by Barry Kirwan
Pierre tried a short laugh; blood spilled from his lips. Blake noticed how cherry red it was – highly oxygenated. But that didn’t make sense; it was as if Pierre was healing.
Pierre confirmed his supposition straight away. "I’m not going to die, Sir. And I’ll tell you everything now. It won’t take long, and then I’ll see if I can get us out of here. You remember my father? You said you met him. You clearly didn’t like him – why?"
"Listen Pierre, this isn’t the time –"
"Yes it is. It’s important – and in fact we do have time. When I first arrived, I tripped a power-up signal. The ship has been dormant for five hundred years, it will take a while to come back on-line, so we’re not going anywhere until it activates."
Blake shot Pierre a hard look, and then nodded. "Alright. Aside from being arrogant, thinking that he was better than everyone else – smarter – your father blocked us from doing genetic engineering research. The enemy had ghosters and we had nothing, and people like your father used fear, bigotry and sanctimonious arguments that left us at a disadvantage when it came to genetically-engineered enemies."
Pierre nodded. "What if I told you he did perform genetic engineering experiments, and was successful?"
Blake steepled his fingers. "Well, to be honest, I’d find it pretty hard…" Then it hit him, from the inside, as if he’d always known it. "You?"
"You’re looking at one of his experiments," he said, with more than a hint of bitterness.
He noticed Pierre had omitted the word "successful," and the tone implied the reverse. Blake understood – he would never for a moment have wanted a father like Pierre’s – an obsessive workaholic scientist, rudimentary on the emotional scale. There would be little chance to be seen as ‘successful’ in such a parent’s judgment.
He searched Pierre’s eyes, to see if he was telling the truth. But it all fell into place: the scientific brilliance at such a young age; the dispassionate nature that signaled a lack of empathy, a well-known side-effect from early genetic manipulations; the fact that Pierre had been close to death, yet seemed to be getting stronger. And of course the ability to store nannites in his body without being devoured by them from the inside. He remembered the argument he’d had with Pierre’s father all those years ago at a military science convention. The man’s passionate defense of a moratorium on genetic engineering – it had all been a smoke-screen protecting his own experiments.
Pierre pressed on. "I didn’t know why I’d been genetically changed until after my father was assassinated. After the funeral, a man introduced himself to me – he said he was a Sentinel, and had known my father for years. He told me about the Alicians’ genetic experiments, and that my father was involved in counter-warfare, working for the Sentinels. His violent opposition to "genning" was to keep the Alicians from finding out about the real work going on."
Blake studied Pierre. He saw him very differently now. Perhaps this was why he’d never liked him – there was something of a ghoster in Pierre, something unnatural – that was unfair, but maybe somehow he’d registered it at an unconscious level.
"My father completed a dozen experiments. I don’t know who the people were, but they’re out there. We’ll live longer, be brighter, and our immune system is reinforced by nannites hidden in the endorphin system. They’re undetectable except via nannite probes, themselves illegal."
Blake didn’t like finding this out about Pierre. It felt like he’d had a spy aboard his ship.
"So, what was your real mission?" he said, coolly.
"To be honest, there wasn’t one. The Sentinel never made contact again. I asked my mother before she died, and… she didn’t actually deny anything, just told me that my father had done everything to protect me, including keeping me in the dark about certain things. After her funeral, I signed up for the Eden Mission. I’m still a scientist at heart, Captain, and… a soldier."
Blake was reassured by that last word – he hoped Pierre was telling the truth. Time to get back on track, he decided, just as a low humming began, and a soft shimmer of light emanated from the ceiling.
"So how did you get in, and how do we leave?"
Pierre smiled. "The Hohash let me in. One of them was down here when I arrived. It showed me a set of movements on the pad outside and the door slid open. It then activated the ship and awoke its compatriots, and then left."
"Its com… How many are there? Where did they go?"
"There were five, and they all left except this one. They can communicate with each other, it seems. I don’t think the Q’Roth ever got into the ship."
"So, how do we leave?"
"Where do you want to go, Sir?"
"Outside first," he said, pointing upwards, "then back to Earth to join the fight."
