Eden's Revenge (Eden Paradox Book 3)

by Barry Kirwan

  For the first time in a week, Sister Esma fell asleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  Defenceless

  Blake powered down the skimmer at the edge of Esperantia, dust whipping around him and Zack’s Transpar. They dismounted and walked over to meet with Vasquez and Ramires, neither of whom looked happy. An ebony, dread-locked Genner stood apart. He wore desert-style ultra-light combat fatigues, and rested on one bare foot, the other planted firm on his standing leg’s inner thigh, holding a steel halberd in his right hand, its foot-long curved blade glinting in the afternoon sun. A scarlet, semi-circular maze-like tattoo skirted the boy’s left eye and temple, marking him out as one of Gabriel’s top youngbloods. There was something odd about the blade, the way its edge glimmered even though the young warrior held it perfectly still.

  Vasquez stood rod-straight as usual, his shock of short white hair making him look fitter than his age deserved. Ramires, the last Sentinel, whom Blake had not seen for five years, had greyed, even his moustache, but he still moved like a leopard; you would never hear him coming up behind you. Blake noticed the waist pouch that contained his legendary nanosword. So, it was serious.

  Both men nodded to Blake without indulging in pleasantries. Blake was glad for that. He took command. “Zack said Micah went to the pyramid, but something tells me more is going on.”

  Ramires clicked something in Hremsta to the Youngblood, who lowered his foot to the ground, and turned to face Blake, with a pinched, almost surly expression. Clearly he didn’t want to be there. Ramires clicked faster, almost spitting. The warrior raised his chin.

  “Gabriel, Petra and twelve others have seized the Ossyrian ship,” he said.

  Blake stared from the boy to Ramires, to Vasquez, their looks confirming it. He ground his teeth, trying to remember not to beat up the messenger, who obviously wished he were with Gabriel right now. “To what end?”

  The young man stamped his halberd into the dust. “To defend ourselves, of course! You of all people should understand. I…” He stopped shouting. “We revere you, Commander. All Genners have studied your battle strategies. But you have been absent, and Micah has become a politician. You have all grown soft.” He pointed to the sky. “We believe our enemies are up there. Perhaps they will not even wait until Quarantine comes down. We must seize the advantage.”

  Blake simmered, wondering whether it were true; had they gone soft? He’d not been able to face people after Glenda had slipped away. Nor could he sit in endless Council meetings, debating meaningless minutiae. Micah was welcome to it.

  He addressed the boy. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Marcus,” he said, standing firm, then added his lineage as all Genners had been taught, “of Chris and Mary Ellen Arvine.”

  “I remember your father and mother, a forthright couple if I well recall.” Blake noticed the boy’s shoulders relax a little. “So, tell me, what’s Gabriel’s plan, and what are the rest of you supposed to do now?”

  Marcus glanced sideways at Ramires. Blake knew that Ramires had always been the closest link with the youngbloods, training them in martial arts and mental discipline.

  Ramires addressed the Youngblood. “Marcus, you said you studied Blake’s strategy. Very well. Tell me, what is the quickest way to disable a defence capability?”

  Marcus looked at the dusty ground. “Inner divisions,” he said quietly, dark eyes peering through his dreadlocks, straight at Blake. “Gabriel will take the ship into orbit then disperse Ossyrian genetically-coded mines there and at the edges of the system, neutralising any non-Ossyrian, non-human or non-Genner who enters our space.”

  Vasquez interrupted. “That’s a war crime. Tell me he’s going to post warning beacons, at least?”

  When Marcus didn’t answer, Blake pursued. “The Ossyrians – Chahat-Me – will never agree to this.”

  Ramires shook his head, kicked at the ground. “Petra,” he said. “She has the Ossyrian gene, and knows her way around that ship.”

  Marcus said nothing more.

