Eden's Revenge (Eden Paradox Book 3)

by Barry Kirwan

  Micah stroked his chin. “We can’t have that much bad luck, Antonia.”

  Once he left, foreboding flooded in. What if Antonia was right? He needed to see Blake. But then he also needed to see the Ossyrians. They alone had sensors reaching outside the quarantine barrier, and they alone could call for reinforcements. They might be pacifists, but they were Level Eight, two notches higher than the Q’Roth and three above the Alicians.

  He headed into the centre of town, wondering how he was going to set up a meeting with them. For the past nine months as the end of Quarantine approached, excepting a couple of medical emergencies due to farming accidents, the Ossyrians had eschewed all human contact.

  Micah heard the shouting before he arrived in the square in front of the Council Chamber, the only place where daffodils grew in the Esperian Spring, genetically modified by the Genners to survive the winter’s acidic blue snows. The yelling rose in pitch, and he broke into a trot. Rounding the corner he saw the Transpar – Zack – holding the wrist of a farmer Micah barely knew. Erik Fornasson, his resident reminded him, a wizened man with wild grey hair like a scouring pad, framing hollow cheeks and blazing eyes. Fornasson pounded the transparent man made of alien glass with his free fist and his dusty boots, to no avail. Micah slowed to a brisk pace, cutting through the growing crowd of bemused and angry people.

  Micah caught the eye of an approaching khaki-uniformed constable and then stepped into the zone surrounding the grappling pair.

  Zack had been Micah’s friend, and Blake’s best friend, and had sworn vengeance on Louise after her last attack, but had been the first casualty of their trial by the Tla Beth. He was no longer human, instead a cipher made of flow-glass, but with enough of Zack’s memories that his wife Sonja would rather have him than nothing. Most of the community shunned Zack and pitied Sonja, and nobody talked to him except the original team who’d been out in the Grid: himself, Sandy, and Blake. Micah hadn’t seen him for over a year.

  Fornasson spied Micah. “Hey, get him the hell off me. I have rights, don’t I?”

  Micah considered it for a moment. Two more constables arrived, taking up the rear. “Release him, Zack. That’s an order.” He had no jurisdiction over Zack, but he hoped the military style of his command would have an impact; the original Zack had been a soldier all his life. With an inward shiver Micah realized Zack had not aged in any appreciable sense in eighteen years.

  The head of glass swivelled in Micah’s direction, eyes crystal clear like an ice sculpture. He regarded Micah for a second then opened the hand holding Fornasson. The farmer made a fuss of rubbing his wrist and glaring at the Transpar.

  “Now, if nobody minds, I’ll get back to my animals, they need milking, and –”

  “A couple of questions first, please.” Micah barred his way, as the constables moved a measured distance behind the farmer. He noticed other farmers, friends of Fornasson most likely, edge towards the front of the crowd. Several had their staffs with them. They stood tall, outnumbering Micah and the constables three to one.

  Fornasson puffed out his chest. “I don’t have to answer any questions from you, Mr. President. In fact, I heard you resigned last night, so I’ll be on my way.” But he remained where he was.

  Micah nodded absently. He addressed the small crowd, focusing on the farmers. “Four spiders were burned to death yesterday in their home in Shimsha. It was arson.”

  People shuffled, murmured to each other. A few of Fornasson’s friends glanced to him, then to one other. Fornasson glared. The embers of hatred evident in his eyes and the lack of surprise told Micah all he needed to know.

  Fornasson glowered. “Can’t say I’m too upset about that. More than a few of my cattle have disappeared through the years.”

  It was true. Micah had pressed Blake on the issue but had never gotten a satisfactory answer. But equating the sentient spiders to cattle spoke volumes about how Fornasson viewed humanity’s alien neighbours. Micah turned to Zack, who hadn’t budged a millimetre since releasing the farmer. “Why did you seize this man?”

  Zack answered in a voice that tinkled like wind chimes. It was pleasant on the ears, but Micah missed Zack’s booming baritone. “Forensic evidence: spider DNA strands, fuel oil residue on his palms, smoke particles in his hair consistent with the crime scene, psychological profile and reactions since capture.”

