The Xenocide Mission

by Ben Jeapes

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And they’ve brought me here. They’ve brought us here. Why?’ Now there was no doubt about the despair. ‘I am Third Son and so my chances of shining in combat have always been limited compared to Second and First, but . . . I can’t have angered the gods this much? And you, Learned Mother! What have you done to anger them? What could you have done? I know we may not see eye to eye on certain matters concerning them –’

  For example, their existence? Oomoing thought.

  ‘– but I know you are a good mother to your children, you serve the nation dutifully – how can they be angry about that? How, Learned Mother, how?’

  Fleet paused. Then: ‘Learned Mother,’ he said, as if about to impart a terrible secret, ‘the battle gods I have been taught about cannot be so unreasonable. Either I have been taught wrongly or . . .’

  You’ve worked it out too, then, Oomoing thought.

  ‘Tell me, Learned Mother. Please.’

  Oomoing heard the raw appeal in his tones and leaned back against the wall on her side of the cell. Where to start?

  ‘Loyal Son, I’m surprised at you,’ she said. She deliberately put anger into her tone, hating herself while she did it. There was a time and a place to deconstruct ancient superstitions, and this wasn’t it. Fleet needed something to believe; she couldn’t say what he might become otherwise.

  But she wasn’t going to turn into a didactic priest either.

  ‘Do you remember the hurricane two years ago, back home? All those coastal towns, flooded out?’ she said.

  ‘Of course.’ A hint of surprise.

  ‘Thousands of Kin, forced to cling onto roofs and treetops in the dark and the rain. One weak moment and they would have been swept away. What do you think they felt? I expect it was close to despair. I expect it was close to what you feel. And of course, many of them never felt anything else, because they died. But others survived and now serve their country and their battle gods with distinction.’

  A pause.

  ‘Your point, Learned Mother?’

  ‘You are one Kin, Loyal Son. The battle gods are immeasurably older and immeasurably greater than you or me. We can only judge from our own limited experience; they have the full scope and range of Kin history to draw upon. We can’t stop believing in them because we’re having a hard time. Don’t presume to generalize from your individual experience.’

  In other words, be scientific. If you’re going to stop believing in the battle gods, do them the courtesy of having a good reason.

  Oomoing knew full well that she hadn’t answered his question, but she hadn’t not answered it either.

  ‘Thank you, Learned Mother. I’ll – I’ll think about that.’

  So, she had done her duty as a mother to a son. She had helped him continue, though how much longer they could continue for was another question. The natives patched them up but they couldn’t replace lost blood. They couldn’t heal damaged and battered bodies. But, she had helped him, and would continue to until they reached that point when their damaged and battered bodies just gave up.

  It was some consolation, as the numbness crept back into her mind again and she knew that once again their captors were taking her over.

  Meewa’s tour continued according to some itinerary that only Meewa knew. Every time Meewa made contact with Joel, every time their minds came close, Meewa seemed to understand more about Joel . . . and Joel found out more about Meewa. Every time he sensed further depths, more complexity. And to his surprise he was liking the Processor. He sensed a loneliness. Meewa was young for his position; his talent at Processing (whatever that was) had put him in the unexpected position of First Contact specialist.

  Joel knew that Meewa knew he too was still reckoned as young amongst his own people, and that he was in a situation of much more responsibility and gravity than could reasonably have been expected from his vocation in life. Well, Meewa knew how that felt. They both had things in common.

  Joel knew that Meewa was daring to let himself hope that, well . . . who knew? They might even become friends. Never one to turn down an olive branch, Joel found that he hoped so too.

  And then they came out onto a balcony. It was a circular gallery around a central pit, and several other locals were already here. Meewa introduced them as the other Processors. The Processors were staring down at the creatures standing in the middle of the pit. The malesna.

  Joel and Boon Round stiffened in surprise. Joel exclaimed, ‘What are they doing here?’

  The two XCs just stood there, facing each other. Their arms hung limply at their sides and they didn’t move.

  Boon Round relaxed a little. ‘So, these are the malesna? I’d say they’re not as well looked after as we are.’

