by Jay Allan
Under other circumstances he might have been proud, but this was war, and worse, it was a war where the enemy was invisible, making them unusually deadly. The Defiant would likely go down with all hands while trying to cross Sythian Space, and as a nova pilot Alara would be among the first to die.
Kurlin had been racking his brain for hours to come up with a way that he could force Alara’s commanding officers to remove her from the roster. He’d even tried refusing to work if the overlord didn’t have her grounded; right after his trip to the flight deck, he’d gone to the bridge to make that threat in person, but the overlord had simply said, “She wants to be there, Kurlin. And if you don’t work, I’ll have you chipped and you can be my personal boot-licker.”
That had been enough to stop him cold. Something in the overlord’s tone had told him there would be no further argument, but that didn’t mean Kurlin had given up.
Suddenly the computer beeped with an error, and Kurlin sat up to study the screen and see what had gone wrong.
Test access restricted. Sample #59 not tested.
Kurlin frowned and checked his holo pad to see whose sample #59 was. When he saw the name he smirked. Speak of the devlin, he thought. The sample belonged to Supreme Overlord Altarian Dominic.
“Computer, give me details about the restricted test access,” he asked.
“An age test on sample number 59 is not permitted.”
“What? Why not?”
“Answer not available.”
Kurlin frowned. Could the overlord be that vain? No, he shook his head. Dominic already looks like he’s twice his real age. Kurlin didn’t technically need to know the age of each person from their blood, because their age was clearly listed in their files, but the age test involved studying the DNA characteristics of the host’s T cells and how those characteristics changed over time, which coincidentally, his virus would mimic, causing the host to appear older than his apparent age. The further along the virus was, the greater the disparity would become, seeming to age the infected person’s blood. Thus, the easiest way to determine if anyone was still contagious, was to identify unusual disparities in tested age versus real.
Whatever the reason for the restricted test access, he had to know the results. He would just have to test the overlord’s blood sample by hand. Kurlin sighed.
“Eject current sample and test the next one in the queue.”
As soon as the lab computer ejected the overlord’s sample, Kurlin set to work. It was a laborious process using the lab microscope to identify and then count the circular DNA molecules which were a by-product of age. By the time Kurlin had finished, the lab computer was also finished testing the rest of the crew, but Kurlin barely heard it announce, “Testing complete.”
That can’t be right, he thought, staring at the result of his calculations. He ran the numbers he’d tallied on his holo pad through a calculator program in case he’d made a mistake in his head, but it spat out the same number. It can’t be . . . He shook his head and went back to the microscope to count the circular molecules again—only to receive the same result thirty minutes later.
Kurlin sat back from the microscope, his brow furrowed and a frown on his lips. The Overlord’s blood showed he was only 46 years old, but his file said he was 98. Could it be the virus? he wondered. But the virus would have produced the opposite effect, making his blood look older than he actually was. This was something else. Maybe the overlord just has unusually young blood . . . but Kurlin knew better than to second-guess the test result. It was accurate to within a year, and he’d already counted the age markers twice. That left only one possibility—the Overlord was a very old-looking 46 and his file was wrong about him being 98.
Kurlin shook his head. Nobody looks that old at 46. And he could remember the overlord was already in power 46 years ago. Dominic had looked middle-aged at the time. Kurlin had been 20, and still living with his parents on Jopara while he’d studied for his doctorate at the academy.
Maybe it’s my mistake, he thought. Maybe he’d forgotten how to test a person’s age by hand. Just to make sure, Kurlin took a sample of his own blood and ran the same test by hand. Another half an hour later his calculations returned his exact age—66.
Kurlin shook his head and sat back in his chair, shocked. Could the overlord really be 46? How is that possible?
There was only one way it was possible. The overlord in the Imperial records, and the overlord whose sample Kurlin had taken were not the same person. But if that were the case, the overlord’s DNA should not have matched what was in the records. Unless the files have been tampered with . . .
Kurlin remembered that when Brondi had been planning to introduce his virus to the Valiant by infiltrating the ship with a live incubator, they had briefly discussed the what-if’s of their infiltrator being discovered too soon due to discrepancies between what was on file and what they’d actually see if they took a sample of the infiltrator’s blood. They’d discounted that possibility as irrelevant. The chances that someone would take a sample of the infiltrator’s blood before the virus had spread throughout the ship were slim to none.
The virus had worked, but now someone was making Brondi’s identity switch look like an amateurish prank, going so far as to even alter the Imperial records. The one thing tampered records couldn’t fake was age—that had to at least match the apparent age of the person—and the apparent age of a person can be altered with a holoskin, Kurlin mused. No wonder the overlord’s test access was restricted.
So who was the overlord, then? That was the big question. He could be anyone. Kurlin blinked, and he felt his skin begin to crawl with the implications of those conclusions. If the overlord was not really the overlord, then how had he come to replace the man who actually had been? That couldn’t have been achieved easily. Identichips were almost impossible to fake. Unless someone killed the overlord and stole his identichip. Or perhaps the overlord became infected with my virus, and as he lay dying, he set up an imposter to take his place?
