by Barry Kirwan
He was inside a vast pearl bay where forty or so shuttles of varying sizes and description stood, many floating a half metre above the hangar deck. Some appeared outlandish, others sleek, and several looked downright hostile and tooled-up with gun ports to prove it. Most had large semi-transparent tubes – some empty, others filled with viscous liquids or opaque gases – snaking into the walls of the hangar.
A diminutive figure approached, and as she got closer Blake recognised Petra, Esperia’s President, in matching beige pants and jacket, very smart and formal, though she didn’t look altogether comfortable. She had the same short cropped, unruly salt and pepper hair, the same crooked smile across her lips, and the same slate-grey eyes as her mother, Kat, far away on another of the galaxy’s outer spirals with Micah and the others. They’d gone to retrieve the sixty human captives, and to kill Louise. The thought flashed through Blake’s mind that he should have gone with them, then he dismissed it; he’d made his decision, and had never been one for second-guessing himself.
“Still in one piece, Commander?” She grinned, then threw her arms around him, her head against his chest. He stiffened at first, unaccustomed to human contact, then relaxed, and hugged her back.
“The others are already here,” she said. “We had to come the conventional way, by shuttle. Only you got the luxury treatment.” She folded her arms.
“Good to see you, Petra. How are you enjoying being President?” Blake hated small talk.
Her face grew serious. She hooked her arm in his, and started walking towards the opposite end of the hangar. “After only a month of this job I can see why both you and Micah resigned. Come on, the others are waiting. Oh, and…” she paused, turned to him again, mock-conspiratorially. “Some of them smell a bit weird; try not to let it show.”
He knew what she was doing, trying to put him at ease. Blake reminded himself she was a Genner, genetically advanced by the Ossyrians to Level Four, approaching Level Five, more intelligent than he was. Petra also had more emotional intelligence than most Genners. He wondered if she sensed the dark thoughts in his head. The Spiders certainly did; the past few weeks they never left him on his own, one of them even sleeping at the foot of his bed. He patted her arm, the same way he’d patted the spider; Petra was special, one of the few humans he still really cared about. She let go and separated from him, walking towards a doorway which he was sure hadn’t been there earlier.
“Follow me, and don’t look down.”
He should have taken her advice. As soon as he passed through the opening into the ship’s dazzling interior daylight, he had to cross a long and narrow glass bridge. Inevitably his gaze dropped to what was below, and vertigo swept through him. There was no frame of reference but he was sure it was kilometres straight down towards a bubbling mercury lake. Pierre had warned him how vast the ship was, but still…
“Keep your eyes on my shoulders, and you won’t fall.”
She said it like an order, and it worked; he was a soldier, after all. He lifted his gaze and tried to keep in line with her, like he’d learned a lifetime ago in boot camp back in Montana. The bridge twisted slowly in the air. Unfortunately his peripheral vision worked just fine, and he could see that they were slowly rotating, defying gravity. After a hundred metres, he reckoned they were upside down from where they had started.
“Don’t look up, either.”
He did, of course, and sure enough the boiling lake was there, confirming his suspicion about their orientation. Looking ‘down’, he saw a dozen spheres floating or hanging, all different colours, like giant marbles drifting in a pale azure sky. Daring a glance sideways, he couldn’t see the walls of Kalaran’s ship, only a hazy blue with no horizon. He tried to make his jaw relax, and focused on her shoulders as instructed.
He and Petra were half-way to a rust-coloured sphere. From this angle he could see tubes that wound their way vine-like from the hangar behind him, reaching across the ship’s internal sky until they pierced the sphere’s outer shell. Curiosity trumped his nagging nausea, and he sped up, almost treading on Petra’s heels. She didn’t slow down as they neared its metallic surface, and passed straight through it. He hesitated a second, then followed her.