The ship rocked, and there was a dull rumbling from outside. Blake walked carefully over to the viewport. "It’s gone – the ship is gone! Back to Earth?"
The corners of Pierre’s mouth dipped. "Afraid so. It seems the idea is that people come here first, so the Q’Roth get stronger before the major onslaught, but I think everything has gone off early – their plans have been upset by our arrival, and possibly on Earth, too – so they’ll go there direct in any case."
Pierre’s brow furrowed. "I expect that’s why they elicited the help of the Alicians – the Q’Roth work on longer timescales, and with most of them in hibernation, they don’t react well to last-minute changes. The Alicians could help with precision timing, and adapt to developments. Yet they always had a back-up plan. That’s why there are some ships already on Eden as well as on Earth. Still, it means they’ll be weaker to begin with, which could be an advantage. But this ship we’re in is more of a scout ship – I’m not sure it can move as fast or as far as the Q’Roth ones."
"I’m guessing no weapons, either?"
Pierre shook his head. Blake recognized a despairing look in Pierre’s eye.
"You don’t think Earth is going to make it, do you?"
Pierre winced. "Well, Sir, when I studied the Q'Roth panels in the antechamber, I found one indicating other nests on the planet—sixty in total. So how shall I put this? The soldier in me wants to go back and fight. The genned scientist in me, however, thinks that all the bravado in the world won’t make any difference."
Blake folded his arms, tight-lipped, as Pierre continued. "This is a tactical situation, Sir. So, you tell me – when you’re caught between an inner enemy wrecking your infrastructure and destroying morale, and an outer enemy who has superior weaponry and infantry – because we both know that’s what it will come down to – what do you do?" Pierre held up a hand to stop Blake interrupting. "If you say we go out in a blaze of glory, I will gladly follow your orders, but what if there’s nothing left after that blaze? Is that sound tactics?"
Reluctantly, Blake knew General Kilaney would agree.
"Also, Sir, as for Eden – I checked their terraforming control system. The terraforming is pretty unstable – it was never meant to be anything other than cosmetic. The degradation has already begun, particularly with the arrival of the desert, itself accelerated yesterday by the ND explosion. A few years, maybe less, and this whole planet will revert to barren rock."
The mirror flushed in a rainbow swirl of reds and greens, and the craft lifted gently off the cavern floor. Blake’s vision diffused, as if everything he could see, including Pierre and his own reflection, was coming apart, de-molecularizing, until there remained only a swirling soup of particles and a rushing sound like a waterfall. Abruptly, all the particles slammed back together into place, and Blake found himself in the craft, above ground outside, under the morning sky.
They hovered, noiselessly. Blake turned back to Pierre, who was trying to stand. "Are you okay? Did it understand me?"
"Wow, Sir. That was… incredible!" Pierre’s eyes shone, despondency replaced by wonder. "Do you realize what just happened?"
Blake stood his ground, waiting for the answer to his second question. He caught Pierre�
�s eye.
"Sorry, Sir, I don’t know. I think the mirrors are trying to understand us. You pointed – I think they understand colors and movements better than words. I’m not sure they can process sound."
Blake was about to try something, when he spotted a lone human figure from out of the viewport, running full pelt, leaving a sliver of trees for the open desert.
"Who the hell…?" But then he saw why he was running so fast: a herd of Q’Roth, less than thirty meters behind, were gaining on him.
"Christ! We have to help him!" Before Blake could do anything, a fast jet came straight at them and launched an air-to-air missile. Blake instinctively dove away from the viewport, and a fraction of a second later the craft leapt sideways to dodge the missile.
He struggled to his feet. There were no chairs or consoles in the craft, little if anything to hang onto. There were a few handles and green vine-like wires hanging from the ceiling, but no furniture.
"You okay, Pierre? That was close – and if I’m not mistaken, friendly fire!" But as he turned he saw Pierre had been thrown sideways against the bulkhead, and was unconscious.
The jet banked and dipped to strafe the chasing Q’Roth with low level attack fire. Although it knocked down twenty or so, the others just leaped over them, continuing the chase. After a tight loop the jet made a second pass and launched two cluster bombs that soaked the Q’Roth in a deluge of white-hot flaming napalm. Blake held his breath, only to see most of them galloping out unscathed.
