Eden's Revenge (Eden Paradox Book 3)

by Barry Kirwan

  Ukrull gave him a long, searching look, growled, and entered his claw into a recess on the console, and pulled hard. Pierre’s vision blurred momentarily then cleared. Sound seemed suppressed, and he had to force himself to keep breathing, his mind fazed. He shook it off, willing his nannites to compensate, and glanced at one of the console indications that registered speed, noting that it was already off-scale.

  Pierre had not felt such strong emotions since the changing, his ‘evolution’. Anger at Hellera for what she had made him feel was submerged by guilt-fuelled rage at himself. How could he have stayed away for so long? Give me pain, Ukrull, bring it down on me. Go faster, warp spacetime as much as you can.

  A headache started, and Pierre felt as if his flesh was being boiled off his skin. But he sat, refusing to move, his jaw clenched shut. Petra – Kat – hang on please, I’m coming! Against the invading silence, Ukrull stood and began to roar, tilting his head back, holding out his right claw, his bass voice shaking Pierre’s bones. Pierre got up and clasped the reptile’s wrist and joined in, venting his sudden outpouring of concern and frustration in a tenor scream of anger, their voices mingling in an unholy choir as the ship ripped through subspace at an unprecedented rate. Pierre’s body began to convulse, but he held on, and everything around him turned blinding white.

  * * *

  Hellera watched them go. She gave the Ice Pick a helping shove, having earlier added a Level Nineteen protective membrane over its hull so the shear stresses of travelling through a hyper-conduit wouldn’t eviscerate the occupants. “Ants,” she thought, though not unkindly. She gazed to the far side of the galaxy, fixing her vision on a spot that was as unremarkable as it was dark, a hidden inter-galactic portal where she had last tracked her former mate. Hurry, Kalaran, or you will be too late.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Distress

  The acrid smell of burnt equipment and flesh woke Micah. He gazed forward blearily towards the jagged, charcoal hole into open space, wide enough to suck out a hovercar, framing a black-suited Petra who manned the console. She worked feverishly within arm’s reach of yawning vacuum, protected by a pink-tinged emergency force field. It shimmered every few seconds, indicating the precariousness of its power supply.

  Everything sounded to Micah as if his head was underwater, a bubbling diffuse noise that only served to make what he saw more surreal. Sparks rained down from shattered, fused equipment. Frayed cords hung and swayed as the ship was rocked by small explosions and decompressions, occasionally touching the force field keeping them all alive, sending electric blue arcs skittering across the gossamer energy skein. Death was knocking, trying to open that door to cold relentless oblivion. One more hit…

  He tried to get up, to move, but nothing happened, the only sensation something trickling from the left side of his mouth down his chin. Gabriel came into view next to Petra, agitated, shouting, waving his arms. Micah swallowed with effort, thought about speaking, gave it up, then looked down. A rod-like chunk of blue ceramic material protruded from his navel. He gripped its smooth surface, slick with his own blood, and dared to pull. It was stuck fast.

  Gabriel came closer, singed hair and blackened tattoo, frowning. He said something but Micah couldn’t untangle the words. A black-haired snout appeared, quicksilver eyes shifting rapidly. Micah placed a listless hand on Chahat-Me’s shoulder and nodded, held his breath. One of her paws morphed into a syringe and pierced his sternum. Gabriel’s palm braced against Micah’s left shoulder as he wrenched the ceramic rod from Micah’s body. Micah’s jaw clamped down on the scream exploding inside him, and he rolled his eyes back into his head, arms shaking, then he dared to look down again. Blood gushed out, but Chahat-Me stemmed it with a paw morphed into a flat disk, generating a rising heat that grew and grew, accompanied by steam tainted with the smell of cauterised flesh. Chahat-Me put something in Micah’s mouth and he bit down hard, his voice finding itself in gasping, spasmodic growls, fists squeezing rhythmically in time with tremors of pain in his abdomen. He glimpsed Petra turn towards him, horror plastered across her face. Gabriel yelled something at her and she turned back to her station.

  Micah tried to move but Chahat-Me’s paw rested firmly on him. From his sternum, where her syringe still penetrated him, a trickle of cool rain fountained through his body, and he slumped back with relief when it reached his head. Gabriel tossed the blue bar aside, said something to Chahat-Me, then moved out of view.