  A booming, grinding noise caused Blake to turn around. Zack’s Transpar already faced the pyramid, three klicks away, half-way between them and the mountain range. The Ossyrian ship’s vertex had the same apparent height as the Acarian peaks. At first nothing happened, but then the pyramid slowly lifted from the desert floor. Blake heard shouting from the other direction, and had no doubt that people in Esperantia would be watching in disbelief, the massive vessel that had been a landmark for eighteen years finally departing, abandoning them two days early.

  Clouds reflected off the ship’s mirror-like surface as it rose, sand and earth tumbling from its base, forming small dust-clouds, but otherwise no jet engine or obvious source of thrust. Anti-gravity, a trick humanity hadn’t yet learned. Abruptly the sound ceased. The pyramid flushed a deep blue from top to bottom, then began to rotate. When it was a hundred metres from the ground, it became fully transparent, no longer reflective, almost invisible except for a slight rippling of the sky behind it. Blake knew that if he took his eyes off it he would not find it again. Stealth mode. Gabriel and Petra were smart, at least.

  Blake had never trusted the Ossyrians, even though they’d cured Glenda’s cancer and many other illnesses, and never harmed anyone, never interfered in human politics, and never asked for anything. But he couldn’t forgive them for their role in the Genning, in forever dividing human parents from their children. He’d always kept his distance from the dog-like aliens, and a part of him was glad to see them go, captives on their own ship, even if it made humanity more vulnerable. While he didn’t condone Gabriel’s actions, there was a taste of justice about it: you reap what you sow.

  When the pyramid ship could no longer be seen, he turned to Marcus. “So, what are you supposed to do now?”

  Marcus shifted his feet. “We were to take the Q’Roth Hunter vessel into low orbit.” He glared at Ramires.

  Ramires cocked his head to one side. “That’s where Vasquez and I first found Marcus and three others trying to break into the secure area around the ship.”

  For the first time, Blake noticed a light bruising on Ramires’ forearms. The holster clasp on Vasquez’ sidearm was also undone. “The other three are in the infirmary, right?”

  A wry smile cracked under Ramires’ moustache. “Two of them; not the girl, Virginia.” He raised an eyebrow. “She’s very tough, that one.”

  Blake eyed Marcus. “We’ve not gone completely soft, then.”

  Marcus bristled. “Our role was to protect Esperantia and all the Steaders in case of attack. Others were to stay here in case of ground assault.”

  “Goddammit, boy,” Vasquez interrupted, “we don’t even know if anyone is up there. Council has discussed this over and over. The Ossyrians promised –”

  “To leave!” Marcus flared up again. “I know… all Genners know that none of you have forgotten what the Alicians did. And we understand Grid Law, we learned all the rules from the Ossyrian classes in school, about the different Levels, rules of engagement and inter-alien conflict protocol, what a crime is and what the punishment is, all of it. But we also know that there is a war going on out there. So, you tell me, Commander, do people ever play by the rules in a war? And you, Colonel Vasquez, have the Ossyrians left us with any real technology to defend ourselves against a Level Six attack? And you, Ramires, the last living Sentinel, you are sworn to avenge your fallen brothers and sisters. You knew Gabriel’s true father, the ultimate Sentinel assassin, killed by Sister Esma herself. You have trained us since we could walk, to fight, to kill, to defend ourselves. Can you not hear your slain Sentinel brothers and sisters screaming from their graves to act, to take the fight to our enemies?”

  The three older men looked at each other, Zack’s Transpar remaining immobile behind them. Blake couldn’t refute any of it, and wondered why they hadn’t come to the same conclusion. Council was mainly farmers and small-minded politicians, the military sidelined long ago. That was probably why Micah re
signed; his hands were tied behind his back. But Blake realized he should have come back long ago instead of burying himself. He stood straight. “You trained them a little too well, Ramires.”

  Vasquez jerked a thumb behind him towards Esperantia. “The Council –”

  “Irrelevant now,” Blake said. “This community has committed an act of aggression, that’s how the Grid will see it, and they won’t split hairs between Steaders and Genners. These kids – excuse me, Marcus – have made the first move. It’s not the way it should have happened, but it’s done. We need to stand behind them. If there’s no one out there, fine, Council can do what it likes with Gabriel. But if there is anyone waiting, they are sure as hell going to react now, so we’d better be ready.”