  Micah didn’t know Zack’s capabilities; nobody did, not even Sonja, who wouldn’t tell if she did. He had no doubt that Zack was right, but the crowd wouldn’t see it that way, and there was due legal process to be followed; Micah’s process, in fact.

  “Mr. Fornasson, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to accompany these constables to the police station.”

  A young farmer stepped forward, planting his staff in the ground. “Erik is right. You are no longer President. And these spiders – why should we care if they had an accident and a few of them died? What did they ever do for us?”

  In part Micah sympathised with the latter argument. Over the years he’d entreated Blake and Glenda to work to bring the communities together. But the spiders didn’t trust humans. Whether it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, or an accurate judgment of human characteristics, was moot right now. Micah was amazed they had all gotten this far without incident.

  “As a citizen, and on behalf of Captain Blake Alexander,” Micah said, knowing that most citizens still held Blake in high regard, “I’d like to ask the constables to question this man and the Transpar.” There, that should do it.

  “No.” Zack’s gaze locked onto Fornasson.

  “Zack,” Micah started, but didn’t get time to finish. The nannites in his brain shifted gear to quick-mode to take it all in. The young farmer swung his staff upwards to strike at Zack’s groin. Another farmer behind Fornasson took out a short pulse pistol from his pocket. A third, seeing the constables distracted, let his weapon – a stun rod – drop into the palm of his hand. Zack moved like a blur, the young farmer’s staff finding empty air until Zack’s hand sliced through it, chopping it in two. Zack sank to the ground, his right leg stretching out horizontally behind him at calf level as he spun around, sweeping both farmers off their feet, snatching the pistol out of the second farmer’s hand in mid-air. Zack rose again, and with a flourish of his fingers flicked a globule of his own glass flesh at the third farmer’s forehead, then returned to exactly where he’d been, in time to seize Fornasson’s wrist before the man had time to move away. The two farmers hit the ground with a thump. Micah’s resident flashed “1.1 seconds” in his left eye.

  The young farmer was on the ground, staff snapped in two, the other farmer, pistol-less, rolled into the dust clutching a mangled hand. The third wavered as if stung, as his weapon dropped from his limp hand to the floor. A small coin-sized glass disk adhered momentarily to his forehead. As it fell off, the man collapsed onto all fours, the disk rolling in the dust towards Zack’s foot where it was re-absorbed. Zack passed the pistol to one of the constables. It had been crushed beyond repair. The constable took it gingerly, his eyes wide, staring at the Transpar.

  The crowd caught up with these lightning-fast events, shuffling backwards. Two of the constables dragged the unconscious farmer away, confiscating his illegal stun rod. But the peace didn’t last. Other farmers helped up their comrades, then as one advanced on Zack.

  Shouting and arm-waving resumed, farmers jostling with the two remaining constables to release Fornasson from Zack’s grip. Micah knew the time for reasoning, always short with a mob, had passed. Not for the first time, he witnessed fear overtake people’s rational minds as they fought against the Transpar, something alien, ignoring the man buried deep inside who had fought so hard and sacrificed everything to save them. The crowd grew larger, which in Micah’s experience rarely improved the situation. Against his better judgment, nannites poured into his hands and feet, increasing their tensile strength tenfold. Zack’s crystal head pivoted in Micah’s direction. Micah wondered how much Zack sensed.


  The whine of a transport sled screeching to a halt interrupted the melee. The crowd broke apart, those at the front craning their necks to see who had arrived. Micah watched the two Ossyrians dismount from their hover-chariot.

  People turned to see the pure black faces like Alsatian dogs, Pharaonic head-dresses of horizontal gold, jet and lapis lazuli stripes, and dazzling white knee-length tunics concealing black furry limbs.

  The Ossyrians, Level Eight doctors who had eradicated every ailment from cancer to the common cold, had ministered to the populace whenever in dire need. All diseases had been purged permanently, to the point where Ossyrian appearances had become a rarity. One walked with a dancer’s gait up to Fornasson. It lifted a scanning device that swept invisible waves up and down the farmer’s body. The Ossyrian placed a paw on Fornasson’s chest. The farmer tried to back away but Zack held him firm. From the Ossyrian’s limb a needle emerged and punctured the man’s sternum. No blood appeared. Fornasson became still. So did everyone else.

