“Won’t the field be compromised?”
“Temporarily. Dr. Drechsler has assured me that the procedure shouldn’t take more than a few hours. The seer will be re-installed immediately after.”
“No,” Intari snapped. “The prototype is nearing completion. We must practice utmost caution, or all our work might be in vain. Find a replacement immediately and dispose of the faulty component.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And see to it personally this time. Full incineration. Leave no trace.”
* * * * *
The interior of the Sol Conservatory had been transformed into a monotonous scene of dull white, everything from tablecloths to long banners hanging from the glass ceiling sporting the faded emblem of the Terran Republic. Long banquet tables lined the hall in front of the central stage, which was adorned with white roses with bleached white stems. The waiters gliding through the crowd, each holding a silver platter piled high with delicate canapés and luscious petit fours, not only wore the same uniform but were identical in every aspect of their appearance. Clones, the lot of them.
The clanking of silverware on crystal was not a sound Leicester Amorosa favored. Usually it meant that his wife was about to give yet another one of her tiresome speeches. He’d heard them all before, and prepared to tune this one out as he always did. His wife was a woman who had taken to every worthwhile cause – as well as some not so worthwhile – just so she could parade around high society functions in the latest fashionable ensembles.
Not that it bothered him much how she spent her time, or his money for that matter. What bothered him was the ritual of having to argue with her before each and every engagement about whether or not he had to make an appearance. He couldn’t see how his presence mattered to her at all anyway, as she was always too busy gossiping with her coconspirators or berating the service staff to pay him any heed.
He usually wound up alone in a corner, sucking on his cigar, brooding over his next corporate conquest and pretending to listen to the perverse rants of men whose names he could never remember. Amorosa was a man of great repute, the President of MAier Industries, an enormous conglomerate that held numerous contracts with the Terran military.
“There’s no such thing as too young,” chortled an elderly man who had the face of an ostrich and the cackling laugh of a chicken. “The madam arranged a twin set for me the other day,” he continued. “What a thrill that was. I felt like I was back in my school days.”
“I wouldn’t think you to have the stamina for such sport,” sniggered a wrinkled old man with eyebrows so bushy they nearly covered his eyes.
“That’s why they invented Stim-X,” scoffed the ostrich. “At our age you might need a blood transfusion afterwards, but it’s a price I’m only too happy to pay.”
“Leicester,” prompted the man with the oversized eyebrows, drawing him out of his daydreaming. “When are you going to introduce yourself to the madam?”
“Oh… I’m not really interested,” Leicester sighed. He had heard this diatribe countless times before.
“Don’t tell me that wife of yours still gets the old juices flowing,” laughed the ostrich. “Mine’s as dry as a wheat field on New Io. Not that I’d stick my prick in her if she wasn’t, the old cow!”
Leicester was disgusted. He didn’t always get along with his wife. Matter of fact, they got on less and less over the years. Still, there had always been at least a modicum of respect between them. He simply lacked the libido of his youth, and even then he’d never been one to chase skirts. He saw it as a weakness, one that made simpering fools out of giants, and he was determined to continue being a giant, at least in the business sense. He feigned a smile as he leaned back, drawing on his cigar.
“It’s time,” came a voice, one that didn’t seem to originate from anywhere in particular.
“Time for what?” he gasped, drawing a startled look from the ostrich and the eyebrows.
“What was that, Leicester?” the ostrich mumbled, somewhat nervously.
“It’s time for you to see the fruits of your investment,” the voice said, quite calmly, and Leicester realized it was ringing inside his head. A telepathic projection! That could mean only one thing: Division 6.
“Now?” he whispered, unsure whether the unseen speaker could even hear him, wherever or whoever he might be.
The ostrich and the eyebrows scurried off, taken aback by his strange behavior. He scanned the banquet hall hurriedly for any signs that he was being watched.
“Yes. Now.” the voice confirmed, and Leicester took note of a well-groomed waiter near the central podium, a blond, gentle looking young man who was staring at him intently while pouring a glass of champagne for Mrs. Orkin, wife of Curtis Orkin, a VP of Aeon Astronautics, his chief competitor.