  One of her paws extended something into his right ear. It felt and sounded odd, as if someone was rummaging about inside his head, nudging flesh and bones out of the way. She tugged at something, there was a snap, and suddenly sound flooded in: hisses, alarms, clanks, thuds, and a gushing noise he knew to be the Pyramid’s circulatory self-healing system channelling liquid nannite polymers to bolster and repair damaged areas and equipment. It sounded like it was in full flood. Beneath it he heard not-so-distant cries of agony, some human. Ossyrians called to each other in their high-pitched wails.

  “Are we still behind the moon?” he said. Chahat-Me nodded. Thank God.

  “Make me mobile,” he said. Her eyes quivered, and Micah guessed she had other plans, to put him into stasis, to kill the pain. “I prefer to die awake, fighting.”

  Chahat-Me stood, and he noticed something different about her, she was suited in black, tight around her, the normal headdress replaced by a smooth hood, also black, down around her shoulders. Pierre had once told him that the Ossyrians had originally been violent warmongers until the Tla Beth had tamed them and changed their orientation. Now would be a good time to resurrect those traits.

  Chahat-Me said something to two other Ossyrians, also black-clad, who came over and clamped something to Micah’s forearms, then manoeuvred a rig underneath him, one of them wrapping a thick band of material around his waist. That was when he realised he couldn’t feel his legs.

  They harnessed him into a kind of anti-grav chair. Micah suppressed the worry that he might be paralysed from the waist down, on the basis that their survival prospects were bleak anyway. He needed to get back into the battle. There was a joystick by his right hand and he played with it once the others moved back. Rising from the ground, he lurched around and moved in fits and starts, then more gently as he got the hang of it, and headed towards Petra. She turned as he approached, her face blanching before she set her chin and braved a smile.

  “About time,” she said.

  He remembered why he cared so much for her. “Status,” he said.

  “Like you, Uncle, pretty messed up.” She smiled again, then grew more serious. “Ninety dead including six Genners, 47% of the ship exposed to space, life support functioning in four main areas, 30% of the ship fused and impenetrable. No jump capability, no comms outside local, energy reserves will last a few hours, shields and stealth tech down.”

  Micah turned to Chahat-Me as she joined them. “Weapons?”

  Chahat-Me stared through the hole. Her left paw delved into the plasma console and the ship rotated slowly, accompanied by a shuddering that made Petra grip Micah’s arm for support. Esperia loomed into view, looking equally peaceful and defenceless. Micah spotted the five points of light flashing across the gash of space, inbound to Esperia. Dammit, Gabriel had been so right.

  Gabriel joined them. “We’re dead in the water, Q’Roth Raptors inbound to Esperia, Blake in hot pursuit. From the stealth-sats we launched just before jumping here, we know the Crucible is moving this way, backed up by a Q’Roth Marauder we just detected entering the system. The Crucible is almost certainly here for a clean-up job after whatever it is they plan on Esperia.” He cast Chahat-Me a harsh look. “They won’t leave any survivors.”

  Micah understood Gabriel’s frustration, and his implicit blaming of the Ossyrians for leaving them defenceless. But he also knew Gabriel’s genned instincts would kick in, and decided to nudge them in the right direction.

  “Chahat-Me, do you have nothing else we can use in a fight? You’re Level Eig
ht, Q’Roth are Level Six, there must be something?”

  She stared at the console, then resolutely outside, toward Esperia.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Two Hohash scout ships. One two decks from here. The other one the Genners below could reach. They are in danger. Decompression will come soon.” She showed Gabriel the location of the second Hohash vessel on a schematic, then addressed the human contingent. “You should abandon ship. We Ossyrians will stay.”

  Gabriel clicked in Hremsta through comms to his youngbloods to get to the craft, then paused, facing Chahat-Me, his face softening a little. “I am sorry it has come to this, that you must pay the price as well. Micah, I will check out the nearer craft. Maybe we can do something about the Marauder when it arrives.”

  Micah watched him go, knew it was a long shot; Hohash craft had no weapons capability. Still, he could imagine how hard it must be for a young warrior like Gabriel to be left adrift, far from the battle, waiting to be taken out by a single energy pulse once the Crucible had line-of-sight.