"Sweet Mother!"
The jet then left the scene – Blake assumed it was low on fuel, knowing it was the right tactical decision, but one the man below would have a hard time understanding, now only twenty meters in front of the Q’Roth front line. The man was tiring, struggling, and occasionally stumbling in the sand.
Blake turned to the mirror, and pointed to the figure outside, jabbing his finger at it. He then ran to the door and pointed at that too. The craft spun around as the door opened. He was nearly thrown out by the centripetal force, but managed just in time to grab one of the green "vines" hanging from the ceiling. He remembered these craft were built for the mirrors, who had independent mobility. He glanced over his shoulder to check that Pierre hadn’t rolled towards the open hatch.
As the craft stopped spinning Blake caught sight of the man.
"Get inside!" he shouted.
The young man gaped, and then with a desperate grunt darted over to the hatch and launched himself in, clutching Blake’s forearm. Once he was inside, Blake signaled with his two palms to the mirror to close the door.
"N-nuke!" the man gasped, pointing behind him. "Detonating… Now!"
Blake swiveled back to the mirror and threw both arms out in the opposite direction to where the young man had been pointing, and was thrown backwards as the ship accelerated away. Three seconds later all three of them were hurtled to the back of the craft, pinned there as the ship shifted into high gear to outrace the nuclear blast-wave, catapulting them upwards. He blacked out.
***
Vince piloted the lead Sarth missile at a distance, using a virtual immersion "head-can" as the mil called it, bulleting across the desert. While he remained back at base, the neural interface allowed him to steer the C6-laden dart just above the dune-tops, caressing Eden’s skin, zeroing in on the latest Earth-origin Q’Roth ship arrival. A black scab formed on the horizon. He clicked on zoom.
The swollen image resembled an animal carcass engulfed by ants. "Damn, too late – again," he muttered, knowing Vasquez and the controllers back at base could hear every word. Not that it was necessary – they saw everything via the slave screens. He was pissed off – each time a ship landed full of human cargo, the Q’Roth began harvesting within minutes. He zoomed in further. People flooded out of the ship, dazed and bewildered, then fought to get back inside, eyes and mouths wide in panic, scrambling over each other upon seeing the Q’Roth warriors swarming towards them. He zoomed out, suppressing a well of anger.
He rapped a control to relay coordinates to two tandem missiles, and the pair of piloted F-39s trailing behind with their nuclear payload. He signaled the attack pattern to the base controller with a single word: "Delta". The "D" stood for destroy – he judged it was too late to save the people; instead he had to make sure the ship didn’t take this particular Q’Roth hive back to Earth. A letter flashed in his left field of vision, "‘S", meaning Save. This was the third time Vasquez had disagreed with him. Okay, Vince thought, we’ll try it your way. He ramped up the acceleration for all three missiles, scratching across Eden’s flesh.
His recon system auto-zoomed onto four smaller Q’Roth ships buzzing like flies around the feed – he’d seen similar ones around the last ship too. A blue band slashed in front of him, missing him by meters. He sent a command to stutter his engine thrust, making it harder for the Q’Roth to get a fix on him. His vision auto-compensated – but that was because he was there virtually – the F-39 pilots couldn’t use this trick, so he had to take out the smaller ships. But there were four of them, and he only had three missiles. As if on cue, they lifted off, accelerating towards him in a square defense pattern. He picked the nearest one and went to maximum speed, transmitting the command "frag-mode", as he spiraled through blue beams latticing the sky. He pummeled into his target too fast to make out any expression of the Q’Roth pilot.
His vision leapt to the second missile, scorching in from the East. He dipped low to avoid a web of azure fire. He saw that his first missile had found its target – a plume of flame billowed mid-air, the wreckage of the Q’Roth vessel fire-balling to the ground. Better, some of the explosive fragments had scraped another one, not destroying it, but sending it to the ground like a swatted fly. He swerved his missile to the right, attracting another ship away from the transport, breaking their defense formation.