  Marcus thumped the end of his halberd into the ground, twice. “Then you will release my colleagues and we will take the Hunter vessel –”

  Blake raised a hand. “I don’t doubt your intentions, nor your courage, Marcus. But we’re not helpless sheep. Gabriel has given us a wake-up call – one we clearly needed – but from here on we work together.”

  Ramires nodded eagerly. “This will only work if you are seen to take the lead, Blake. Maybe we should let Marcus take the vessel?”

  Blake turned and laid a hand on the shoulder of the tall, all-glass shell of his former best friend, who had hardly moved nor said a word during the entire exchange. “Actually, I have a better idea.” He then turned to Ramires. “But first, tell me about the halberd. Is it what I think it is?”

  Vasquez rubbed the stubble on his chin, then smiled. “It’s been our little secret, Blake. What do you think we’ve been working on for the past ten years? I only wish we had a nano-pistol, but we could never get one to work.”

  Ramires nodded to Marcus, and walked a few paces away. “Last time we met the Q’Roth in battle, only my nanosword and Earth’s nukes could kill them.” He dug into one of his pockets, and pulled out a blue-black object. Blake recognized it as a thumb from a Q’Roth claw.

  “A memento from my last encounter with one.” Ramires shrugged off an inquisitive look from Vasquez. “The head was a little too heavy to carry.” He tossed the thumb into the air. In a blur, Marcus flourished the halberd and struck the normally impervious Q’Roth flesh, cleaving it in two with a metallic twang that reverberated in Blake’s ears like a high-pitched gong.

  Blake stared at the halberd. “Sweet.” He could imagine Glenda’s reaction. If she had been there, she would have told Ramires that Blake wanted one. In that moment, he knew why he’d been hiding away with the spiders for so long. It wasn’t just about Glenda. It was about him as a soldier. Soldiers should be able to defend those they care about, fight for what they believe in. But he’d felt their cause was futile; they had nothing to fight back with. Maybe their town would be wiped out from deep space, in which case such a weapon was useless. But in his experience, sooner or later, wars came down to decisive battles, and battles always came down to infantry, to hand-to-hand combat, to staring your enemy in the eye and knowing that one of you had to die. Glenda was right; he damned well wanted one of those weapons.

  Ramires patted Marcus on the shoulder. “You were wrong when you said I was the last Sentinel. You, Marcus, and Gabriel, and all the youngbloods, you are all strong enough, and skilled enough. You are worthy to bear that name.”

  Blake looked up at the sky, wondering how many ships might be waiting for Quarantine to fall. Or there might be no one, the rest of the galaxy too busy or uninterested. But he recalled what his mentor General Bill Kilaney had once told him: “If you don’t prepare for something, you are prepared for nothing.” I hope what I heard is true, my old friend, that you are out there, too. We could use a hand.

  He turned to the other three, who were waiting for him to speak, and moved to one side and gestured for the Transpar to join their circle. As he told them his plan, Blake felt a cold fire he had thought long extinguished ignite in his veins. And as they discussed tactics and scenarios, he sensed a fifth presence, and imagined the touch of Glenda’s hand on his shoulder, happy for him, glad that he was back in the game.

  * * *

  The truce between Gabriel and Micah hadn’t lasted long. Petra had never enjoyed watching men argue.

  Micah shouted, even though Gabriel was right in front of him. “Do you have any idea what the Tla Beth will do afterwards, when they find out you’ve deployed mines? And you’re betraying our only ally!” His hands balled into fists.

  Gabriel’s shoulders tensed. “The Tla Beth are otherwise engaged, Micah. And the Ossyrians were about to become an ex-ally.”

  “Rubbish!” Micah’s fist slammed down onto the top of the console. “Since the previous two back-up missions failed to arrive, Chahat-Me has negotiated a relief squadron of Level Seven Wagramanians to be here in three months, they will install orbital defences. The Alicians and Q’Roth can’t ambush them, they’re too strong, especially now they’re forewarned.”

