by Barry Kirwan
A few deep breaths weren’t enough to recover. He felt dizzy, and lay down on his back, unsure if he’d be able to get up again. The Hohash shook violently, a chunk of its mirror face fallen onto the floor, a web of fractures smothering most of its face. The missile’s tone had risen to a screech, and its skin was covered with elliptical, accusing eyes. He kept his forefinger on the deadman’s trigger, and gathered himself. If he let go, the device would explode – not a nova-level detonation by any means, but enough to do some serious damage.
White light flashed into the room, and when it washed away, the neutralized missile was gone, he presumed back to normal space. He rested the device on his stomach, and rolled his head to see the Hohash. For a fraction of a second he thought he saw an ivory and gold eye staring back at him through the shards; most likely a radiation-induced hallucination.
The Hohash rested on the floor, wavering like he’d never seen one do. At least it had stopped shaking. The interior lighting returned to normal. Gabriel struggled to his feet, and went over to the console. Screens were working again, even if the images were scratchy. But they seemed more complex than before, and as he tried to lay in a course of jumps, there was a fog in his mind – he couldn’t remember how to do it. He addressed the Hohash, tapping its frame gently. “You know where I want to go, right?”
Gabriel staggered to the exit portal, his left hand holding the device, his right arm hanging limp by his side. Blue, ivory and gold reflections played on the exit before him, but he was too tired to turn around. “Jump,” he said, “quick as you can.”
As everything turned quicksilver, signifying the first of a series of mini-jumps, he recalled Sandy telling him that he had an aunt, Jennifer, who had disappeared with the last Kalarash before his birth. He’d have liked to have met this woman, even once, to hear more about his father. He wondered where she was, and found himself feeling an unfamiliar emotion – he hoped that wherever she was, whatever she was doing, she was well. The feeling spread out to all he’d known, not only his Genner youngbloods and his family, but all the Steaders, too. So, Micah, this is what it is like to be a ‘normal’ human. Gabriel knew for a fact Steaders didn’t feel like that all the time, but still. Maybe Blake was right, Micah, you sacrificed a lot when you agreed on our upgrade.
But he focused on the task at hand, clutching the detonator, though he could barely stand. Sister Esma, I have something for you.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Breach
Kilaney was the only one not sweating, yet he knew the Mannekhi tolerated heat better than humans. The Ngank surgeon had said he’d made some refinements, and Kilaney once again wondered what else he had inherited from his former Q’Roth physiology.
“We’re losing this!” he shouted above the din of successive energy pulses thudding then sizzling across their battered spherical hull, the Mannekhi shields close to failing. A distant explosion signified the loss of yet another of the ship’s spikes. The stocky lieutenant with jet-black hair, Fentra, glared at him, then she and the eleven other crew-members on the Bridge turned to their Captain.
Xenic sat tall and stern-faced, his all-black eyes somehow darker than the others, never shifting from the battle-screen. He addressed his navigator. “Siltern, remember Astravia III?”
Siltern’s head jerked back as if stung then nodded and dipped to his console.
“Suits, everyone,” Xenic commanded, though he didn’t move from his chair.
Kilaney saw from one of the screens that their own energy pulse weapons had breached a section of the Crucible’s hull, but it wasn’t significant, a few square metres, barely a body blow.
Fentra tossed him one of the deep blue suits. “You suffocate, we suffocate, remember?”
Feeling bad about the bloodworms, he struggled into the self-sealing suit. Fentra sighed and came over to help him with some unfamiliar connections. “Don’t get ideas. You’re a dead man as soon as this is over.”
He made up his mind there and then, just as another thunderous boom told him they were running out of time. Reaching inside his suit he pulled out a rack of small vials. Breaking them off one by one he handed them to each of the crew, Fentra last.
He forced a smile. “You don’t think the Q’Roth developed an antidote for bloodworms? We’ve had it for three months. I made up this batch before you woke. It’s not refined. You’ll feel pain if I die, but you’ll live.”
