by Barry Kirwan
“He’s no longer Blake, Petra. He’s a rabid dog. Back home we shot rabid dogs.”
“Not going to happen. We need a cure for this type of rabies, or else we’ll all be infected sooner or later.”
Kilaney turned his back on his erstwhile protégé and friend, blocking her view. “I’m no use here, Petra, not to him, not to you. I’m heading back out.” He pursed his lips. “There are battles to be fought, and –”
“How long have we got till one of Qorall’s Orbs arrives?”
He leant back against the glass. Petra winced as Blake became animated again, pounding the glass wall right behind Kilaney, his punches sounding like soft footsteps. Kilaney stayed where he was. She didn’t know if he could feel it or not, but she reckoned he could.
“There’s one traversing space at high transit speed, heading in our direction. It’s already bypassed several sectors, which is unusual – Qorall doesn’t normally leave any gaps in his advancing front.”
“So, how long?”
“It isn’t like the others. It’s black, for one thing. We think it’s been designed to get through the Shrell wires.”
Petra snatched at a glimmer of hope. “The Shrell, could they –”
He shook his head in a way that told her they’d already tried and paid a heavy price.
She waited, lips pressed tight.
“A week at most,” he said. “I’ll be back before then.”
Petra felt like slumping, but she didn’t. The pounding ceased. Blake stood directly behind Kilaney so she couldn’t see him at all. “No word from Kalaran?”
Kilaney shook his head. “Hellera is still in contact, though.”
Petra stared at the floor. For some reason, nobody trusted Hellera as much as they trusted Kalaran, which wasn’t much in the first place.
“Go,” she said, wishing she, too were a soldier and could go with him. But as he moved past her she laid a hand on his arm, and he paused.
“None of us want to become like this.” She nodded her head toward the glass. “If it comes to it, if Council decides, and gives the order… You understand me, don’t you?”
“Understood, Madam President. But I doubt they will. Most likely Council will let individuals decide for themselves, and given human nature, that means if we’re overcome we’ll end up swelling Qorall’s ranks.”
“We will of course abide by what they say, though I already know my personal choice.”
“As do I.” Kilaney took a hard stare at Blake, then looked away.
She retracted her hand, and Kilaney stepped through the airlock. Petra returned to her vigil, watching Blake stare at her. She sensed his contempt – bordering on disgust – for the infidel he believed her to be, and wondered how she might reach him, all the time knowing there was no way she could. She’d already talked to him for hours, trying every counter-conditioning technique in the book, and a few Genner ones, too. It was no longer Blake, that much was clear, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to accept it. Despite being a Genner and having no truck with amorphous concepts like souls, she wondered if, deep down, there was some vestige of the real Blake, wounded, aware of his state and screaming to get out. She almost hoped not, because for him this would be hell.
With that thought, she turned and headed to another compartment where the Ngank – a squid-like creature who never seemed to touch the floor – was communicating with the three remaining Ossyrians doctors.
“He’s all yours,” she said.
They barely paid her attention, so she spun around and left the vessel through the same airlock as Kilaney. Outside in the bright sunshine, on the dusty main street of Esperantia, she breathed in the dry air, picking up traces of lavender, one of the few Earth plants that flourished in Esperia’s cool sunlight. She had work to do, a meeting with Vasquez and the militia to prepare, futile as she knew their defences would be. One week. Not enough time. She left and proceeded at a brisk pace to her office.
Brandt intercepted her. “Petra, we need to talk.”
She knew what he wanted. “Not now,” she said, and tried to out-pace him, pointless given his gargantuan size.
He blocked her path, though remaining at arm’s reach. “Petra, you need to listen to me.”
After two attempts to walk past him, she stopped, folding her arms. “Then how about ‘Madam President’, for starters?”
“That title doesn’t mean anything to us Genners, and you know it.” But he lowered his gaze.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have voted for me.” But he looked hurt, in a way she thought only very large men could. “Well, go ahead, I’m listening.” But her anger from the last two days boiled over. “On second thought, you listen, Brandt.” She pointed back to the egg-ship. “I told Blake to go and do something and make it count. Have you seen him? Have you seen what they did to him? What they’ll do to us in a week’s time? Genners, Steaders, it won’t make a damn of difference.”
