theorize. Instead, she spoke, knowing her message would plant itself on his stack. He’d see it right after.

  “Valentin, this is Dr. Ophelia Tomelin. Please listen carefully. You, your brother, and Rayna are about to be taken. The Major and your parents have reached a deal. You are to be charged with murder in collusion with Augustus Perrone. You will be stripped of uniform and imprisoned for two years. James and Rayna will be shot on sight. If you resist, the soldiers have orders to kill you as well.

  “I will provide refuge for James and Rayna far from Earth. I am trusting you will help me. I am sending you information on a rescue ship. Provide this data to James and Rayna along with a route to the platform. Valentin, I have known you for years though we have never spoken. I believe in you. Give your brother a chance. I will protect him. I will give him purpose and freedom. I place my faith in you now.”

  She checked her remaining oxygen and continued. “You have four minutes should you choose a direct response. If you choose silence, I will be left to hope you make the honorable decision.”

  Ophelia waited and stewed over her last encounter with the Bouchets. Yes, Frances, they DO make a statistical difference, she thought. No, Emil, this is NOT for the best. Yes, Frances, he IS more than a calculation. No, Frances, I will be a GREAT teacher.

  She twitched as a vibration struck her amp. Valentin responded.

  She listened. She raged.

  She surrendered.

  Just before her air cavern timed out, Ophelia concluded her plan was certain to fail.

  55

  V ALENTIN STOPPED TRYING TO MAKE his father proud after he spit on Emil during his fourteenth birthday celebration and left behind the six hundred invited guests. He spent a night of debauchery down in the city with his friends and later reported to Hinton Station for deployment. He hated the way they parted, and even hundreds of light-years away, he never gave up on the idea of a happy reunion.

  But every decision he made thereafter, from the split-second in combat to the long, philosophical contemplations of his future, Valentin held firm to a simple notion: Father will never try to shape me again.

  Now, he understood the folly of it all. His father designed him before birth and ensured a legacy for centuries to come. I will always be in your debt, Valentin thought, and I will always rue the day I became your son. He found peace in one idea of the inevitable: You will turn to ash and be forgotten long before me, Father. They will forget you. I will make sure they forget you.

  He cemented this vow in a savage heart as he prepared to unleash death on anyone who came between him and a new life.

  Valentin was suited, armed, and committed to the revised plan. Ophelia Tomelin came along in their moment of need. He hoped she could uphold her end.

  Both he and James carried a Mark 10 Alexis blast rifle along with pulse lasers for side-arms, while Rayna found a Mark 7 Pining Rifle to her satisfaction. The long-necked barrel, she said, reminded her of hunting expeditions in Ukraine. Valentin gave her a quick primer, but she dismissed him once she figured out the trigger buttons. She did not mind the Mark 7 carrying a fourth the capacity of the Mark 10. She enjoyed the challenge of making each shot count.

  Rayna did not take to the combat bodysuit as well. The “ugly red skin” did not, Valentin admitted, look as fetching on someone of ordinary physique as it did covering the bulk of a peacekeeper. The hardest part was convincing to wear the helmet.

  “Trust me,” he told her. “It has saved my life in many battles. You wish to survive. Yes?”

  Teaching her how to catalyze the full-facial shield and not become disoriented by the DR29 grid inside was an additional hurdle, one that tested his patience. She is costing us time. He didn’t say the words, but James saw his concern and talked her down.

  “I can see all around,” she said, flabbergasted.

  “Yes,” James told her. “It’s an incredible tool but …”

  “But take care,” Valentin said. “The peripheral gives you full circle flexibility, but do not use it when your focus must be on the enemy in front of you. You will lose your aim.”

  Valentin set the schematic of the compound in his DR29, laying out the mission targets. He shared it with James and Rayna.

  “If it’s too much,” he told Rayna, “dismiss it with a swipe and follow.”

  “I do not follow well,” she said. “I shoot first at head of pack.”

  Which is what she did. As they rounded a Level 5 bend on a four-seat rifter, they approached their first target and encountered an expected guard. Rayna aimed her rifle between the peacekeepers and shot the uniformed woman through the head.

  “Very light,” she said, ignoring the kill. “I make good choice.”

  Valentin hopped off the rifter, swiped his hand across a digital door panel. Seconds later, he entered, rifle aimed.

  Rear Admiral Augustus Perrone jumped up, knocking over a small table with a half-eaten meal. A small staff bedroom was his holding pen. He wore none of the trappings of an admiral, his uniform having been stripped bare. For an instant, Valentin felt pity.

  “You have ten seconds to answer my questions,” he said.

  “Peacekeeper, what are you doing? You answer my questions.”

  Valentin moved closer and tapped off his helmet.