It felt like a veil over his eyes, a small jet of cool air blowing on his skin, and then he was on the inside. He stopped dead. An assortment of creatures were sprawled around the inner surface of the sphere. A few species he recognised, most he did not. But his eyes were drawn to the centre of the sphere. He tried to process the creature he was seeing. Its body reminded him of a sea anemone, fleshy tentacles waving lazily in every direction from a central mass lost in a brown fog. At the end of each undulating tentacle was a mouth that, when opened, revealed a glinting ruby eye. One of those eyes was staring directly at him.
Take your seat.
Petra grabbed his arm, tugged at him.
Blake didn’t move; he needed confirmation. “What did you just say, Petra?”
She flicked her eyes to the anemone. “I didn’t say anything.”
Blake let her lead him along the inner curve of the sphere. They weaved between several alien species he didn’t recognise, each on a clam-shaped recliner, facing the anemone. Blake was looking up and nearly tripped over a brown scaly tail. Ukrull, he thought, the Ranger.
“Manota,” the Ranger said, correcting him, and sure enough he realised it was not Ukrull; the tone of voice was lighter.
“Female,” she confirmed, flicking a manicured claw in the direction of the anemone. “Translator for Kalaran. War Council meeting started. You late.”
He stared at her awhile. The rumour of Rangers being telepathic appeared to be true. When he looked away, Blake was relieved to spy his former mentor, Kilaney, who looked remarkably feisty despite his seventy-two years, a full head of white hair and bushy eyebrows atop smouldering brown eyes. Blake reminded himself that trying to apply age comparisons made little sense anymore. Kilaney was technically seventy-two, but had been killed, then his memories and DNA had been downloaded into a Q’Roth warrior, and only recently had he been restored as ‘mostly human’. Underneath his human skin were a number of Q’Roth organs. Kilaney was allegedly as strong as an ox, and very fast. Added to that, everyone aged more slowly on Esperia, something to do with its weaker sun and more oxygenated atmosphere and benevolent if dry climate. A number of people in their eighties and even nineties still worked Esperantia’s outlying farms every day.
A shimmering, platinum avatar of Pierre was present, too, Blake’s former science officer aboard the original Eden Mission, now half-human, half… well, no one really knew, since Pierre’s nannites had been constantly rearranging his body chemistry for two decades. Yet despite his enhanced Level Ten intelligence, Pierre still had that look of scientific wonder on his face. At least his eyes had become a decent human blue again, and his hair was only partly silver, the original jet black colour reasserting itself. Pierre looked enthralled by the alien menagerie all around him.
Pierre addressed him. “Take a seat, Commander, so far it’s only been introductions.”
“An hour of them,” Kilaney added.
Blake’s former mentor was trying to sit up straight in the clam, but it was clearly meant for a reclining position. Petra nodded to an empty one and Blake climbed in. It had a spongy feel and moulded to his body. Despite lying down, he felt clear-headed. He heard Kilaney grunt and guessed he’d finally settled in. Petra also took her place in an adjacent clam.
“So, how exactly does this work?” Blake asked.
No sooner had he spoken than he found himself sitting in a dark, lozenge-shaped room around a white table with Petra, Kilaney, and Pierre. The walls were opaque and soundproof. Pierre looked more human, more normal, though Blake reminded himself Pierre wasn’t really there.
“This is a construct,” Pierre said. “The actual meeting place is disorienting, and most of it is going to be impossible for you to follow, a lot of it is too much for me, to be honest.”
Petra took control, her prerogative as President.
“But you’re Level Ten, Pierre.”
Pierre’s face had a residual tinge of platinum – he was still undergoing his transformation back to being human – and when he smiled at his daughter, Petra, whom he had only met a month before, cobwebs of tiny silver lines etched around his mouth and eyes.
“Ten is the average level back there. Thankfully, Ukrull is on the Ice Pick and is listening in. He’s translating most of it, though the speed of communication is giving me a headache.”
Blake didn’t want to interrupt. He knew Pierre and Ukrull were off on a secret mission for Kalaran in the Ice Pick, heading towards the outer edge of the galaxy, along with Jen and Dimitri. Pierre momentarily seemed elsewhere, as if someone was talking to him, no doubt Ukrull. Kilaney broke the silence.