  “All the more reason our enemies will attack as soon as the Ossyrians leave. From orbit it would take Sister Esma thirty seconds to wipe Esperantia off the face of the planet!”

  “You’re obsessed with that woman. For all we know she’s long dead. She killed your father, and I’m sorry for that, but don’t you think it’s clouding your judgment?”

  “Sharpening it. It’s your judgment that’s clouded, Micah. Why did you really resign as President?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s because you know deep down that we’ve become completely reliant on other races, victims in waiting; sheep, Micah. And you have led us to this point. Your guilt over our situation, our complete inability to act, made you resign.

  Micah turned away from both of them.

  Petra touched Gabriel’s arm. “Don’t be too hard on him, Gabe. We wouldn’t even be having this conversation if it wasn’t for him.”

  Gabriel shrugged off her touch. “Past records don’t always make for current success. It was time for Micah to step aside, and he did. And here we are.”

  Micah spoke softly, still not facing them. “It’s Louise we should be worried about. I’ve seen her in action, Gabriel…”

  Petra tuned out the verbal fencing, watched it from a distance. She’d been expecting Micah to turn on her; after all, she had betrayed his trust. But he hadn’t, except for one long, hard look before he’d embarked on this tirade against Gabriel.

  She wondered if she should have warned Micah. But then Micah would have found some way to tear down their plans, and she believed Gabriel was right – that even if there was a remote chance a hostile force was waiting for Quarantine to come down, then they had to strike first or risk being exterminated in a matter of hours.

  But Gabriel himself was also a reason. He wasn’t hers, but she had made herself important to him, and she was on the ship with him right now, not his girlfriend Virginia, who would be with Marcus in the Hunter. She mentally kicked herself for being so pathetic, so Level Three.

  Petra watched the two men she loved: Micah, the father figure, and Gabriel, beautiful Gabriel, whose arms she longed to feel wrapped around her. But a flicker caught her eye, from a bank of screens showing various chambers where the Ossyrians lay unconscious. Chahat-Me was awake. Petra didn’t see how that was possible. She tapped the console and saw her Ossyrian godmother pacing in the cell, occasionally glancing towards the camera, appearing to look directly at her. Petra felt a little sick; too much betrayal for one day.

  Micah and Gabriel were still arguing. She didn’t need to listen, all the arguments had been played out over and over by Genner discussion groups during the past year; the youngbloods had frequently met intense resistance from other Genner groups. As required by their Genner-optimised process, she’d taken alternative sides during fierce debates in Hremsta, and the answer was always the same: Gabriel’s solution carried least ‘cliff-edge’ risk, least chance of total annihilation. The other Genner factions had accepted the verdict, and despite misgivings, had not warned any of the Steaders
. She took some comfort from that.

  Petra manipulated the controls with practiced ease as they ascended into orbit – they’d made a simulation of the Ossyrian console from hacked schematics and her memories from when Chahat-Me had brought her onto this very bridge at the age of four, along with Kat, her mother. Her thoughts stilled and dwelt on Kat. Petra wondered if her birth-mother would be proud of her, of what she’d become, of who she was, and what she’d decided to do right now.

  Many Genners had grown cool to their parents over the years due to intellectual superiority, though such phrases were never spoken outside of Hremsta. One had even told Petra she was in some ways lucky, that absence made the heart grow fonder. But Petra had always been more emotional than other Genner kids, a trait that had pushed Gabriel away from her, as if she seemed needy. So she’d played the tough girl with her peers, the one with a cutting tongue and sharp nails. If you can’t get love, she’d decided, respect was the next best thing. She hoped her mother would understand.

  “… what about you, Petra? Petra?”

  They were both staring at her. She’d tuned out, but with a mental flick she replayed their entire conversation, analysed it and formed a response. “You’re both wrong.”

  Micah folded his arms. “Which part, exactly?”