  “Ten seconds, Augustus, or you’re dead.”

  “First Specialist. Naturally. You and your father were in on this. You will be executed for this treason.”

  “No, Augustus. I won’t. Again, you have ten seconds. Answer. Why did you do this to me and my family?”

  Perrone clinched his fists, moving within an inch of the barrel.

  “I owe you nothing.”

  “Five seconds, Augustus.”

  The admiral’s fight diminished when James removed his helmet.

  “Ah, now I understand. The brothers who died. You seek revenge? I wonder, James. Did your friend Michael feel anything before my assassin ended him? And what about you, Valentin? Has your resurrection destroyed all you believed in? Here you are, violating every principle we taught you.”

  Valentin wanted to cry but also la
ugh. He should have known.

  “That’s what you wanted. Hurt him through us. You tear down Father by tearing down his sons. You don’t care about the Jewels or the immortals. You don’t even care about the future of Chancellors. You only want to destroy the Bouchet name. You are filth.”

  “You have no concept, boy. What stands between Emil and I began when we were children. You do not understand.”

  Valentin stepped back and lowered his rifle. “But I do. Father always beat you at everything. He never stopped beating you. Even when you were light-years apart. My father is a disgusting human being, but you are not even that. Goodbye, Augustus.”

  James lurched forward, his rifle chest-high.

  “You made me kill my brother,” he said.

  Perrone tried to reply, but James shredded his chest with flash pegs then stood over the body and obliterated the admiral’s head.

  When he looked over the blood-ravaged corpse, Valentin felt no sense of guilt, nor violation of duty. Just as James spoke of his former identity falling away into the shadows, Valentin felt another persona making its way from the depths.

  The beast told him to fear nothing. His path was eternal.

  56

  J AMES DID NOT TAKE PERRONE AT HIS WORD. Even if Michael was in danger, James could not offer help. I gave him and Sammie a chance. They’ll have to figure it out for themselves. He blocked his old family from his mind and focused on his new one. He studied the DR29 grid and penetrated the compound for heat signatures. James detected a sense of urgency in clusters on Levels 6, 7, and 9, but most of more than eight hundred in the compound seemed unaware of the new threat.

  He was ready when the lift opened on Level 5. He and Valentin shot three guards in Solomon tri-crests as the door slid away. As they stood over the bodies, James analyzed the trip ahead.

  “They’ll try to force the lift to a stop at every level. Be ready.”

  He didn’t care for their strategic position, but he also knew how many point-blank shots the armor tolerated before weakening. They prepared. Valentin took point on bended knee, ready to leap, his blast rifle square against the door. James and Rayna flanked him, rifles chest-high. As expected, the lift stopped at Level 6. Outside, security waited like a firing squad. A single heat signature emerged fifty meters down the promenade.

  Valentin signaled with his fingers: Four ahead – two low, two high – plus two on left flank, two on right flank.

  Flash pegs and short-range laser pulses exploded as the door began sliding open. They smashed into metal, dinged off helmets, and thumped the red fabric, creating electric vibrations, slowing James’s his new family a half-step but not preventing the inevitable.

  The security team had no chance, their blood spraying the promenade a sickly hue. They fell screaming in ridiculous contortions, their bodies obliterated from within. One guard fled as the attackers in red jumped from the lift, but James took careful aim and blew the back of the man’s head off.

  As he turned back to the lift, knowing this scene was about to repeat on Level 7, James glared down the promenade and saw a single figure walking away with urgency. Even from a distance, he recognized Emil. For a second, he wanted to give chase. His father, more than anyone, deserved to die today. The urge faded when he came back to reality.

  They killed ten on Level 7, but Levels 8 and 9 went unchallenged. The strategy was changing. As they approached their destination, James and Valentin discussed the dramatic movements in heat signatures. Hundreds moved; the threat was no longer hidden.

  They reached Level 10, bioengineering, but stalled the lift before it opened. James and Valentin considered an unusual series of clusters.

  “The entire compound has lockdown stations,” Valentin said. “Precautions Father took before I was born, in case of attack from outside or within. The R&D levels have the most stations.”

  “Are they impenetrable?”

  “Depends. If they tripped Black Standard, the stations cannot be opened by anyone for six hours minimum.”

  “Good. At least this way we’ll be able to sort out security from the rest.” He scanned Level 10. A few people were scrambling, but no one moving toward the lift. “There,” he said, pointing to a blue flasher six hundred meters away. “Is that her tracker?”

  “Yes,” Valentin confirmed. “She promised to trip her amp flag when she was in position.”

  “We must take care,” Rayna said. “This woman is shapeshifter. She may lay new trap.”

  “I don’t think so,” James said, “but we can’t take any chances.”

  They shared a moment and understood what had to be done.

