‘Of course you are,’ the firm thought of Colmarrie entered his mind. ‘When you warped space around us before, you had no knowledge of what would happen, where we would end up. But now you do! You understand what drew us here in the first place! You have nothing to fear now except fear itself.’
Gulag locked eyes with the tall mutant woman and thought about the much quoted saying. She was right; a lot had happened in the hours they had spent here in the grips of the Starweb. Not the least of which, was his relationship with her. Until they’d been drawn here Gulag had always seen the mutant as an enemy, not to be trusted. Colmarrie and her rebels had been the source of many of his problems back on Dyason.
However, they weren’t on Dyason and Colmarrie had proved herself since then. She could have left him on the planetoid and taken the ship for herself. But she hadn’t and Gulag found he had a new respect for the towering woman. She was a comforting source of strength at his side, without whom they would all be dead by now, of that he was sure. He had nothing to fear but fear itself…
‘I can’t be certain that I’ll be able to find our way back again,’ he told her.
‘This time you’ll know what to look for,’ she replied. ‘I’m sure that you will find a way home again. Regardless of that, if we stay here we’re dead, that’s a certainty.’
Gulag knew she was right, they had no other choice. He would have to face his fear once more—the idea made him want to run for the toilet.
‘If they’re armed I judge they’re going to be in range any moment,’ Brabazon announced as the three cruisers closed the gap on Dominator.
The clone opened a hailing channel and spoke rapidly to the entire crew of the fleeing starship. ‘This is your captain speaking,’ he announced using the title for the first time. ‘Although we’ve managed to get away from Extremity Station, we’re currently being pursued by three cruisers belonging to Starweb. Our main engines are still off-line so we’re not able to make the jump to hyper-space and if the cruisers catch us, there’s no doubt that they’ll destroy us.
‘Therefore, we’re left with no choice but to leave here the same way we arrived. I’m going to attempt to warp space around us once more, but this time I’m going to take us back home. Each one of us will undergo the same experience we did before. It’s going to be unpleasant, we’ll all feel as if we’ve been wrenched apart. But hopefully at the end of it, we’ll still be alive and back home!
‘There’s just one more thing I have to say. I know this crew has come together more by accident than design, but I just want you all to know that it’s been my pleasure to serve with you all. I hope that when we finally make it home, you’ll all consider staying on as my crew. That’s all for now; Gulag out.’
Colmarrie looked at Gulag at grinned. ‘Well said,’ she murmured.
The clone gathered his will and just heard Josh Brabazon say, ‘Follow the yellow brick road and click your heels three times,’ before his mind moved on to another plane.
As everyone on the bridge watched, Gulag began to groan incoherently, his body arching and shaking in spasms that swept through him. A metamorphosis was taking place once more. His skin was becoming translucent, as if something were broiling underneath. The crew stopped, held their breath and watched as Gulag’s skin seemed to turn black. But, black was a colour, Gulag’s skin had no colour. It was as if the very light was being absorbed from around the bridge of the Dominator and was being sucked into Gulag’s writhing body. Console lights dimmed and died as small pinpoints of light flashed across the clone’s skin. The flashes became more and more numerous, as if a star cluster were being formed inside his distorted body.
The flashing lights became more intense and began to whirl round and round. The anomaly grew until it spread throughout Gulag and then it sprang out of his body and onto the bridge of the Dominator. It swept through the bridge, absorbing everything and everybody. Then it swept through the rest of the ship, swallowing everything in its path. Within seconds the whole massive bulk of the Dominator was swept up in a vortex. The shape of the ancient vessel became distorted, translucent. A galaxy of stars swam across it becoming more and more intense until it was completely swamped. Then the swirling mass expanded in an explosion of light and energy that lasted for a fraction of a second then vanished.
The pursuing cruisers of the Starweb fired simultaneously with a combined power sufficient to puncture a gaping hole in the hull of Dominator. But they were too late, the starship was no longer there. Gulag had successfully warped space around him once more, taking Dominator and her crew with him. This time they were going home.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The central deserts—Dyason
The sweat trickled under the edge of the breathing mask and soaked the light coloured cloth Candallor wore around his head, as protection from the vicious rays of the sun. He desperately wanted to scratch the itchy stubble of his weathered chin, but that would mean disturbing the mask and exposing his skin. Candallor knew from bitter experience, that was something he definitely did not want to do. The sun at this time of day would fry his skin and create terrible burns in a matter of minutes.
Of course, it hadn’t always been like this. He could remember his youth, when the plains were covered in gently swaying crops and the rivers were full of fresh, sparkling water. The approach of the deserts had been slow and insidious. Gradually, the number of insects increased and the crop yield fell. Drought emptied the streams and rivers, turning them into dry dust-beds. It wasn’t long before famine set in, killing off whole towns and villages. The gods were deserted in favour of cannibalism and the plains became lifeless deserts. Even now, it made his heart bleed. He was only thirty, but he looked and felt like a seventy year old.
The political commissar saw that his attention was waning and briefly reprimanded him. Candallor renewed his efforts and slammed the shovel into the hard earth once more. His fellow villagers—men, women and children—toiled beside him, working hard on the underground shelter they had been ordered to build.