Brandt lowered his voice. “The Youngbloods are not going to wait.”
Petra couldn’t believe it. “They want to go and fight the Orb and die early, is that it? Then they’ll be in the front line attacking us. Even Steaders aren’t that stupid!”
Brandt shook his head. “They want to evacuate, Petra.”
She thought she’d heard it wrong. “What?” The anger fled from her voice. “Where to?” It didn’t make sense. The Youngbloods were warriors at heart; surely if anything they’d want to stay and fight. Petra realised she’d been spending so much time looking after the Steader population that she’d lost touch with her own people.
“Come to my office, Brandt, you’d better fill me in.”
An hour later, Brandt had left, and she sat in her utilitarian alabaster office that was bereft of ornamentation, not even a pad lying on the antique oak table, the last of its kind. It had served four Presidents in eighteen years. She didn’t see how there would be a fifth.
Vasquez sat on the other side of the table, frowning. “Evacuate? Where to?”
She told him the plan, and the reasoning, while gazing out the window, past the curve of the Dome to the cracked sky beyond. She ran through it quickly, summarising, because she didn’t like it, despite its logic, due to a ‘gut feel’, something they’d all believed had been bred out of Genners. Brandt and the other Youngblood warriors had run the calcs. Qorall was coming for the Spiders, and even if Hellera could hold him off, humanity was likely to get torched in the process. Several Ossyrian vessels were going to pass by the system in a matter of days. They’d recently lost their homeworld and were going to fall back to a proto-world a hundred and fifty sectors away. They had room on their ships, a lot of room...
“What about Micah and the others?”
“If they succeed, we can send a message via the Hohash, and Shiva can rendezvous with us.”
Vasquez stroked his stubble. “I don’t know about this, Petra…”
She got up, then perched on her desk. “Tell me about it. But part of me wonders why I didn’t think of it, or why no one else in Council has raised it.”
“Kalaran and Hellera are two reasons. They’re relying on us, though none of us truly understands why. And for the past eighteen years this ball of rock has been our home. We ran away before, Petra, the Steaders don’t want to run again. And the Spiders are still here. And so is Blake. That’s five reasons.”
“Five reasons to stay here and die? Not a compelling business case, Colonel.” Petra felt like the galaxy was closing in on her, the Shrell-wires a trap rather than a protective cage.
Vasquez stood tall, despite his years. “Call the Council. Put it to them.”
She nodded, then something occurred to her. “The Spider’s shield around Shimsha. You were trying to break through.”
“No way we can, and we still don’t know what it’s for. Which is why I’m here, Petra. Three Spiders emerged an hour ago, I followed them here.”
Petra was on her feet. “Where…? Blake?” She was out the door before Vasquez an
swered.
She walked fast to the ivory egg-ship, Vasquez a little way behind, as always maintaining his composure; she remembered Blake once joking with her that no one had actually seen Vasquez run, because when he did, it was too fast. As President, Petra knew she should also maintain a certain level of decorum, so she maintained a steady pace. Up ahead she saw a small group of people who had set up some chairs and a couple of tables in the forecourt nearest the Ngank surgeon’s ship. Various religious groups were holding a vigil for Blake, some on their knees, palms clasped together in prayer. Petra doubted any of them knew Blake personally; this was symbolic, for everyone’s survival. She’d never been religious, but right now she’d take any help she could get. Her heart pounded – what if the Spiders could cure him? To hell with decorum; she broke into a run.
A single Ossyrian sat at the hexagonal airlock entrance, its jet-black mane flowing out from underneath a platinum, sapphire and emerald headdress. Petra could read their shifting mercurial eyes a little, having learned from her godmother Chahat-Me. The Ossyrians and the Ngank surgeon had exhausted all options. She braced herself for what she might find inside.