  “Kill everyone not named Ophelia Tomelin,” he said.

  The order dripped from his tongue with ease. James saw no room for mercy or hesitation. Their escape would be difficult enough. They needed no complications. He damn well had enough of humans and their complications.

  Valentin triggered the door with the security protocol Ophelia gave him. They found a rifter close by and drove down three quiet corridors. On their final turn, three civilians saw them. Terrified, they raced into the lab complex Rayna remembered. James saw no threat on the DR29, but they aimed rifles high as they entered the lab.

  They startled Ophelia, who gasped at the three towering figures in crimson battle armor. Her hair was wet and dripping.

  “This is madness,” she told them. “You could have been at the platform by now. Our ship is leaving Hinton Station.”

  “You know why we’re here,” Valentin said. “We don’t leave without the repository. You will give us access to everything.”

  “Yes, Valentin. I have the codes. But there are things inside … the time it will take for an off-load is …”

  James saw the other civilians cowering under a high-bank lab station with huge monitors. He heard Rayna jump in his mind.

  - Look how they hide like frightened children. Did they create us?

  - They might have. Or maybe they create the immortals.

  - They give children no choice and turn them to monsters.

  - Ask them, Rayna. If they say yes, kill them.

  - What if they say no?

  - Kill them.

  He tasted her relish. He disconnected and refocused on Ophelia. Rayna moved in on new prey.

  “What?” Ophelia said. “Where is she …?”

  “How long will this take?” James said.

  “I can’t be certain. I haven’t worked here in six years. The project has grown since then. We were already at a few hundred viable subjects when I left. There may be thousands now.”

  “Where are …”

  Screams preceded rifle fire. A brief silence followed.

  “Why?” Ophelia screamed. “That was unnecessary. They were no threat to you.”

  “Everyone is a threat,” James said, lifting his rifle. “You’re a threat, Ophelia. We have no reason to trust anyone. Understand? Give us everything. If you do, we leave together on your ship. If not, I will kill you where you stand, and we’ll escape anyway.”

  She raised her hands in surrender. “Please, James. I am doing this to save your life. To save her life. When this is over, please do not make me regret my choice.”

  She led them to the giant double doors where, two hours ago, Perrone’s short reign over the Bouchets ended. She tapped her amp and fingered a holographic schematic.

  James reexamined the DR29 grid. Security movement was coalescing into varied positions on Level 6, spreading outward into what appeared to be combat movements. He counted ten different groupings, none with more than six heat signatures.

  “What do you think?” He asked Valentin.

  “The Major is organizing. I have an idea.”

  Ophelia triggered the massive doors, which began to slide away.

  “I need you to keep a level head,” she told them. “This will not be easy, especially for you, Valentin.”

  They lowered their rifles in stunned awe as the deep lab with high vaults unveiled itself. T
he DR29 picked up hundreds of tiny heat signatures.

  In the center, a vast light table displayed diagnostic holocubes. To either side, and two tiers high, banks of small tubes – only three feet tall – glowed a sickly yellow. Each was filled with fluid. Fetuses floated inside, connected to umbilicals.

  The pattern was easy to spot: The largest fetuses – those nearing maturity – occupied the forward tubes. They became smaller, more fragile, toward the back end of the tiers. At the rear, the tubes appeared empty. Upon closer inspection, something grew in each. An embryo, newly formed.

  Valentin tapped off his helmet. James and Rayna followed suit.

  “What is this evil?” Rayna said.

  “Extended-life Chancellors.” Ophelia turned to Valentin. “Ones who will live for centuries. Maybe longer. At least, that’s the theory.”

  “Theory?” Valentin asked. “Not for certain?”

  “For one hundred percent? No. There will be failures. There already have been. But so far, most have passed the early tests.”

  She drew all their eyes.

  “What do you mean?” James asked.

  “Please understand this,” she said. “I left here six years ago. I was never in charge of this project.”

  “What do you mean?” James asked again.

  “I only saw it done once. After they come to term, each infant is removed from incubation and monitored for seven days. They are then placed into individual chambers. A vacuum is created in each. The infant is suffocated. When brain function ceases, oxygen is restored. The successes resurrect within minutes.”

  “And the failures?” Valentin’s trigger hand twitched.

  “Incinerated.”

  James saw the sheen of developing tears in his brother’s eyes.

  Valentin bowed his head. “My parents did this to me?”

  “I can’t say, Valentin,” she said. “I did not come onboard until years after your birth. You were the prototype. I asked Frances once, but she admitted nothing. Even denied knowing about the project.”

  He nodded. “That sounds like Mother.”

  “All people who did this thing deserve to die,” Rayna said. “You are one,” she told Ophelia. “You deserve to die.”