“What about my wife? She will notice if I’m not…” he began to mutter, only to realize the fallacy of his own words. His wife probably wouldn’t notice if he choked on his cigar right then and there. At least not until after the party. And she still hadn’t even finished the first half of her torrid speech!
“Your wife will be looked after Mr. Amorosa,” the voice assured him. “As far as she’ll remember, she had a little too much to drink and you took her home, put her to bed and kissed her good night.”
“Don’t overdo it,” Leicester hissed. “I haven’t kissed my wife in years, at least not in private.”
“As you wish, Mr. Amorosa. If you would be so kind as to proceed through to the rear third-storey balcony, there will be a hovercraft waiting to take you to a discrete shuttle port.”
“Offworld?” Leicester snapped, a bit too loud for comfort. “No one said anything about going offworld.”
“Mr. Amorosa,” the voice said in a condescending tone. “Matters like these require the utmost discretion. You are about to change the world, after all.”
“Of course,” Leicester gave in. “My apologies. I’ll go at once.”
“Wise choice. You won’t regret it.”
Chapter 8
After four days of constant feasting, Marcus was beginning to hope that Lo’Mock would soon draw to a close. Despite the lighthearted company, exotic cuisine and a never-ending stream of wine and music, Marcus was more accustomed to spending his time in silent thought, and constant bustle was wearing on him. During the last two days, the winds had changed, with a strong wind approaching from the ocean, bringing with it the scent of the fresh sea air and flocks of flying turquoise creatures with orange beaks soaring overhead.
Marcus had enjoyed following a few of the Golan tribesmen as they journeyed out a short distance from the settlement and hunted the birdlike creatures with slings and stones. They were unlike any bird Marcus had ever seen though, more reptilian, with membranous wings stretched between a pair of spindly appendages. They had massive beaks, almost as large as their bulbous bodies.
Although he had initially assumed that, due to their sheer size, the Golan would not be the most dexterous of creatures, he was quickly proven wrong as the first hunter hit his target dead on. As they returned when the day was nearing dusk, carrying over a dozen each of the colorful prey strung together by their spindly appendages, Marcus had to admit that their hunting skills vastly exceeded his own, despite his carbine’s superior range.
As the hunting party reached the outlying areas of Lo’Mock they began to see that something was amiss. Everywhere they looked, fires had been left unattended in their hearths, meat still simmering on grills, and there wasn’t a single Golan in sight. Nearing the central bonfire, they heard the distant voices of the tribes through the wind, stamping their feet on the ground and chanting what Marcus assumed were prayers. Marcus hurried after the tribesmen as they dropped their prey to the ground and ran hurriedly towards the shore, shouting praise to the darkened skies above.
On a large stretch of grass overlooking the ocean, thousands of Golan had gathered in a wide arch, waving their hands in unison, rising and falling like the waves on the shore
. Marcus quickly spotted his squadmates near the edge of the gathering, staring intently at the billowing storm cloud looming eerily overhead. Serena’s long, silky smooth dark hair flowed in the wind as she peered worriedly around in anticipation of what was to come.
Marcus quickly joined the others, not far from where Jakunu stood nervously at the forefront of his tribe, his son Hanasi next to him, trying his best to remain calm. As the chanting began to increase in fervor, most of the Golan fell to their knees, all but the Chieftains and their champions.
“Is this it?” Marcus shouted above the chorus of deep droning voices around him.
“It looks that way! The Tengri’s scanners picked up a ship entering the system a few minutes ago. The Golan seemed to know before we did, although how is anyone’s guess!” Serena shouted, her voice barely breaking through the wall of sound enveloping them.
All around them, Marcus saw the heavily-laden bags of Je’eela leaves, ready to be offered to the approaching gods.
“Marcus, ready your weapon!” Captain Mitchell bellowed. “We have no idea what to expect, so be prepared!”