The Ngank, two Ossyrians, and two Spiders crowded at the quarantine cell observation window. Vasquez had said there were three Spiders. She nudged politely in – the Ngank obliged by floating above one of the Spiders – and saw the third Spider through an inner airlock portal; it was about to enter. Blake sat motionless, staring at one of the Spiders next to her. The Spider began to stream light towards Blake, trying to reach him.
Vasquez arrived and took up a place directly behind her, and brought her up to date.
“The Ossyrians said it probably won’t work, as the change has done something to his eyesight; he can’t see colours anymore. Still, it’s worth a try.”
Petra ground her teeth together. That bastard Qorall thought of everything. Of course he did, she chided herself – he’s Level Nineteen. And she’d heard that the Spiders weren’t the only species communicating by colour. But she also considered that it ran deeper than that: in order to change the way people think, you have to change how they perceive. As if to prove her point, Blake looked away from the Spider, momentarily caught her eye with a grim smile, then turned to face the airlock. A sense of panic gripped Petra.
“No!” she shouted. But there was a hiss. “I said –”
The Ossyrian to her left placed a paw on her arm, something Chahat-Me used to do when she’d wanted a younger Petra to be quiet. Out of respect for her deceased Ossyrian godmother, Petra shut up, despite guessing what would come next.
The hatch between Blake and the Spider opened. With a sinking feeling, she noticed a slightly darker pear-shaped patch on its left rear leg; it was one of Blake’s friends, the one she’d seen most often with him. She folded her arms, as if holding herself. Please, Blake… She felt Vasquez’ hand on her shoulder. Normally she’d have shrugged it off, but for once she didn’t.
The Spider ambled into Blake’s chamber. Its comms band rippled a soothing aquamarine. Blake was a statue. Around her, everyone else remained completely still.
Blake moved so fast, almost a blur, one moment sitting, the next a ball of fury attacking the Spider with fists and feet and elbows and teeth. The Spider made no response, not even defensive reflexes kicking in. One of its legs collapsed as Blake’s foot shattered a knee-joint, and Blake’s rigid golden fingers drove into the Spider’s comms band like blades, again and again, until blue liquid spurted out. Petra’s breathing was frantic, no one else seemed to be reacting like her, except that Vasquez held her shoulders firm. One of her knuckles went to her mouth and she bit hard as she watched Blake gouge and tear his best friend to pieces.
It lasted five minutes – she never once closed her eyes to it – before the Spider was on the ground, still twitching, but almost certainly dead. Blake’s arms dripped blue gore. He stood, facing away from them, surveying his handiwork. Now Petra understood how Kilaney had felt earlier. She wanted to shoot this abomination, right here, right now. But she channelled her anger in another direction, as she turned around.
“Well, what was the point of that? We all knew what was going to happen, didn’t we?”
The Ngank drifted down level with her face. It had two pink holes she assumed were eyes, and a spout on its face she hoped was a mouth. It surprised her by speaking English.
“Experiment successful.”
For the second time that day, the anger inside Petra reached boiling point. “Are you out of your mind? He just tore his best friend to pieces. What kind of sick success is that?” She turned to the Ossyrians. “What is wrong with you all?”
Vasquez raised a hand. “Petra –”
“What? Since you seem to get it, Colonel, please explain it to me. In which galaxy does what I’ve just had to witness count as success?”
He pursed his lips, and took his time, presumably waiting for her to calm down, to listen. She didn’t want to hear whatever he had to say, but his tactic worked, and she recovered a little. She spoke in a quieter voice, regaining some composure.
“Tell me, Colonel.”
“What colour is the Spider, Petra?”
She stared at him as if he’d asked some ridiculously banal question, then spun around to the glass. It was black. Not gold. So far, every single being of any race that had been touched by one of Qorall’s minions had been contaminated and turned in seconds, ending up gold like Blake, like the Orbs. Until now.
“How?” she asked.
The Ngank came close to her again. “Unknown. But breakthrough. Must prepare for autopsy.” It drifted away, then came back. “Apologies for harm.”
“I understand,” she said, her voice quieter.