Fentra stared at the vial and then looked to Xenic. Without hesitation the Commander pressed it to his neck. A short hiss issued the contents into his bloodstream. The others followed, including Fentra.
She whipped out her pistol, shoving it up underneath Kilaney’s chin. “How fast does it work?”
“Fentra!” Xenic said.
Kilaney held her gaze. “Immediately, though I haven’t verified it personally.”
She rammed the muzzle up higher, lifting Kilaney’s chin.
“Fentra!” Xenic stood, donning his suit.
She stared into Kilaney’s eyes, her lips curling downwards into a grimace. “Quattrail Vortex, five years ago, you led the assault, Jorann. My mother and brother’s Spiker was destroyed, but they made it to an escape pod just in time, as did dozens of others. Your forces – your command – blasted every last one of them. Do you know what it’s like to die in space, oxygen ripped from your body, your blood boiling in your veins?”
He did. How could he forget? “Go ahead, you deserve revenge. I’d pull the trigger if I were you. I’ll make it easier for you.” He closed his eyes.
Fentra’s heavy breathing competed with the thuds and crashes from the deck just below. The Bridge would be next.
Siltern interrupted. “Ready.”
Xenic shouted. “Helmets, everybody. Fentra, decide now!”
Kilaney felt the gun barrel’s warm nozzle leave his throat as a helmet was rammed into his stomach. Opening his eyes, he watched her don hers, never taking her sight from him. He sealed his own helmet, hearing Xenic’s voice clear as day.
“Spike 17 everybody. Run!”
“Follow me,” Fentra said, as she turned and bolted from the Bridge, grabbing a heavy duty weapon as she passed the rack, as did the others. Kilaney had only his pulse pistol.
Sprinting along twisting corridors, he didn’t turn around to see the stuttering detonation that made his ears ring; it could only have come from the bridge. There was a flash of silver that caught him mid-step: a close-quarter jump! The Spiker’s auxiliary control system had executed Siltern’s command and jumped into the Crucible, Spike 17 pricking its hull through the breach made earlier. It was going to be tight. Kilaney sped up, weapon drawn.
* * *
Sister Esma’s claw smashed into the battery officer’s neck. There was a gurgling noise as the Alician slumped to the floor. She moved above him, her boot finishing him off with a sickening crunch. The rest of the crew first stared at her, then their consoles; all except Serena and the lone Q’Roth warrior.
“We’ve been boarded,” Sister Esma said with an air of disgust. She addressed the Q’Roth warrior. “Kah-Reich, you’d better go and make sure the cutter finishes its job, the Mannekhi are headed to the auxiliary control centre. Serena, go check our precious cargo in case these insurgents get curious.”
Kah-Reich’s scarlet cloak whirled behind him. Serena checked her pistol’s charge as she broke into a trot to catch up with the Q’Roth Commander.
Sister Esma turned to her communications officer, nudging the corpse with her boot. “Get this off my Bridge. And then get me our relief ship, we cannot jump shackled like this to a Spiker.” She almost spat the word; she despised the treacherous Mannekhi, they had no honour. Hopefully they would all be eliminated during the war, used by Qorall as cannon fodder on his front lines.
As the Alician body was dragged away, Sister Esma re-took her command seat, her back to her crew. “I need a new weapons officer.” She was gratified that there was no hesitation as one of her crew took the station.
“You have one, Your Eminence.”
Lorena; she recognised her voice, young and ambitious. “Am I correct in presuming that Louise’s Nova bombs have not reached their target?” It was a rhetorical question; they would all have seen the flash and red afterglow had one gotten through.
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
Sister Esma wondered if the new girl’s talent matched her ambition. “Recommendation?”
There was a pause. “Esperantia is on the other side of the planet, but only by a few hours. I can triangulate its position and send three Leveller missiles on a parabolic vector. They will incinerate everything within a hundred kilometre radius. We’ll be in range in fifteen minutes.”
“Do it.”