Marcus sternly nodded his agreement. If these ‘gods’ were, as it seemed, an alien species with malicious intentions towards the Golan tribesfolk, Marcus wanted to be ready to face them.
The chanting was reaching an almost deafening height. The tribesmen held their arms high in the air, swaying back and forth with the strong wind. Marcus’ eyes were drawn to the sky, where the thick, billowing clouds appeared to be merging, forming a deep, dark center right above the beach. They appeared almost magical in the low light, the stark contrast of pitch-black and pure white clouds – as if they were being illuminated from above – simply breathtaking. A roaring thunderclap preceded a bright flash of lightning amidst the densest cloud above, followed shortly by a brilliant bolt striking the sea a short distance from the worshiping tribes.
Marcus couldn’t help but feel stunned by the spectacular display. Even though he’d been warned of the ship’s approach, he was beginning to doubt that these were in fact aliens. If they were, their level of technology had to be far greater than he could ever imagine. He couldn’t fault the Golans’ belief that these were in fact the gods coming to visit them. If he’d been born among them, he would have been mesmerized by far less.
The tribes didn’t waver, increasing the pitch of their worship to prove to the gods that they were worthy of their presence. Suddenly, the clouds began to part. The outlines of a strange alien craft began to emerge, half shrouded in mist. All the Golan fell silent at the awe inspiring sight, even the Chieftains and their champions collapsing to their knees in silent reverence.
The ship was massive, several times larger than the Tengri and easily capable of holding hundreds, perhaps even thousands of passengers. From what Marcus could see of it through the whirling clouds, the ship’s shape was utterly unlike anything manufactured by Terrans, or even the Nyari: semi-circular at the stern, its two long flanks merging into a vicious point at the prow, like a dagger cleaving through the clouds as it descended above the throng. Its surface was coated in a shimmering metal that seemed to change hues depending on the angle it was viewed from, first black, then blue, then grey, sleek and hauntingly beautiful to behold, yet lightly tarnished from the rigors of space travel.
The crackling energy he’d taken for lightning was being emitted from the ship’s underbelly, and made the hairs on Marcus’ neck stand on end and sent shivers down his spine. Bright azure waves caressed the ship’s hull, periodically igniting the atmosphere around it, producing popping sounds audible despite the wind of its approach. Slowly the ship began to slow its descent until it hovered in place a mere dozen meters or so above the crowd.
The sound of escaping air could be heard as a portion of the hull began to detach, a blinding white light shining through the cracks. The platform was about the size of the Barracuda, the squad’s old dropship, nearly thirty meters in length and ten or so in width, slowly approaching the ground like an elevator, but with no visible mechanics or means of propulsion. Three shadowy figures stood poised in its center, surrounded by halos of light that made it impossible to make out anything but their basic shape. As the lights started to fade, Marcus’ eyes began to adjust, until finally he was able to see them clearly.
He had never seen anything so alien. Not the Golan, not the shriekers that had killed most of his squad on New Io, not even the clawed skeletons of the crew of the crashed ship that had brought a menagerie of monsters to the helpless moon. Although upright they were roughly as tall and broad as Terrans, with two arms and a head atop an emaciated humanoid torso, they weren’t bipedal at all. The lower part of their body was more akin to that of a snake, a slithering tail flowing from their torso, glistening as if it were covered in a glistening leathery hide. Their orange skin darkened along their tails to a yellowish brown, but on their torsos the skin was stretched so taut over the ridged bone-like protrusions below their chest that Marcus could easily count their ribs, eight in all on each side. Their arms were oddly humanoid, muscular and wiry, ending in three elongated fingers with sharp claws.
Their heads towered over the rest of their bodies, with a forehead that ran up into a majestic flattened crest of curved bone, with jet-black eyes set in deep cavities along the side of their heads. They had no visible mouths, nor ears for that matter. Not even a nose. Instead, a fleshy membrane covered a short triangular snout. Each of the three wore a metallic canister on its back, on which green neon lights blinked on and off in random fashion. Pipes and wires protruded directly from the aliens’ flesh, connecting them to the devices.