The Ossyrians and the Ngank disappeared into an adjacent room with the two remaining Spiders. Vasquez stood silently behind her. She stayed facing the glass. Blake still stared at the corpse, so she couldn’t see his face. She turned to Vasquez. He held out a handkerchief. She stared at it and then remembered, and wiped the blood off her chin.
“Thank you, Colonel, I’m sorry for my behaviour just now. To be honest I don’t feel fit to be President anymore. I’m too involved in all of this, I can’t step back. Could you –”
“Nothing to apologise for. What we all just witnessed was… harrowing. You expressed what I felt. And no, we need a President who is involved, frankly, and your judgement and decisions have been sound so far.” He smiled. “Besides, I’m not averse to some theatrics every now and again.”
His smile infected her. “I can see why Blake had you as his right-hand man.” Her smile faded. “Please call an Emergency Council meeting in an hour in the Dome, ask Brandt to address Council with his evacuation proposal.”
“Will we see you at the Meeting?”
“I’ll be there.” She stopped him near the exit with a question. “Why doesn’t Blake turn around?”
Vasquez shook his head. “He’s gone, Petra, there’s nothing left of him in there.”
Vasquez quit the observation chamber. Alone, she returned to stare at the scene. Vasquez was right. If the autopsy was successful, they could terminate Blake – this zombie – and bury the man who had died inside it several days ago. Out of pure frustration, Petra walked up to the glass and punched it hard with her left hand, hurting her knuckles. She was about to walk away when Blake turned his head slightly, as if listening, then turned back again. She thought she noticed something. Yet it couldn’t be; a trick of the light, perhaps, but she had to be certain. She called to the Ossyrians. One of them came in, its quicksilver eyes displaying more than a little irritation.
“Show me the view from that camera.” She pointed to a camera located inside the cell, high up on the opposite wall.
The Ossyrian’s eyes glittered dissatisfaction.
“Just do it!”
The Ossyrian moved to a console and activated a screen. Petra moved towards it. The Ossyrian was about to depart when it stopped, staring at the view of Blake’s face.
It called to the others, but before they arrived Petra barged in front of the display. She gripped the screen with both hands.
Blake’s golden face was splattered with drying blue blood and pieces of gore, some of the Spider’s fur matted to his chin. His expression was still as grim as it had been earlier, full of spite and hatred. But his cheeks showed unmistakeable streaks where tears had run, and his eyes were red.
As the Ngank arrived she seized two of its tentacles. “Blake’s not lost,” she cried. “He’s still in there!”
The Spiders entered, and everyone moved out of their way so they could see the display. Petra’s pulse quickened. She knew in that moment that whatever Council decided – even if it voted for evacuation – she wasn’t going anywhere. She’d put Blake on this course of action, and was determined to get him back or else die trying.
She lifted her wristcom to her mouth, and was about to call Vasquez, when she changed her mind.
“Kilaney… Bill, I need you back here. Blake… he’s still buried in there.”
There was a pause.
“I’m on my way.”
As the Ossyrians and the Ngank used robot arms to extract the Spider’s corpse, the other two Spiders stood on either side of Petra, watching the operation. Without thinking about it, she rested a palm on each one, and patted them.
Micah hadn’t slept in two days straight. Vashta had given him something to keep him going, but it made him edgy and gave everything around him a slightly yellow tinge. She’d told him to take half an hour off the Bridge, so he sat in his quarters on the bed, his back against the wall, contemplating his next move now that Ramires and Ash had been taken. Clearly Plan F was called for, but he needed to be sure, and he needed to be focused. He wasn’t, and he knew why.
He recalled an event some years earlier that led to him resign as President, an event he’d never told anyone about. He’d bumped into Sandy – an event in itself since she’d managed to avoid him for a long time – and they’d actually talked. She hadn’t had much choice, as her son Gabriel, a mere boy then, had been seriously injured in a training bout, and Ramires had been away. Micah had gone to the hospital to see the boy, bringing one of the Ossyrian doctors with him, and Micah and Sandy ended up sharing an empty waiting room while the doctor performed emergency surgery.