  Something about Chahat-Me wasn’t right. Micah had been surprised about the two Hohash craft, a well-kept secret for the past eighteen years, but that wasn’t the issue right now; the Ossyrians probably considered the Hohash tech too advanced for humans, genned or otherwise. Micah had come to know Chahat-Me’s inflexions, and there was something defiant about the way she had earlier said “Nothing”. He decided to probe.

  “What do Ossyrians do when faced with certain death? Do you have some rituals? Petra is effectively your goddaughter, your Chorana-Wa. You adopted her as part of your family. How do you say goodbye?”

  Petra flicked a hand at his elbow. “Uncle, what do you think you’re doing?”

  Micah stared at Chahat-Me, her snout resolutely pointing outwards, silver eyes quiet.

  He pressed harder. “Apparently you were once fierce warriors, worse than the Q’Roth, before the Tla Beth modified you.”

  Another klaxon burst forth, which Petra quickly silenced. She spoke in a small voice. “I’m sorry Chahat-Me, we just lost emergency shielding in section 12. There were six Ossyrians in that compartment.” She thumped the console. “Just lost comms connection with Esperantia.”

  “Chahat-Me,” Micah pursued, knowing it was unfair, “there must be –”

  Micah found himself shoved backwards in his anti-grav chair against a bulkhead, an Ossyrian paw morphed into a rounded claw squeezing his throat. Chahat-Me’s eyes were unmoving. Her jaw opened, the blue fibres drenched in spittle as he’d never seen before. She spoke, or rather, seethed one word – “Watch!” – as another of her paws syringed into his right temple, and his resident spurred into action.

  In his mind’s eye he saw space littered with broken ships, some defunct, cracked open, alien bodies drifting, a fleet dismembered. Something moved between the ships, like black fireflies – his resident informed him they had been highlighted, as they would not otherwise be seen. One large ship lumbered forward, particle beams lashing out wildly as if trying to swat invisible mosquitoes.

  The image zoomed in on a cluster of the fireflies making their way to the ship. Tight-suited, hooded aliens with something sleek on their backs for propulsion. Each held its gloved paws above its snouted helmet, as if diving, gripping a metallic hemisphere in front. They cored straight through the ship’s hull, into the decks, as half a dozen Q’Roth warriors were sucked out into space. The pack of Ossyrians were wolf-like, feral, working in trios to tear down Q’Roth warriors, spraying a directed mist from their paws that caused Q’Roth flesh to bubble and disintegrate. The Ossyrians always attacked the head first, blinding their opponents. Micah guessed it was a genetic nannite, very aggressive, coded to Q’Roth DNA. The Q’Roth warriors, once attacked, thrashed about wildly, but within seconds their heads were reduced to an ugly, rust-coloured, fizzing and quivering husk. Despite his hatred of the Q’Roth, Micah wanted to turn away. But he couldn’t.

  The onslaught was relentless, and if an Ossyrian was cut down another took its place. The view shifted to a pack in the engine room, then another in the command centre, as coordinated teams sent the ship’s systems into irreversible overload. Just before the detonation, the three Ossyrian packs onboard all suddenly stopped what they were doing and sat, raising their snouts in the air, emitting a piercing choral howl that grated Micah’s skull, seconds before the ship tore itself apart, incinerating all aboard, Ossyrians included.

  Micah was shown land invasions, ground assaults, and witnessed the terrible violence of the Ossyrians. Interjected behind these scenes were short info-spurts, showing how the Ossyrian ‘plague’ as it had been called over fifty thousand years ago, had rampaged across one sector after another.

  Many species had feared these wild creatures, until the Ossyrians’ ‘taming’ by the Tla Beth. High level Grid Council hearings had called for the Ossyrians’ outright extermination. The Tla Beth solution had been clever, gradually assuaging the hatred as the reconfigured doctor-race saved trllions of lives across the Grid.

  The scene shifted, and he saw Ossyrians more like the ones he knew today, doctors, parents with their children, whom he had never seen, schools where young Ossyrians were shown their awful heritage. He hadn’t known Ossyrians could cry. The last images, his resident informed him, were secret, never shown outside Ossyria: scrupulous genetic testing and termination of any embryo or child showing any retroactive tendency toward their more aggressive past. The intrinsically more violent males were genetically bred out of Ossyrian society. That had been a necessary condition for Grid Council’s acceptance of the Tla Beth solution.