None of the Terrans knew how to react. The trembling Serena was obviously more unnerved than the others, and she began to back away from the alien gods, her lip quivering as she tried to overcome her fear.
“Nikilosi ja ya ju’ungusi,” a thundering, raspy voice boomed from the platform, one of the figures throwing its arms out as if to embrace the kneeling Golan. “Ono vago juko umo natalo vaguna mugijasi.”
It wasn’t clear to Marcus how they were able to produce the sounds, but the membrane at the front of their snouts seemed to be vibrating back and forth.
“He’s welcoming them as his children,” Serena interpreted, shouting over the gale winds and the droning sound of the spaceship hovering above, trying in vain to keep her hair from blowing in front of her eyes, but seeming much calmer with something to focus on. “He says they are ready to receive their offerings.”
“Screw it,” Mitchell bellowed, striding forth defiantly, the motorized brace on his knee whirring with each step.
He pushed and shoved his way through the kneeling tribesmen, resulting in a number of astonished glares.
“Oh almighty alien gods,” the captain hollered, not bothering to hide his disbelief, the sarcasm in his tone evident. “Will you hear us?”
Realizing the captain’s need for interpretation, Serena reluctantly gathered herself and stepped forward. Marcus accompanied her through the throng of bewildered Golan, who seemed startled that they would be willing to risk speaking to the gods out of turn. Serena came to a halt next to the captain, who was being fixed by what could only be a judgmental glare by the ‘gods’. Marcus placed his hand on her shoulder for reassurance as she quailed at the sight of the aliens.
“Ungavi ju’ungusi, ono nidugi ja’ugo vaki ye nujula!” Serena shouted, her feeble voice cracking, barely making its way to the platform.
“Naksi aru tana kaälle kurite Gaian?” The voice boomed again, the god on the left slithering forward towards them.
“I don’t understand what he’s saying,” Serena said, turning a concerned eye towards the captain. “It’s not in the Golan language.”
“U nayo noku luvanuko vave,” she shouted towards the alien gods.
“Vave gashu huno vago juko higo Gaian. Ga’ouna livo ye yanludli lumivuka. Vave latongo nusu!” the alien god replied in a thundering voice.
Serena looked at her datapad, trying
to decipher the god’s words.
“He says we should not be here. I don’t understand it all. Something about it being… protected, I think, and he demands that we leave, immediately.”
“Well what the he... tell him we’re stuck here. That we’d gladly leave if we could,” Captain Mitchell ordered, eyeing each of the aliens in turn suspiciously. Marcus winced.
“Ono livo liagi. Ono doshu huno latongo. Onoguna luhunek doshu huno lunjuko. Doshu vave la’udo?” Serena stuttered, trying to explain with her limited understanding of the Golan language, her task made all the harder by the relentless wind.
The three figures turned to one another for council, seemingly taken aback by Serena’s words. After a brief moment of hushed words between them, the aliens turned once more to the Terrans and spoke in eerie unison.
“Nuduko umo vaguna luhunek. Muvile nuduko umo Ga’ouna an ono gashu masuko vave umo Semeh’yone.”
“I… I think they want us to return to the Tengri. If we promise not to come back, they’ll help us. They’ll pull us to… I don’t understand the last word,” Serena told them, skimming through the notes on her datapad.
“I don’t think we have much of a choice,” the captain muttered. “Tell them we accept.”
“Captain,” Marcus interjected. “What about the Golan?”
“What about them?” Mitchell barked, shooting Marcus a stern glance.
“These beings are taking advantage of them. We have to stand up for them.”
“Can you not see the huge spaceship hovering above you, Grey?” the captain snapped. “They could probably vaporize us in an instant if they wanted to. I say we thank our lucky stars and keep our mouths shut. That means you too.”
“But…” Marcus began to argue.
“That’s an order Corporal!” Captain Mitchell warned him.
Merillian: 2 (Locus Origin) Page 5