In Her Name: The Last War

by Michael R. Hicks

  The humans were positioned in the last row, behind two other rows of perhaps three dozen aliens. Spaced wide apart in a semicircle around the stage, these aliens also wore robes, but of a dark blue color. The aliens stood erect, staring at the stage, holding their hands out in front of them as if they were pushing something away. While he couldn’t read their body language, it was clear that they were concentrating intently on the stage below.

  As he looked down at the dark surface, he discovered that it was more akin to a huge liquid pool whose surface had been completely still when they first walked in, with whatever it contained merely mimicking a solid surface.

  Suddenly the material in the pool below began to morph, and he watched with growing horror as it took shape.

  * * *

  “That’s impossible,” McClaren breathed as he watched the apparition begin to rise and take shape in the alien cauldron that lay below. He tore his gaze from the thing and looked first at Amundsen, then Yao. Both of them were staring back at him, eyes wide with shocked disbelief.

  McClaren, in what was a major act of will, turned back to look at what was taking form, somehow being created, cloned, using the black material in the pool: the Aurora’s central computer core. Next to it the navigation core began to take shape. Just like with the healing goo, the black material in the pool was being used as a matrix to create whatever the blue-robed controllers willed. The components were still taking shape, with the various assemblies supported by tendrils of the shimmering black material. McClaren had no idea how the aliens did it, but they must have made an incredibly detailed scan of his ship, probably as part of whatever happened to the electrical system. And now, as humans could model a three-dimensional object in a computer and have a machine produce an exact physical replica, the aliens were recreating the computer systems here. He realized with a sinking feeling that it wouldn’t have mattered if they had blown the computer hardware to bits. The aliens already had what they needed. And he no longer entertained any hopes that they would have difficulty interpreting the computer data. They would get whatever they wanted, and there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do to stop them.

  Before his eyes, the computer systems continued to take shape. While he only saw the exterior of the components, he knew with cold certainty that the memory crystals, which were custom grown in a zero gee environment, were forming inside, and that the data held in their matrices would be completely intact. Threads of the black substance connected to the extruded human technology where optical links and power conduits entered the system, providing power and input/output streams that the human design could interact with.

  He chanced another glance at Yao. The brilliant petty officer’s face was ashen. Yao would know better than anyone, even Amundsen, the implications of what they were seeing. None of them were good.

  In a few minutes, the entire array of hardware and necessary peripheral systems had been created. McClaren heard a series of soft clicks, and then the telltale lights on the core casings flashed on: the system was booting up.

  * * *

  The priestess watched silently from the shadows, invisible to the aliens, as the builders performed their work recreating the alien ship’s control system. While primitive, she nonetheless granted them respect for the achievement of creating systems that took them to the stars, and courage for relying on such simple machinery to take them there.

  The matrix in the formation pool below was an analog of the symbiont used by the healers. Advanced as it no doubt appeared to the aliens before her, it was a feat achieved in what were now very ancient times, and was one of the many examples where the lines between technology and biology had become blurred. The builders, those who created that which the Empress required, from tiny things invisible to the naked eye, to entire worlds, no longer used the interfaces that were once required to control the matrix material. Their evolution was shaped by the Empress over the ages, and the power to control the creation of inanimate objects was now an effort of will, guided by the mental vision of what was desired. Like the healers, the minds of the builders could grasp the totality of a thing, see its construction on a subatomic level. Her race did not use computational devices, computers, as the aliens might understand them, for her people had no need. The use of such things had long ago faded into the Books of Time.

  But that did not prevent the builders from understanding and creating what was needed. The alien machines quickly took form, and the matrix was guided into providing the necessary electrical input and other connectivity. The major challenge the builders faced was to recreate it exactly as they had memorized it when the alien vessel had been scanned, and not to improve upon it. Otherwise they would have finished much more quickly.

  The system activated, and they monitored its initiation sequence. In their perception, time was variable: they could slow down events relative to the actual timescale. In this way they analyzed each function undertaken by the machine. They did not learn the language the machine used, exactly, but they understood on a fundamental level how it worked, much as the healers understood the aliens’ bodies after they had been treated with the healing gel. Following the machine’s primitive processing routines was a laborious, excruciatingly painstaking experience, but the builders excelled at such things. And with the priestess looking on, her Bloodsong echoing strongly in their veins, the builders’ usual obsession with perfection was taken ever higher.

  At last they understood what they needed to know about the machine and the data it contained. Others would be required to interpret most of it, but one thing they could show the priestess now...

  * * *

  “Oh, fuck.”

  McClaren heard the words, but didn’t know or care who said them. He wasn’t a man who used foul language, but in this case the words exactly fit his feelings.

  Above the pool, where the clones of the ship’s computer systems hummed with unnatural life, a stellar chart began to form. It was hologram, incredibly realistic, that spread across the entire breadth of the huge theater. It displayed the series of waypoints tracing Aurora’s path to reach this system, and after a moment additional data began to appear for each waypoint. Much of it was visual, with realistic representations of the system stars and planets, but some of it was also being translated from Standard into the aliens’ language, judging by the runes that began to appear next to a number of the systems and waypoints.

  He thought his sense of horror couldn’t get any worse until he saw the first colony world on the Rim, the last friendly port of call before Aurora had jumped into the unknown, appear in the rapidly expanding course the ship had taken. Much more data in the aliens’ language suddenly appeared next to it, suspended in the darkness above the renegade computers. Then onward to the next, and the next.