Kurlin shook his head. It didn’t really matter who the imposter was or how he’d come to be in that position. The revelation that the overlord was not really the overlord was entirely useless, since they were all about to die anyway.
And my daughter will be first among the dead! Kurlin felt even more enraged now that he realized the man who had bluntly told him no and threatened to have him chipped when he’d asked to have his daughter grounded was not even authorized to be in command.
He’s not even authorized to . . .
Suddenly Kurlin understood the significance of what he’d uncovered. He could save all of their lives and stop the overlord’s mad quest to cross Sythian Space! Kurlin was already halfway out of his chair when he realized that wouldn’t work. Whoever took the overlord’s place as commander of the Defiant would only continue the quest. No officer worth his insignia would leave Dark Space in Brondi’s hands, so a new commander would take over and press on, and Kurlin would hold no sway over whoever he or she was.
The most Kurlin could hope for would be to blackmail the overlord into having his daughter grounded. I could even have her, myself, and my wife sent back to the transfer station with food and supplies enough to last until help comes! He couldn’t save everyone on the Defiant, but he could save his family—finally. Since the day Brondi had come into his office, threatening to kill his wife if he didn’t create a deadly virus, Kurlin had been a slave as surely as if he were chipped, but now his family would be safe, and that was all he’d ever wanted—all he’d ever strived to do since their exodus to Dark Space.
A grin sprang to Kurlin’s face. The imposter would do anything rather than have his secret revealed to the fleet.
Maybe the information was not so useless after all.
Chapter 17
Ethan watched the space gate growing closer and closer, until the swirling blue pool which was the wormhole to SLS was all anyone could see out the forward viewports. Suddenly the bow of the Defiant touc
hed the surface of that pool and it raced along the hull, reaching out to envelop them like a river. Then everything turned to star lines and a bright flash of light marked the transition to the dizzying swirl of SLS. At that, the bridge broke into spontaneous applause, cheering and whistling and turning to clap each other on the back. They’d made it!
Ethan let out a long sigh and his shoulders slumped. He watched the crew celebrate, a small smile tugging at his lips. One system down, one more to go. An SLS timer appeared on the captain’s table. Ethan touched his ear and whispered a command to set his comm piece to intercom mode and amplify his voice across the deck speakers.
“Congratulations! We’ve crossed the first system. Good job, people! The time till we reach Forlax is eleven hours and ten minutes. You can leave your stations to rest, but please wait for the relief crew to arrive, and don’t go too far. If something knocks us out of SLS, I need my best men to be sitting back at their stations before I can even give the order. Dismissed!”
More cheering.
Ethan smiled. Turning to Commander Caldin, he nodded and said, “Care to join me for a drink at Aurora’s?”
Caldin frowned and shook her head. “Don’t you think a celebration would be premature at this point, sir?”
“We both need some down time, Commander. I’m not suggesting we drink anything with alcohol, but we could use a break. The chances that Sythians have laid a trap between Taylon and Forlax are very low, so we should be safe, and I need you to be at your best when we reach Forlax.”
“I think I’d rather stay here, sir. Someone needs to keep an eye on Tova for us,” Caldin said, glancing at the alien.
“Yes . . . she is oddly quiet, isn’t she?”
Caldin acknowledged that with a shrug.
“You’re going to be okay here?” Ethan asked.
She nodded. “Go get some rest, sir.”
Ethan turned to leave. “I’ll be on the comm if you need me.”
Just before Ethan reached the entrance to the bridge, he saw the doors swish open to reveal a familiar tall, cadaverous man. Ethan called out to him as he approached. “Dr. Kurlin!” But as Kurlin drew near, it became apparent that whatever news he had to deliver was not good.
“Hello, overlord,” Kurlin returned, stopping in front of Ethan with a smirk. He crossed his arms and stared meaningfully at Ethan.
Ethan’s eyes narrowed at the old man’s sarcastic tone and the insubordinate look on his face. “If this is about your daughter, I’ve already told you that—”
Kurlin held up a hand to stop him and Ethan’s eyes flashed. As the overlord he couldn’t allow himself to be interrupted like that. “Before you continue,” Kurlin said. “I think we’d better find someplace private to discuss what I’ve just discovered.” The doctor lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and he leaned closer to say, “I know your secret.”
Ethan’s eyes went wide.
Kurlin began nodding, and a smile sprang to his face. “Yes, I can see by your reaction that you know what I mean.”
“Let’s go discuss this in my quarters.”
“Of course,” Kurlin said. “Lead the way.”
* * *
—THE YEAR 0 AE—
Destra tried to put thoughts of leaving Lessie’s son, Dean, to a horrible fate out of her mind as she ran up to the strange, rounded silver ship with no visible viewports or engines. She’d never seen a vessel like this before. Rounding it quickly, she saw that the engines were in the side of the ship, but that changed her perspective and she realized from the shape of the vessel that it was lying on its side, and the engines were really in the back, making the rounded silver part the top. Destra walked around the rounded bottom of the fighter, and then passed a quartet of cylindrical cannons, capped with strange, glowing red barrels. She began to get an overall picture of the vessel, and now she recognized it as a Sythian Shell Fighter. It was the size of a human shuttle, which meant there could be any number of Sythians waiting on board, but the fact that there’d been no reaction as she’d run across the grassy clearing to reach the ship gave her hope.