  ‘How can you tell?’ Joel slowly sat down where Meewa indicated, ready to leap up at any moment if the XCs got nasty. He had seen them move before, and boy, could they move.

  Come to think of it, the locals had seen them move too, but there was no evidence of extra guards, other than the ones on the top ledge with him and Boon Round.

  ‘I can see several new wounds that were not there when we last saw them,’ Boon Round said. Joel growled in irritation; the question was meant to be sarcastic.

  A door opened down below and some locals staggered in, carrying . . . other locals. The ones being carried seemed to be asleep. They were curled up, their legs drawn up to their torsos and their arms wrapped around themselves. The sleepers were placed around the edge of the pit.

  And Joel had another painful vision from Meewa. Somewhere, under this city, were catacombs full of sleepers. Miles of tunnels, thousands of locals. They were . . . not dead. Not alive. Not in a coma. They just were – there was nothing there except the bodies.

  Until they received that vital infusion – lifeforce, intelligence, sentience. This was how the survivors of the xenocide had stayed alive. A few had stayed up here on the surface to manage things, the rest had gone down to sleep and wait for—’

  The XCs pounced, straight at each other. Arms out, claws extended, they clashed. The female slashed the male across the face and blood spattered out on to the sand. The male leapt back, then crouched and sprang low at the female. He wrapped all four arms around one of her legs and sank his teeth into her haunches. He tore out a chunk of dripping flesh and blood spurted into his face. The female screeched and clasped both hunting hands together. She clubbed at the back of the male’s head. He collapsed face down into the sand and the female gathered herself up to jump down on him.

  But suddenly she stood back, all arms hanging limply at her side, and a couple of locals scuttled into the arena. They swarmed around the female and the still form of the male, bandaging and tending to their injuries. Then they ran back through the doorway.

  Slowly the male picked himself up, turned to face the female, and pounced again.

  • (An excellent) waking session!

  Joel turned to stare at Meewa, then reluctantly looked back at the fighting, drawn by an irresistible fascination. The pattern was obvious: pounce, fight, come close to killing each other, then the sudden time-out for the tending of wounds. Boon Round seemed to find it equally fascinating, perhaps in exactly the same masochistic way. What was going through the Rustie’s mind Joel couldn’t guess, but in his own mind he just knew that this wasn’t right. XCs would fight at the drop of a hat, but this . . .

  He could see their strength, their life energies, in the same way as the Processors. He could see there was no intelligence there, nothing to make them thinking, sentient beings. They were just two fighting and killing machines.

  When they fought, the Processors weren’t controlling them, guiding their actions; quite the opposite. The Processors were taking their sentience from them; their self-control, the mental forces that defined them as conscious, thinking creatures. All that was left was their fighting instincts. Put two XCs together without that self-control and this was what happened.

  Meewa turned to look a
t him: it was a moment’s warning to prepare for the abrupt return of the headache. And he saw it. He saw how it was. It was horrible, hideous, but to the people of the Dead World it was right.

  ‘My God,’ he breathed.

  Meewa was basking in the lifeforce coming off the two malesna . In his mind’s eye, Joel could see it being channelled from the Processors, out of the malesna and into the sleepers. Some of them began to twitch. They had been sleeping since the Great Death, the name these creatures gave the xenocide. Now they could awake again.

  Joel looked back at Meewa. ‘You . . .’ he said. ‘You sick bastards!’

  Perhaps the words hadn’t been understood, but he knew that Meewa had got the emotion. Joel sensed hurt, confusion.

  Like he cared.

  Eighteen

  Day Eighteen: 20 June 2153

  ’And . . . and the xenocide, the great attack,’ Joel said, ‘was just . . . just self-defence! They’re the good guys. Don’t you see it?’

  They were back in their house-cum-prison. The guard had been relaxed; they could leave and walk around the plaza, if they so desired (They didn’t – not in that wind). Now Joel looked anxiously into Boon Round’s expressionless face and wished Rusties didn’t look so blank.

  ‘No,’ said Boon Round.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Joel leapt to his feet and paced round and round the room. ‘Which bit don’t you get? Look.’ He crouched down in front of Boon Round again. ‘We have the XCs. The xenocides. The race formerly known as the xenocides . . .’