His vision snapped to the third missile – the second must have been hit. He shrugged it off; he’d distracted the ships, allowing the two fighters to roar in from the West ten meters above ground. He watched their high-energy pulse lasers strafe the rear edge of Q’Roth warriors, slicing a hundred out of existence like a razor clearing stubble.
The remaining two Q’Roth ships disengaged from Vince’s missile and pursued the fighters. Vince was about to take one of them out when he spotted the source of this particular Q’Roth horde. A steady stream of warriors hemorrhaged from their underground nest into Eden’s noon sky faster than blood from a slashed artery. He didn’t give it a moment’s thought: he broke off his pursuit and swung the missile full throttle into the cave’s mouth.
He saw white. He tore off the head-can – no more missiles.
"Christ, Vince," Vasquez shouted, "you just sentenced those pilots to death!"
Vince muscled past Vasquez to the screens relaying video from the two fighters. Most of the people on the Q’Roth transport were already dead, thousands of Q’Roth warriors scurrying over the mound of corpses to get inside the ship, to head toward Earth. A screen relaying live video from the first pilot blanked. Vince snatched the microphone from the military controller handling the second fighter.
"Take out the ship – do it now, you’re dead anyway!"
Vasquez pushed next to him, seizing the microphone, but offered no counter-command. They watched the screen in silence as the fighter banked hard enough to make the controller flinch. The transport grew large in front of them as the jet aimed straight for the main hatch, a red light indicating the nuke was about to detonate. The screen flashed white.
"Yeah, I know," Vince pre-empted Vasquez, "another hero. You should be proud. Medals all around later. How many Eagles left from the second wing?"
Vasquez’s lips squeezed to a white line. "Four."
Vince eyed him, recognizing the look. '‘Want me to fly one? I can, you know. I’m a bit rusty, but –'’
Vasquez grimaced. "What are your orders?"
Vince scanned the intel around him. Three quarters of their screens were blank; almost all of the
ir info-drones shot out of the sky. He tapped a control and the holomap folded out in front of him, revealing Eden’s major continent in beige relief. Blue flags highlighted Q’Roth nests, yellow ones transports arrived from Earth, and red ones transports that had arrived with human freight, swapped for Q’Roth warriors, and vanished back to Earth. Too much red! The inbound ships had been programmed to land on top of nests.
Vasquez nodded towards the Southern section. "Turnaround time’s getting quicker. They know we’re here so they’re boarding fast as they can. Latest one was thirty minutes."
He made up his mind. "Change of strategy. We nuke them as soon as they arrive." Vince spoke to the map, pointing. "We send our fighters to these blue flags – we know transports are going to arrive there soon. If the fighters get there before the transports, they nuke the nests. If the transports arrive, they nuke them too." He held up a hand, raising his voice, shouting so everyone in the room was clear. "The fighters go in hot, nukes armed, so if they’re shot down, they detonate; if not, they bomb the ships as soon as they find them."
Vasquez blanched. "What about the people on board? We’re soldiers for God’s sake, not butchers."
Vince rounded on him, ignoring the fact that Vasquez was a head taller. "Your job is to protect humanity, contain the threat on Eden, maximize survival back on Earth. We can’t help the people here, they’re dead either way. Give the command!"
Vasquez faced off Vince. "We’ll meet in hell, for sure, Vince."
Vince didn’t blink. "I have a condo there waiting for me. You’re welcome for tea. Now give the fucking order, Colonel."
Vasquez bristled. He nodded to the controllers.
***
Blake awoke first, rubbing his head where it had slammed into the saucer's hull. It was getting dark, so they’d all been out for at least eight hours. He shook himself, furious for the loss of time, but he guessed none of them had slept much in the past forty-eight hours. He glanced at Pierre and the young man's unconscious frames; they looked restful. The lad reminded him of his son who would have been about the same age had he lived. Well, Robert, I finally put men before mission. Despite the grogginess, calmness swept over him. He went straight to the viewport. The ship floated a good ten kilometers above Eden’s surface, where an ugly, broiling smoke-grey mushroom illuminated the charred landscape.