  The Ossyrian opened his jaw, revealing the mesh of pale blue fibres within. A few in the crowd placed their hands over their ears again, as the voice emanated like a choir of fingernails scratching down a chalkboard.

  “Did you kill the spiders?”

  Fornasson’s body shuddered as if due to an internal struggle, then became calm. “Yes.”

  Again the grating voice. “Did you have help?”

  Fornasson’s body was almost as still as Zack’s. “No.”

  The syringe retracted and the Ossyrian lowered his paw.

  “Wait,” Micah said. He walked up to Fornasson, who looked groggy, as if waking from a dream, his calm features crumpling into a frown as he realized what he’d just confessed.

  “Fornasson,” Micah said, keeping anger out of his voice. “Erik. Why? Why did you do it?”

  The man’s features twisted and curled, and he turned sideways and spat on the floor. “It’s just a matter of time. A few cattle, a few people go missing. We’re on their world, Micah. You and Blake brought us here, thinking it was empty, but it wasn’t. Sooner or later, it’ll be us or them. Any sane person can see what’s coming.”

  Micah turned to the Ossyrian. He had to move on, because he knew that even the more rational people around him had at one time or another wondered the same thing. Hell, even he had. “What happens now?”

  The Ossyrian uttered a squeal that made Micah and everyone else flinch, and the Transpar led an unresisting Fornasson to the sled, the farmers backing away, heads down, few meeting the eyes of their comrade. Anger and resentment were one thing, apparently, pre-meditated murder another.

  The Ossyrian addressed Micah. “You are also coming with us. You are responsible for your people.”

  Micah’s eyes widened a fraction, then he nodded. “Of course.” He addressed the crowd. “Go home, all of you.” Then he added to the farmers. “I’ll see Erik Fornasson gets fair treatment.” Without waiting for a reaction, because he had no idea if he could deliver on that promise, he called to Zack. “Tell Blake what happened, where we’re going.” He’d almost forgotten. “And tell him Kilaney is coming.”

  The Transpar stared at Micah.

  The crowd shuffled backwards as Micah and the Ossyrian boarded the sled. He stood next to Fornasson, who scowled.

  “You should’ve stayed out of this, Mr. ex-President. Your time is over. You led us to this point, you and your damned liberalism, and were about to walk away. Well, now you can’t.” He looked Micah in the eye. “You’re an analyst, as we’ve all heard before. So, I know I’ve committed a crime, and I’ll pay, but you, you can trace it all the way back to its causes.” He looked forward again. “Might not like what you find – who you find – if you do.”

  Micah dismissed the idea. Long ago he’d learned the difference between a cause and a contributory factor, and the role of individual choice in separating the two. However, there was a trace of guilt, though not for this crime. “You’re mostly wrong, Fornasson. What I should have done, as an analyst, is seen this coming.”

  Zack appeared next to Micah so silenty it made him start. “Bill Kilaney?”

  Micah nodded. The Transpar’s face was like a child’s, completely innocent. Without another word the Transpar turned and started walking towards Hazzard’s Ridge.

  The Ossyrian sled lifted knee-height off the ground and thrummed through the streets, the cool morning breeze brushing against Micah’s cheeks. Once outside Esperantia, the crystal pyramid gleamed up ahead in the distance. Despite the circumstances, Micah smiled. It had been a long time since he’d been inside the Ossyrian ship.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw something charging up the hill to his right, a trail of dust behind it. It was the Transpar, running. God it was fast! Micah smiled again. Go, Zack, go! He wished he could be there to see Blake’s face when he heard the news.

  Chapter Seven

  Supernova

  Pierre’s father had often told him the smart ones hide right out in the open. Still, where they were about to go was hard for him to accept, even with his Level Ten intelligence rating. Sitting next to the reptilian Ranger Ukrull in their cramped craft that smelled like a swamp, he stared through the front viewer, his nannites adjusting to the glare so he didn’t have to squint.

  “You’re sure about this?” he asked, knowing there was really no need for the question, for two reasons. First Ukrull, at Level Fifteen, had a kind of telepathy, advanced neurological scanning senses that could detect and process thought patterns from an array of stimuli. Second, Ukrull was always sure. Still, Pierre had never seen the inside of a supernova before, and felt the occasion merited the question, even if he knew Ukrull would not deign to answer. Telepaths didn’t appreciate rhetoric.