  ‘They are xenocides. No-one disputes that.’

  Joel ignored him. ‘Their world is constantly racked by war and fighting. But somehow, through some miracle, they drag themselves up by their bootlaces each time, each time they make themselves just a little bit more civilized than before, and then, wham! Another war, and they get wiped all over again.’

  He leapt up and paced about again, illustrating his points by waving his arms wildly in the air. ‘Only it’s not them fighting. I mean, it is, but they aren’t doing it because they want to. It just happens that the two worlds are close and the Processors . . .’

  This was where it broke down. He didn’t have reasons, just results.

  ‘Look, I don’t know how or why, but the people on this world seem to take their . . . their minds, their awareness from the XCs. Not all the time, but they need . . . recharges. They need to top up. And when they did that, in the past, at the other end of the line the XCs were being reduced to animals. No self-control, no awareness . . . and when you put two XCs together in that state, they fight. It’s how they are.’

  ‘That—’ said Boon Round.

  ‘I saw it, Boon Round. I’ve got that information in my head and . . . I’m working it out. There were millions of locals here, once. Hundreds of thousands of Processors, sucking the XCs dry. But now . . . well, the xenocide knocked them down to below some kind of critical mass. The few that were left were able to keep going without the XCs, which is lucky for them ‘cos there aren’t enough left to reach out like they used to. But now . . . now, they’re going to milk the two we brought with us for all they can. They’ll wake up more and more of their own kind, until they have enough to start all over again. They’ll wake their race up and the whole XC homeworld will . . .

  ‘Look, maybe the XCs knew all the details, or maybe they just pieced things together, but they knew that their wars were being caused by the Dead World. Somehow. So they launched their attack. Which the Ones Who Command saw. And we’ve been afraid of them ever since.’ More subdued, he said, ‘Now, what don’t you understand in all that?’

  ‘It’s all quite obvious,’ Boon Round said. ‘That wasn’t what I meant. You quaintly describe the XCs as the good guys. I remind you that they weren’t under anyone’s influence when they attacked SkySpy and wiped out my pride. That was all their own work.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Joel had to rein himself in. ‘Yes, yes, I know that, Boon Round. XCs are naturally contentious little sods, but that’s just . . . just their nature.’

  ‘You lost friends on SkySpy too,’ Boon Round pointed out.

  ‘I know!’ Joel bellowed. ‘I know and I hate them for it and . . .’ He clutched his head. ‘But . . . Look, I’ve got to forgive them, Boon Round. I’ve got to, because hanging on to hatred might make me feel better here and now, but it won’t do any good in the long run. Hang on to that hatred and the only justifiable course is another xenocide, wipe out the XCs before they wipe out us, because with the amount of hate that we have there won’t be any middle ground. And as we know that wouldn’t be justified, we’ve got to let go of the hatred first.’ He kicked the wall. ‘If you want to hate anyone, hate the merciless little pricks that run this place.’

  ‘But what they do is in their nature,’ said Boon Round. ‘You wouldn’t blame a raptor bird for feeding on some defenceless rodent. Exactly the same principle applies here, even though the two parties are on different worlds.’

  ‘And the two parties are intelligent!’ Joel sat down in one corner and put his head in his hands. Did they know what they were doing? Did they know that at the other end of the line, their malesna were having their identity and dignity stripped away and being turned into brutal, feral animals? Did they care? ‘Maybe the Dead Worlders don’t know that. Maybe the XCs didn’t know about the Dead Worlders . . . those two could tell us. God, I wish we could talk to them! If only we had a translator, or—’

  ‘We do,’ said Boon Round. Joel lifted his head up slowly to look at the Rustie.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the lifeboat.’

  Joel snorted. ‘Yeah? So how did it get there?’

  ‘Both lifeboats were constantly updated with information in SkySpy’s banks,’ Boon Round said. ‘It was to save downloading time in the event of an attack. SkySpy had a working translator model; therefore, so does the lifeboat.’