  Miach’s resident shut off, and he opened his eyes. Chahat-Me released him, and he manoeuvred his anti-grav chair towards Petra. She studied him, waiting, but he found nothing to say. He held back from pushing Chahat-Me further, feeling he had no right; the Ossyrians had been through too much. Besides, they were all now trapped in a lost cause. What would it gain?

  Gabriel re-entered, booting a pipe leaking yellow bile out of his way. “The rest of the youngbloods have found the Hohash craft on the lower level; they’re inside, awaiting instructions. The one two levels up up is prepped.” He folded his arms, a wry smile on his face. “Well, Micah, you never programmed this in your little simulations, did you? It seems the only option is to wait around and then try some kind of distraction tactic, most probably a suicide run. Even so, I doubt it will affect the overall outcome.”

  Petra stirred, as if she wanted to say something. A frown crossed her face, then evened out. “Gabe, I’m sorry you can’t be with Virginia.”

  Micah stared at her. Why do we do this? Even when there may be minutes left, why don’t we speak the truth?

  Gabriel nodded to her. “Thanks Petra, maybe at least she’ll get to fight them.”

  Misplaced anger boiled up inside Micah. “Gabriel, you know for a Genner you’re –”

  Another klaxon cut him off. Petra was on it. “Another ship has arrived. Two!”

  Gabriel was next to her in a second, and Micah moved back, letting them work together.

  Gabriel called out the intel. “The Q’Roth vessel we detected earlier, Marauder Class, and… a Mannekhi vessel. The Marauder is inbound for Esperia, the Mannekhi Spike-ship is on an intercept with the Crucible.”

  A voice crackled into the air around them. “This is General Bill Kilaney, can anyone hear me?”

  If Micah hadn’t been supported by anti-grav, he would have fallen over. “Bill? Is that you?” He whooped. “My God, you are most seriously welcome here. We’re under attack, Esperantia is –”

  “We’ve got it all Micah, these Mannekhi have damned good scan-tech, I have to say. We’re going to engage the Crucible, we’re too far out to reach the Marauder in time, never mind the Raptors, but watch out, that Q’Roth Marauder is carrying some pretty heavy ordnance. Micah, you need to do something to stall it or else we’ll arrive too late. Got to go, it’s about to get hot here. Godspeed.”

  Micah turned to face Chahat-Me’
s unwavering eyes. “I’m sorry, Chahat-Me, but it has to be done.”

  Gabriel cast a look at Petra, who shrugged.

  He pressed one final time. “We’re out of time, we need to act or you might as well kill your god-daughter yourself in a humane way.”

  “Steady, Micah,” Gabriel said. “What’s going on?”

  Micah said nothing. Chahat-Me brushed past him and stood close to Petra. Two of her paws morphed into a crude approximation of human hands, and took Petra’s small fingers and clasped them. “Forgive me,” Chahat-Me said, then added, “for you, daughter.”

  Still holding Petra’s hands, Chahat-Me leant her head back, raised her snout in the air, and emitted a deafening howl that made Gabriel and Petra flinch, but Micah found himself smiling grimly. The howl continued across a shocked silence for a full minute, before several other Ossyrians entered the Bridge, staring at their leader. Then, one by one they joined in, and Micah heard it elsewhere throughout the ship via the local comms. It lasted another full two minutes before the coordinated howl shut off, leaving a ringing in Micah’s ears.

  “Thank you,” Micah said, and bowed first to Chahat-Me, then the other Ossyrians on the Bridge. She nodded, and they all left.

  Gabriel leant back against the console, a wry smile of his own. “Micah, we Genners hate being out of the loop.”

  Micah explained the Ossyrians’ history. “We’re going to abandon this vessel, and inflict damage on whichever ship comes our way. Petra, use thrusters to get us as close to interception point as possible.”

  She watched him a moment, then began activating controls.

  Micah studied her, knowing that despite this sliver of hope offered by Kilaney’s arrival, their end was likely approaching. Of all people, he knew what it was like to love on a one-way street basis. He turned toward the youngblood leader.

  “One more thing, Gabriel. I need you to do something.”