Sister Esma sat back. Things weren’t going to plan, but it was always about resolution, seeing it through. Everything else, the setbacks, the trials and tribulations would soon be forgotten by history. The aura of success belonged to those who delivered. In theory she could leave the Crucible, take a Raptor out through the Shrell mesh to meet the Q’Roth back-up ship. But this was also about leadership, and the annals of history always saluted those who stood there at the final, decisive moment. One day, after the war, this particular slice of history would no longer be secret, and the galaxy would congratulate the Alicians for purging yet another weed from its Society. But it wasn’t about ego, certainly not about her own reputation per se. It was about placing her Alician flock in good stead, a solid reputation in Grid Society. Future Grid leaders – whoever they may be – would know that the Alicians could be relied upon to get the job done.
The moon flickered, the planet-cutter pulsing black and blue tendrils boiling its flesh, nearing the point where it would disintegrate and turn into a hailstorm falling towards Esperia. That would take another hour, by which time she’d be gone. So, the missiles would kill the remnants of humanity, and then the moonrock would bury them forever. Sister Esma would leave nothing to chance this time, and could inform the Q’Roth queen that the human embarrassment had been exterminated once and for all.
Esperia: such a vain name, tempting fate. To her it was a blatant admission of inherent weakness that a race must rely on hope rather than its own resources and strengths. Intelligence and firepower trumped wishful thinking any day. Fourteen minutes, and humanity’s entire sorry history would be reduced to ashes, and nobody would weep for them.
* * *
Kilaney and the other Mannekhi advanced steadily in combat mode through the corridors. At each junction in the dark green maze one of them would bolt to the far side, weapon raised, then signal to the others it was clear, then charge to the next junction. It was Russian roulette; eventually one of them would be fired upon. It came to his turn. He didn’t hesitate, despite his foreboding. But he hadn’t gotten more than a metre past the corner when he caught sight of a dark blur in his peripheral vision. Instinctively he dived into a roll, firing toward the enemy. Something thwacked into his left thigh, spinning him wildly and sending him sprawling into the wall.
Light erupted all around him, accompanied by a sound like a jet engine, as six Mannekhi burst into the opening using fire-cannons. Shielding his eyes with his forearm, he watched Xenic, Fentra, Siltern and three others hefting heavy guns, spewing white hot plasma-fire down the corridor. Abruptly the beams shut off, leaving a ringing in his ears. Only Xenic and Fentra were still upright. Siltern and three more bodies were on the ground, the tell-tale grey and red feathers of Q’Roth flechette darts protruding from their bodies. One stuck out of Kilaney’s leg, but the toxin had not been released, he presumed because the dart sensed his Q’Roth DNA. Down the other end of the corridor he saw a mass of collapsing blue-black flesh torn open, revealing smoking organs the colour of red hot coals, the warrior’s carcass twitching despite its head having been split open. It was a beautiful sight.
The cannons hummed, liquid fire dripping from their nozzles, oozing onto the floor into sizzling white-hot puddles. He’d not seen this weapon before, but then he hadn’t been in close combat with Mannekhi for years.
Xenic offered him a hand. “The auxiliary control room is this way.”
Kilaney got to his feet, limping, and looked down at the metal dart sticking out of his thigh. Fentra grasped it and yanked it out. He winced but held in a gasp of pain, convinced she had twisted it.
He moved on to his game plan. “The humans they brought aboard, those you picked up on your sensors.”
Xenic nodded to the Mannekhi crew. “The rest of you are with me, we take out the planet-breaker control centre. Fentra, go with him.”
“There’ll be more Q’Roth the closer you get,” Kilaney warned.
Xenic headed down the corridor, followed by his crew, “That’s the idea,” he said.
Kilaney watched them go. He turned to Fentra.
She nodded at Siltern’s dead body, the cannon lying next to him on the floor. “It’s yours if you want it.”
He bent low and reverently unpeeled Siltern’ fingers from the trigger arm. Kilaney heaved the strap over his shoulder, and followed Fentra down a different corridor.