  The blaze of raw power in front of them across the entire spectrum screamed at any normal being to run like hell, whether intelligent or simply endowed with basic survival instincts. Pierre hadn’t felt anything like fear for a long time, but he had to admit this situation had his full attention. Ukrull, however, didn’t even acknowledge the question with so much as a grunt. Instead he kicked a control and their ship lunged forward into the hidden homeworld of the Tla Beth.

  As they slipped though the cauldron’s edge of the slowly exploding star the ship’s scanner blanked, unable to process brightness on such a scale. This time Ukrull grunted. “Fix later.”

  Pierre had asked him years ago why he didn’t have a bigger, better ship. The Ice Pick, as Ukrull referred to his stubby vessel, effectively his home for more than ten thousand years, wasn’t top of the range by Grid standards. Ukrull had gone unusually quiet, and his scaly tail had for once stopped thrashing. “Acquired second-hand. Gift. Don’t make like used to.”

  Ukrull had never revealed who the gift was from. The ship’s hull creaked despite the null field around it, made the grinding whine of an animal in pain, and shuddered. The Ice Pick had to be Tla Beth tech, Level 17.

  “Eighteen,” Ukrull corrected.

  Pierre turned to stare at his mud-coloured, amber-eyed reptilian companion, whose upper incisors curled down his lower jaw like mini-tusks. Level Eighteen were a mystery, confirmed extinct. The Kalarash, having nurtured them for millions of years, had suddenly and inexplicably wiped them out. Pierre wondered how old Ukrull really was. He didn’t believe telepaths were beyond telling lies.

  The screen stuttered awake again, and Pierre felt a jolt. They had landed. On what he had no idea, because all he saw forward was a uniform purple sky.

  “Outside,” Ukrull stated, as he nudged the airlock control, adding, even before Pierre thought his question, “Safe.”

  In many respects it was the inverse of a Dyson Sphere. Humanity had long ago conceived the idea of constructing a sphere of immense diameter around a small star, creating a self-contained world within the Dyson shell, with infinite energy supply. The Tla Beth had gone one stage further and built a home inside a dying sun. He knew that two billion years ago the war between the Kalarash and Q
orall had involved using stars as weapons, so perhaps they had developed counter-measures, maybe involving phase-shifting – Pierre could only guess. Still, superlatives failed him. He gazed upwards towards the reflective shield, indigo in colour, shading their inner asteroid-sized planet in permanent twilight. He had no idea how it worked, but as a defence it was ingenious; even star-breaker weapons were unpredictable against a supernova, and Nova bombs would be a self-evident waste of time and energy.

  The ground was smooth as glass. With each step its marbled yellows and greys swirled, as if the floor was alive, reacting to him. He intuited what it meant. The entire surface was receptive, recording and processing everything. Ukrull had once told Pierre that the highest intelligence was pure perception, though Pierre found that difficult to accept. But evidently the Tla Beth placed a high value on data and information.

  He’d expected a grand city, at least some spires and exotic aerial vehicles. The Tla Beth were legendary in Gridlore, and also mysterious, leading to many fables and artistic renditions of a fantastic crystal metropolis in golden skies where they might live. But after half an hour of walking, something he relished after being cooped up in the Ice Pick for months, he had seen no structures whatsoever.

  “Tla Beth energy creatures, phase-shifters. Can live, function, hide in Transpace. Self-sustaining. Entire planet tech. Planet has Makers. If need, supply. Power no problem here,” he said, flicking a claw skywards.

  Pierre filled in the rest: the inner core of the small ‘planet’ must include exotic matter, so the ‘Makers’ could fabricate anything – ships, weapons. The planet would then shrink very slightly, as matter was converted during the process, and local gravity would be updated. No, he thought, the Tla Beth themselves were probably tolerant of massive gravitic shifts – it wouldn’t matter to them. He gazed down at the whorls around his feet and understood. The flooring was creating local gravity for him and Ukrull. It represented yet another defence mechanism against uninvited invaders.