“So why the hell are we here, Petra? What possible use can we be in a War Council with aliens far more intelligent than we are? I don’t recall inviting ants into my strategy meetings back on Earth during our little war.”
Blake smiled. Although their ‘little war’ had been horrendous and had almost destroyed Earth, back then he’d always known who he was, what to do, and who the enemy was. His smile faded. Now he and the rest of humanity were caught up in something far beyond their comprehension; legions of aliens warring on behalf of two titanic races, Kalaran on one side, Qorall on the other. Kilaney was right. Blake felt like an ant on the Somme battlefield. He realised Petra was staring at him, about to speak.
“Kalaran said we have a role to play. Us and the Spiders.” She touched Blake’s hand.
Pierre ‘returned’. He looked agitated. “Okay, a lot has just been discussed. Qorall’s new weapon is being used all along the front. They’re discussing combative measures to –”
Blake found he was no longer in the lozenge, but back in the clam on the inner surface of the sphere. He sat up. The others were all still immersed. One of the anemone’s eyes watched him, but he ignored it. On impulse he stood up, and began walking around the inner surface of the sphere. None of the other aliens paid him much attention, except the Ranger Manota, whose yellow eyes flickered once in his direction.
He passed a pack of Ossyrians, mankind’s guardians on Esperia these past eighteen years. The collie-like aliens, in full ceremonial headdress of horizontal bars of gold, garnet and lapis lazuli, were huddled together in a single clam, snouts upright, quicksilver eyes flashing shapes at almost subliminal speed. One of them turned its head towards him. Its eyes stilled. Blake walked on.
Next he came upon a Finchikta; a birdlike upper half atop a forest of centipede-like legs. The third eye on the top of its head opened, a sad pale blue, and watched him independently while the bird’s beak emitted squawks and shrieks.
He stopped dead two metres from a Q’Roth Queen, her swollen, armoured blue-black belly resting on the floor, curling upwards to end in a square head with six blood-red slits serving as eyes, her gash of a mouth open, hissing in the direction of the anemone. A Q’Roth warrior appeared in front of him, barring the way. Blake’s hand automatically slipped to his holster only to find it empty; his pistol hadn’t whisked with him. That figured. The warrior wasn’t armed either, not that it needed to be with those mandible-like upper claws and six-inch thorns along its middle and lower pairs of legs. Blake took another path.
After passing a dozen other alien species too weird even for drug-induced nightmares, his eye snagged on something on the opposite side of the sphere, almost back where he had started. Blake didn’t know if it was one alien or many. A set of pale globes the size of soccer balls were joined together by arm-width purple blood vessels, and each globe had fronds sticking out of it, waving in the air, puffing out short jets of green gas. Blake moved closer. It reminded him of an ancient Greek fable about a woman with a head full of snakes; Medusa. The creature shied away from him, then advanced. Blake didn’t move. There was something unsettling about it…
A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye made him turn. One of the Spiders was walking on a parallel path. Blake recognised him, the friend who had been down with him on the surface. The Spider scuttled along in his usual stop-start manner, which should have attracted attention from the other aliens, but it didn’t. They can’t see him. The Spider passed Manota, but even the Level Fifteen female Ranger seemed oblivious. The Spider’s communication band was a dull brown, when suddenly it flashed a message to Blake. It took Blake a half-second to translate, then he dived to the ground as several of the Medusa’s fronds lashed out, spear-like, to where his head had just been. Blake looked up to see the Q’Roth Queen looming over him, all six eyes blazing. The Medusa withdrew.
“Not safe here, human.” The Q’Roth Queen’s voice was like the rustling of dry leaves; Blake didn’t speak Q’Roth, and assumed the anemone was translating, which should be a two-way process. Good, he’d always wanted to address one.