As they rounded a bend they came face-to-face with a lone blonde woman, arms folded, seemingly unarmed.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the woman said, a faint smile across her lips, as if asking the time of day.
Kilaney’s human instincts not to shoot a woman in cold blood overran his Q’Roth ones to kill her on sight on the grounds she was probably Alician. Maybe she was human, a prisoner from the planet. But then…
Her eyes fixed on Kilaney, narrowing slightly, even as Fentra levelled her pistol, her own mind obviously made up. Fentra’s shot found empty air as the woman whirled out of the way like a dervish, two paces to the left of where she had been, her own pistol drawn, the smile gone.
He heard Fentra fall and tried to turn, but instead dropped to his knees, then hit the floor, his head facing his fallen comrade. Smoke rose from his chest, and he knew the smell of burning flesh well enough. Fentra had a fist-sized cylindrical hole where her heart should have been. Her eyes stared at him, their black light fading. She flicked her eyes once in the direction of the other woman, then closed them.
Kilaney didn’t move, trying to work out why he wasn’t dead. The Ngank surgeon had said something about human physiology being so fragile – no redundancy, too many single critical organs. Q’Roth had two hearts, the main one and a secondary one. The surgeon had said he’d made refinements…
The Alician woman was clearly as fast as she was accurate. He heard her walk half-way towards them then raise her arm. Kilaney had fallen on his cannon, but his pulse pistol was still in his hand. He made an effort not to blink, even though the effects of initial shock were wearing off and pain began to intrude. Holding his breath, he listened to her voice, using his Q’Roth combat training to gauge the required angle of fire without turning his head or moving his upper body. The pain helped him concentrate. With his right hand he slowly angled this pistol, hearing her relaxed tone. He knew he’d get just one shot. Kilaney focused on her voice.
“Sister Esma, the threat is eliminated down here at my end. One Mannekhi and a human. I’m heading back to help the Q’Roth defend –”
Kilaney fired. He tilted his head and checked, content to see a blackened hole in the centre of her forehead, a look of surprise on her face, her weapon half-raised. Always aim for the head, he used to tell Blake; smaller target, but definitive. She toppled to the floor.
“Serena?” the woman’s wristcom crackled.
Kilaney knew that voice. He crawled over to the dead Alician and seized her wristcom. “Hello Sister Esma, remember me?”
There was a pause. “General Bill Kilaney. Or should I call you Jorann?”
“I’m coming for you.” He switched it off, removed it from Serena’s limp wrist and placed it on his right arm, so he could listen to their comms, maybe distract them. He hadn’t enjoyed his only former conversation with Sister Esma, when she’d vented him into spa
ce, and he had no intention of starting another.
He inspected the hole through his chest; it was neatly cauterized, but the secondary heart was meant only as a stopgap measure, to keep a Q’Roth warrior fighting a little longer.
Xenic came online on Kilaney’s other wristcom. “We’re pinned down, a dozen Q’Roth warriors, any aid is welcome.”
He glanced at Fentra. You’ll get your wish soon. Using the cannon as a walking stick, Kilaney trudged down the corridor. But he only got a few metres before his legs gave way and he collapsed, short of breath, his chest muscles cramping, his arms and hands shaking. Kilaney realized he wasn’t going anywhere, and would be of little use in a firefight. Reluctantly, seeing no options as a broken, soon-to-be-dead man, he wondered what a Q’Roth warrior would do in this situation. But the Q’Roth weren’t known for their creativity; rather they were good at following orders. Orders. Kilaney kicked himself for not having thought of it earlier. He began practicing; his human throat was no longer that good at simulating Q’Roth commands…
* * *
Sister Esma knew, but asked her weapons officer anyway. “How long?”
“Seven minutes. All is prepared.”
The Bridge door swished open, and the corners of Sister Esma’s lips lifted. She flattened them before swivelling her chair around. “Louise,” she said. Despite being glad to have her aboard, she always maintained discipline and authority. “What happened to your Nova bombs?”