Destra saw a ramp leading down to the grass just below the shell-shaped top of the fighter. With a flutter of trepidation, she ran up the ramp, grunting with the effort of pushing the hover gurney up the incline. How would she even be able to fly the ship? The controls would be alien, the language would be alien, even the numbers and symbols would be unfamiliar to her.
It will be a miracle if I can fly it to the next system, she thought. It would be an even bigger miracle if the vessel could take her all the way to Dark Space. No human vessel that size would have enough fuel to make it—even travelling on the space lanes—but maybe, just maybe, the Sythians used a more efficient type of fuel.
She had a feeling she was asking for one too many miracles.
Destra reached the top of the ramp and stepped across the threshold of an open door into terrifying blackness. She heard the telltale sizzle of static shields, or their Sythian equivalent, and turned to see the air in the open doorway rippling strangely. Suddenly aware of where she was, Destra ducked down behind the gurney and drew her pistol. She left the man on the gurney at the entrance and began stalking through the alien ship. The corridors were very dark, the air was frigid, and the walls of the ship were cold and very smooth. She detected a faint purple light coming from the walls, but it was almost nothing to see by.
Destra’s heart pounded, and she began to sweat beneath her clothes despite the cold. What if there were Sythians cloaked inside the ship and she ran right into them? But they won’t be cloaked while they’re aboard their own ship, she thought. Who would they be hiding from? Not that it mattered in the low light. Cloaked or not, she wouldn’t see them.
Destra had to use one hand to feel her way along the smooth walls of the corridor to keep from stumbling, while her other held her pistol in a shaky grip. She felt the walls curving strangely, and that was when she realized that the floor was curving, too, driving her against the wall, and making her feel like she was about to fall over. After walking like that for a few moments, the light in the corridor began to increase, and she rounded a bend to see a curving stairway leading up into the light. She climbed it cautiously, until her head popped out into a broad, transparent dome.
Suddenly, the world tipped on its side and she felt sick. To one side she saw the ground, to the other the sky, while above her head and in front of her she saw trees. The ship was turned on its side, and so was she. Somehow the direction of gravity had shifted inside the fighter, and the strangely-curving corridor had actually twisted around a full 90 degrees so that one wall had become the floor, while the other had become the ceiling. As for the dome itself, she hadn’t seen any transparent canopy from the outside, so she assumed it was simulated rather than real.
Climbing the rest of the stairs, Destra emerged inside a broad cockpit with two seats in the middle. She crept up behind the flight chairs, keeping her steps quiet just in case. . . .
But the seats were both empty. Destra’s heart soared. She had a chance. Digger and Lessie had no doubt bought that chance for her with their lives. She holstered her pistol and hurried to sit down in the left flight chair, where there appeared to be a flight yoke of some kind. The chairs were over-large, and the cockpit was strangely dark despite the unbroken, dome-shaped canopy. The light coming in from outside was dim enough to suggest that it was dusk, even though she knew it was still early afternoon.
Destra’s eyes jumped around the control consoles and displays before her. As she’d expected, everything was alien, but she tried not to let it daunt her. She scanned the controls, finding not a solitary button, gauge, or slider. Besides the flight yoke, which was designed for two hands much larger than hers, there were no visible controls whatsoever. Destra felt a crushing weight of despair bow her neck and shoulders. The ship must have been voice activated, and there was no way it would respond to her language.
A quick look at the copilot’s station revea
led the same lack of visible flight controls. Desperate, she tested her hands on the flight yoke. It could move directly up or down, push forward or back, slide left or right, and even twist or tilt, giving her a total of five axes of movement. Destra shook her head, thinking, I just want to take off!
Suddenly the deck rumbled underfoot and the ship began to hum and vibrate. Destra jumped up from the flight chair and drew her pistol to cover the entrance of the cockpit—
But the stairway leading up into the cockpit was dark, and there was nothing there. Her brow furrowed and she sat back down. No Sythians had entered the cockpit without her realizing, so how had the ship started up? She must have done it by accident somehow. Even as Destra watched, the ship began to rise slowly off the ground. Now if only I could go a bit faster, she thought.
The ship’s rate of ascent rapidly increased, and that was when she figured it out.
It’s responding to my thoughts! Destra shook her head in awe. Somehow it didn’t matter that her language and physiology weren’t the same as a Sythian’s. The technology was sophisticated enough to translate her thoughts to action anyway.
Hope soared anew and Destra’s lips parted in a broad grin. She shivered, and her teeth threatened to chatter, reminding her how cold it was inside the ship. Then she thought, I want to raise the temperature and increase the available light. The dusky light coming in through the canopy abruptly brightened to full daylight, and then the ship shuddered and she heard a new sound—this one like the heavy whump of an impact.
Frowning, Destra looked out the left side of the dome-shaped canopy and saw a dwindling black speck on the ground. That speck was firing tiny purple stars up at her from both palms. It was a Sythian. They’d found her. She was running out of time.