Blake rose to his feet fast, fire in his veins, confronted by the leader of the race who had culled both humanity and the Spiders. He thought about punching her jaw, knowing he would break his hand in the process. The fact that she might have just saved his life didn’t stop him calling her to account.
“You destroyed my world. Seven billion dead.”
She reared back on her hind legs, her mouth opening slowly like a razor cut.
“One more, then,” she hissed.
One of the central tentacles swung down between them, its eye facing first the Queen, then him. Blake got the message. He looked for his Spider friend but he was gone. On his way back to his clam, Blake pondered what the Spiders’ role in all of this was, and why the other aliens had not seen the one walking in their midst, but no sooner had he laid down than he was back in the lozenge.
He expected them to ask him where he’d been, but they carried on as if he’d never left. Pierre had just finished speaking. He gave Blake a sidelong look. “What do you think, Commander?”
With a shock, Blake realised he knew everything they’d been discussing, though he hadn’t been there. Obviously Kalaran didn’t want them to know he’d been absent. Blake decided to play along. “Sounds good to me, Pierre.”
Petra narrowed her eyes. “You’re sure?”
Kilaney folded his arms, grinning. “Well, why don’t you run it past us again?”
Much to Blake’s surprise and relief, the words poured out of him.
“We’ll take two ships to sector 143-511-873 first thing in the morning. Kilaney will command a Q’Roth Battleship with a complement of Genner Youngbloods. I’ll take a Scintarelli Dart. We’ll join the local forces and try to fend off the Orb en-route for the planet, or failing that, gather as much intel as possible and return here inside the Shrell-wires.
“Good enough for me,” Kilaney said. His avatar vanished.
“So,” Blake said, “an hour for introductions and five minutes for the main agenda?”
Petra’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean five minutes?”
Blake cleared his throat, guessing more time had passed than he’d thought. “Never mind, an old Earth joke.” But even as he smiled and waved a hand dismissively, he wondered if he’d been somewhere else as well as back in the chamber with the other aliens; had Kalaran done something with him, or to him?
Pierre spoke. “The others are leaving. Kalaran suggests we leave last. Quite a few of the alien species registered formal protest at having such low-breds–that is, humans – present. Kilaney is ex-Q’Roth and wanted to have a word with the Queen out there, presumably about borrowing a ship. I have to go in any case, the Ice Pick is almost out of range.” He faced his daughter Petra, and Blake turned aside, trying not to listen to the words spoken in hushed, urgent tones.
When it became quiet, and Pierre’s avatar had left, Blake turned back to Petra. “What really happened here today?”
She inspected her fingernails. “Newly forged allegiances, alliances that will dissolve as soon as the war is over, promises of Upgrade as well as ter
ritories if and when we win and get to pick up the pieces.” She faced him. “Mostly they were here to meet with Kalaran, to know he’s really here and means business, because if he and his Kalarash mate Hellera leave, then most other races won’t even attempt to stand up to Qorall – they’ll pledge allegiance to him.”
“But that’s –”
“Survival.” Her face became stern. “Once you cut through the politics, rivalries and envy, they’re all scared, Blake. We were in quarantine for eighteen years. They’ve watched Qorall’s progress unchecked for that same amount of time, and he already controls half the galaxy. And now there are these damned Orbs…” She folded her arms, and sat back. “They’re also here to see which races might defect; there was an awful lot of posturing out there before you arrived. But the news that Qorall is going to attack the Tla Beth homeworld stunned all of them.” She got up and paced. “Think about it; for two million years the Tla Beth have ruled Grid Society with no serious challenge.” She sat down again, looking older than her years.
“Leadership can do that to you,” he said.
“Do what?”
“You carry too much responsibility, so when you think you’re going to lose, you feel guilty. Doesn’t make any sense, and stops you from being the leader people need.”
Petra leaned back, a thin smile across her lips. “Getting philosophical in your autumn years, Blake?”
He parried the remark, focusing on her again. “How are you doing?”
She laughed. “Try ‘what am I doing?’ I seem to be making this all up as I go along. Want your old job back?”