Dire circumstances required drastic answers, the commissar had told them. So the scientists had come up with a way to wipe away the polluted atmosphere from their world, and replace it with clean air, that would supply clean water. However, while the miraculous operation took place, the surface of Dyason would be a dangerous place. Consequently, they would all have to hide underground until the changes were complete. Candallor didn’t know if what the commissar told him was true; the Imperial representative had lied to them so many times before, but he was sufficiently bright to know that they were all dying anyway. If the scientists had a plan, then they should try to implement it. If it failed they would all be dead, so what difference did it make? None…
So they all toiled under the midday sun, regardless of the risks. Jasef his eldest son of twelve, suddenly nudged Candallor and pointed to a figure approaching them across what had once been his field. The farmer looked up at the bizarre apparition as it approached them.
The first thing he noticed was the stranger’s lack of environment suit, or protective clothing. He wore nothing but a tattered uniform, similar to those worn by the Imperial officers who occasionally passed through their village. The uniform may have been smart once, but now it was ripped and stained by the blood of numerous ulcers and lacerations that covered the slightly flabby body.
Candallor stepped forward to meet the stranger as he staggered toward the working villagers. The commissar also saw the man’s approach and stepped forward too. As soon as they reached the destitute he collapsed at their feet, gasping for air. The commissar gently turned the man onto his back and Candallor saw the look of shock and surprise on his face.
The stranger may have been between forty and sixty years old—it was hard to tell due to the blisters and swelling on his face. The lips were dry and cracked, his eyes were nearly opaque, a sure sign of desert blindness. Most of the man’s body was covered in horrific sunburns, with huge tracts of black skin hanging loosely; raw bloody flesh showin
g underneath. Candallor didn’t know how long the stranger had been in the desert, but he figured the man must have really upset somebody, to be left battered and beaten in the wilderness, without water or an environment suit.
The stranger began to whisper hoarsely through his swollen lips and grabbed hold of the commissar's leg. The farmer was sure he heard the man say, ‘Help me! My name is…General Chelekov! Please…I am…General Chelekov!’
The political commissar drew a pistol from underneath his protective robes, pointed it at the strangers head and fired once. Candallor looked up in surprise as the stranger's eyes became lifeless, his forehead blown away.
In a cold unemotional voice the commissar turned to the farmer and said, ‘The man was delirious. There was nothing we could do for him. It was the kindest thing we could do. Bury him Candallor, then return to your work.’
The farmer stared at the commissar, then down at the raw corpse of the Imperial officer. With a shrug he began digging a shallow grave. The political commissar was correct, as ever…
President James Gafton stood in his study sipping brandy, looking out over the moonlit lawns of the presidential gardens. There’d been a fresh fall of snow that evening and everywhere glistened a virgin white. Outside the night was calm and peaceful. If only he could feel the same, Gafton thought to himself wistfully.
Usually, the New Zealand president of the United Nations could sleep soundly, regardless of the many problems that dogged the world government; but not tonight. The previous day's security meeting had become a major headache that kept rising to the surface of his mind; he simply could not suppress the problem.
The return of the light cruiser Elgin from Dyason had caused a major upset in the World Defence Force. The news it brought back of a third humanoid race and the possibility of a galactic alien predator had caused consternation among the world leaders. Earth was only just recovering from the Dyason invasion, her population devastated, the infrastructure still in tatters. Now Moss and Excalibur seemed to have stumbled across an even bigger threat to Terran life.
There were skeptics among the UN leaders, who believed the story of a third humanoid race who’d suffered genocide almost to the point of extinction, to be pure fantasy. These people weren’t privy to the secret files and tapes available to the president, so he couldn’t entirely blame them for their cynicism. However, it was that same attitude of disbelief, that had allowed the Dyason to overrun the planet first time round. Gafton certainly wasn’t about to let a new alien race do the same thing again.
Unfortunately, Earth was desperately vulnerable and likely to remain so for quite some time. Sure, the production of Flyships was well underway and these potent space-fighters were being stationed all over the globe. However, the construction of the new 'defender' class of cruisers was being dogged by a lack of resources. There were constant battles within the halls of the United Nations as to where scarce resources should be distributed. Every country in the world was desperate to rebuild their economy and infrastructure after the Dyason occupation. Consequently, the creation of a new space fleet hadn’t been given the priority it should have. It was bloody difficult to tell the members of the UN that scarce resources should be expended on a building up Earth’s defences. Gafton had to fight for every world dollar spent on security.
The president knew what was keeping him awake; it was the question of whether he dare risk sending two, of the half dozen new cruisers, to Dyason in support of Excalibur. If Moss, Myrddin, Jenson and their team had indeed made contact with a new alien race, it was far better for any battle to take place light years from Earth, than in close orbit. However, sending another two starships would spread the planet’s defences desperately thin. It was a tough decision and he couldn’t make up his mind what was for the best.
A chill went down Gafton’s spine and he became aware of a presence in the study—there was somebody there with him. He turned away from the window and looked around the dimly lit room, trying to see into the shadows cast by the dancing light of the open fire.