  A vast pit seemed to open under Joel. He couldn’t believe he had really been that unbelievably stupid. He knew the evacuation protocols. He knew how SkySpy worked. And he hadn’t thought . . .

  ‘The life— . . . a trans— . . .’ Joel glared at the Rustie to cover up his own feelings. ‘You mean . . . we had them on board . . . all that time . . . why didn’t you say something, you stupid Rustie?’

  ‘I assumed you knew, you stupid human. And what would you have wanted to say to them?’

  ‘I’d have wanted . . . I’d have . . . oh, I don’t know!’ Joel was pacing around again. ‘Look, we have a problem. Meewa wants us to use the lifeboat to collect more XCs for their little games.’

  ‘I see,’ Boon Round said. ‘Yes, that could be a problem.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘The lifeboat on its own could never get through their homeworld’s combined defences. On the other hand there are isolated space stations which we could probably raid . . .’

  ‘We are not abducting any XCs!’ Joel said through his teeth. ‘They . . . I’m sorry, Boon Round, I know their kind killed your friends and mine, but they just don’t deserve this. We’re talking about an entire race.’

  ‘Your attitude is entirely unreasonable,’ Boon Round said. ‘We’re in these creatures’ favour, now. We can play along and regain the lifeboat. We could even capture a few more XCs to show our good will, build up some trust. I’m not talking about the entire race, just a few. A space station crew, say, would keep the locals happy for years to come, and in the meantime we could make our escape. Once we’re back in the lifeboat we can do what we like.’

  Joel shook his head. ‘For one thing, it wouldn’t work. Boon Round, I can’t afford to have the slightest duplicity in my mind, because Meewa will see it. We can’t plan a single surprise, because he’ll know about it. And for another thing – no! We are not going to abduct a single XC! Not one! It’s not . . . right!’

  ‘You are—’

  ‘Put yourself in their place!’ Joel shouted. ‘Two aliens have just kidnapped us and delivered us to a bunch of sadists who nee
d to make us kill each other to keep their own race alive. How do you feel about that?’

  ‘My feelings are irrelevant. This is the situation that we must work with. We have two choices: do what they want, or work out how to get to the lifeboat without them. We know its position, now.’

  ‘But we can’t get to it,’ Joel groaned. Yes, they knew where it was, and they could walk the distance in ten minutes. They’d just have to get through several hundred spear-toting locals en route.

  ‘We must think of a way.’

  ‘I’ve already told you that Meewa—’

  ‘In that case,’ Boon Round said simply, ‘I must think of a way. They can’t read my mind.’

  Joel snorted. ‘Oh, yeah, right! We’re reduced to you having a good idea.’

  ‘I see no reason to stand here and be insulted,’ Boon Round said, and paced out of the room. Joel strode to the door after him.

  ‘Good luck!’ he called. ‘Maybe you could fix up a perpetual motion machine while you’re about it!’

  No answer. Joel sat down again in his corner. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Commonwealth. A place where humans and Rusties, sorry, First Breed, can live and work together in perfect harmony. Like chalk and cheese.’ I mean, just because he’s absolutely right and we don’t owe the XCs anything and . . .

  But he carefully steered his thoughts away from that direction. There was another direction to go in, far more fun and just as hopeless.

  ‘Is this seat taken?’

  [A whole bunch of information objects from the sound of the voice alone. The accent is from a place called New Zealand. The tone of the voice is warm, friendly and female. Associated information objects: desire to look good, possibility of procreative activity not to be ignored.]

  He looks up. His view is darkened by the glasses he wears but the outline of a female shows against the background aura of the sun. It is hot [so hot! So luxuriously hot . . .], the sun shines bright with light that reflects off the blue sea [so much water!], the sand and the white stone of the promenade. He is sitting at a table in shorts and a T-shirt; the clothes are baggy, plenty of room for the gentle breeze to get in and caress his skin with a cooling touch. Self-image: relaxed, sexy, attractive. He sits in the shade of a large parasol and sips at a pleasantly cool drink. The table is at Alf’s, properly known as the Alfresco Bar on Admiralty Island [a whole cascade of associated information objects, to be explored later].