‘Who’s there?’ he demanded, suddenly nervous. The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped as if something was absorbing the warmth created by the burning logs. A shape emerged from the darkness and eased itself into one of the fire-side armchairs.
‘Myrddin?’ the president gasped in surprise, recognising the figure.
‘Hello old friend,’ the ancient responded in a tired voice.
Gafton collapsed into the chair opposite Myrddin and examined him by the light of the fire. The legendary figure was wearing his favourite denim dungarees and battered leather jacket, but his face reflected an exhaustion the president had never seen before. There was something about his eyes which seemed insubstantial, as if his concentration was somewhere else.
‘How did you get here?’ Gafton asked in amazement, ‘I thought you were being cared for on this third starship—Velcro I think it’s called. Nobody told me you’d arrived back on Earth!’
‘That’s Valvia, Mr President, not Velcro,’ Myrddin told him with a tired smile, ‘and I am being cared for; or at least a part of me is.’
‘I don’t understand?’ Gafton said, shaking his head. ‘What’s going on Myrddin? How did you appear from nowhere like that? The guards outside should have announced you were here. It’s good to see you my friend, but you nearly scared the life out of me!’
‘How I got here is not really important, but what I have to say is... Time is short, so let me explain,’ Myrddin said, then began to tell the UN president everything that had happened in the months since he and the others had left Earth.
Eventually, as the logs on the fire became glowing embers, Myrddin completed the president's briefing. As he did so, Gafton realised that he’d been perched on the edge of his armchair throughout his old friend’s long tale. He leant back into the cushions and let out a long thoughtful sigh.
‘Wow! That’s an incredible story Myrddin,’ he whistled in appreciation. ‘And you think this Starweb will go after the Dyason home world first and then Earth?’
‘I don’t think there can be any doubt about it,’ Myrddin confirmed.
‘Well this certainly clarifies the situation, the UN will have to make the creation of a new fleet the number one priority. The problem, however, is going to be convincing the other member states. They’re having a hard enough time getting their head around the existence of the Heligsion race, let alone a star-wide Internet gone mad!’
‘Unfortunately, I can’t help you there Mr President,’ Myrddin said shaking his head, ‘I’m just here to give you the facts and to ask you to send whatever ships you can spare, to help defend the Dyason home-world.’
Gafton immediately shook his head, ‘I’m sorry Myrddin but there’s no way I can get the security council to sanction the sending of a fleet to support a world that committed genocide on Earth only a few years ago! It’s out of the question!’
‘Then don’t tell them!’ the ancient told him firmly. ‘Make up some story about the cruisers and Flyships being needed to finish off the remnants of the Dyason fleet. I’m sure the security council will fall for that.’
‘But that’s lying!’ the president exclaimed in surprise.
‘So? You’re a politician; you should be good at that,’ Myrddin countered with a grin which was suddenly swept aside by a pained look. ‘Ahhhh! It’s time to be going! I’m sorry Mr President but I have to leave…’
‘What?’ Gafton looked up in surprise. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going back to my body while I still can,’ was the mysterious response. ‘After all; I was never really here. Just remember what I’ve told you old friend—the people of Earth aren’t on their own any more. Terrans are going to have to start thinking about the future of all the humanoid races; not just their own!’
Wearily, Myrddin got up out of the armchair and shuffled into the shadows beyond the light cast by the glowing embers of the fire. His shape became insubstantial then merged with the da
rkness leaving the president alone once more, staring into the dying fire. He was still there in the morning when his aide came to find him.
By midday Gafton had called a special meeting of the UN security council. However, two of the new cruisers and three squadrons of Flyships were already on their way to Dyason. He just prayed they would get there in time.
The insectoid looked through the clear crystal sides of the growth tank at the humanoid floating around in the solution. It recognised the captive as a female by the humanoid’s breeding equipment; not that it really cared what gender it was. The overseer was merely checking that the probes were still embedded in the female’s bald cranium and other strategic parts of her body.
If it had considered the matter—which it didn’t, the overseer would have concluded that the manner in which the female humanoid came to be caught by the Starweb as strange. The fact that she was discovered floating through sub-ether space wasn’t just unusual, it was unique. Doubly so, because she was found accompanied by a male humanoid. If the overseer had considered that incident, it would have thought it a great shame that the male died as soon as it was returned to normal space. It would have considered it strange, that the humanoid’s bones aged and crumbled in a matter of minutes.
However, that sort of speculative thinking wasn’t in its programming. That was left to the members of the Starweb itself. So, the overseer checked the readouts from the growth tank which sustained the female humanoid, reported the ECG readings to the mainframe AI computer and left the medilab. It didn’t even consider how the readings showed the humanoid to be in intense pain. After all, why should it? That wasn’t part of its programming.
The Starweb realised the humanoid was in great pain, but had no interest in such matters. The truth was, the sentient computers of the web had no real concept of what pain was. They could understand the technical definition of physical pain, but as none of them was built with a nervous system, they had no practical experience of agony and suffering. Consequently, they had no concept of empathy.
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