  Finally, there was Earth itself, the home port from where they’d sortied months ago. The home of Mankind.

  And then came the final insult: the navigation trace shifted to show Earth at the center, and outward from there every single human colony and settlement was displayed. The aliens might not have everything sorted out yet, for a great deal of information was stored away in files that they would have to learn Standard to interpret, but McClaren had no doubt they would: among its other wonders, the computer contained a complete educational library. And then every single human being would be at the mercy of these monsters.

  He turned again to look at Amundsen and Yao, but instead caught a fleeting glimpse of a towering figure detaching itself from the shadows along the wall at the rear of the theater. Clearly a warrior, and the largest he had seen by far, she silently disappeared into the passageway, her black cloak swirling behind her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ichiro marched along between his two guards as the humans were once more paraded through the ship. He had been trying to keep careful track of the turns and distances, and he guessed that they must be somewhere close to the center of the great vessel. He had been shocked by what he’d seen in the theater they’d
just come from, his fear hammered deep by the ashen looks on the faces of the officers and Yao Ming.

  Beside him, one of his guards carried his grandfather’s sword. It was clear that she was handling it very carefully, as if it were her own treasured heirloom. She wore a weapon that bore more than a passing resemblance to the katana: a gently curved blade, somewhat longer than his grandfather’s weapon, that ended in an elaborate but functional guard plated in what appeared to be gold, and an equally elaborate grip. That, of course, wasn’t the only weapon she carried: there were three of the throwing-style weapons clinging to her left shoulder, and a wicked-looking long knife with a crystal - Diamond? he wondered - handle strapped to her side. Most of the other warriors were similarly equipped, although every single weapon except for the throwing stars, for lack of a better term, appeared to be custom-made. While sometimes similar, no two were exactly alike.

  His reverie ended quickly as they passed through a portal that was even larger than the one to the theater. As the humans were escorted in, a chill ran down Ichiro’s spine. This, too, was a sort of theater, but not one he wanted to be in: it reminded him all too clearly of the Colosseum of ancient Rome that they had studied as part of their military history lessons. In fact, had Roman gladiators been snatched through time and dropped onto the sandy arena that must have been nearly a hundred meters in diameter, he had no doubt that they would have felt completely at home. It was built from tan-colored stone, the finely set blocks polished to a smooth finish. While it wasn’t dilapidated like the Colosseum, Ichiro couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that this alien version was terribly old, perhaps older than Rome itself.

  The seating was arranged in two dozen or more rising tiers, and Ichiro wondered at the size of the crew this vessel must carry: if this was designed purely for those aboard this ship, there must be thousands of aliens aboard, yet they had seen so few. There were arched portals arranged around the sand of the circular arena, and above...

  He paused, another wave of awe momentarily suppressing his fear. Above him was a blue sky, slightly tinged with magenta, and a bright sun. It didn’t just look like it was outdoors, as if it were a good projection or hologram, it felt like it, too: the radiant warmth on his face from an alien star, just the touch of a breeze, and faint odors from what must be some type of alien flora, and not the scents they had noticed thus far on the ship , which had mostly reminded him of cinnamon. There was a palpable sense of scale that he had only ever felt planetside, almost as if they’d been teleported off the ship and onto an alien world.

  But when he turned around to look behind him, the passageway and the portal through which they’d entered were still there.

  After a moment of allowing the humans to gawk freely, their guards again ushered them onward. Descending through a set of wide, curved steps, Ichiro followed the others into a large anteroom that let onto the sands of the arena through one of the portals that he’d seen earlier. He half expected there to be torches on the walls and gladiators preparing themselves for combat.

  When black-robed aliens entered the room, he realized that while the light was coming from the walls and not ancient torches, there were indeed gladiators here: he and his shipmates.

  The warriors took up positions along the walls as the robed ones brought in a veritable arsenal of weapons, from daggers and throwing knives to spears and pikes, and swords of a bewildering variety. They arrayed them carefully on several low benches clearly tailored for the purpose, then stood off to one side.

  * * *

  The ritual had its origins in time before legend, and the aliens were not expected to understand. As with many things in the lives of those who served Her, tradition and ritual reminded the living of the past, and were a mark of the personal discipline and obedience of Her Children.

  These aliens, the survivors of the original crew, would fight for the honor of their race. They likely would not comprehend why they were about to die, and win or lose, it would not avert the fires of war that would soon descend on their worlds. It was for the sake of honor, and honor alone. The outcome was inevitable, for in this ritual there were no survivors, save one: the Messenger, who would be spared to tell the tale of what had happened here. And to tell of what was soon to come.

  After the armorers had laid out a suitable assortment of weapons the aliens could arm themselves with, should they choose, the bearers of water brought food and drink. The builders had replicated samples of the food and liquids aboard the ship, based on what the healers had told them would be appropriate. Fearing a trick, no doubt, one thing they need not have feared from their hosts, some of the aliens refused the refreshments; others consumed what they would.

  The priestess watched them with her second sight, content to let the aliens eat in peace. When they had finished, she nodded to her First, who commanded that the warriors and clawless ones enter the arena and take their seats, spectators to the ritual combat that was soon to begin.

  As they quickly filed into the arena’s stands, the priestess decided that it was time to greet the aliens herself, and guide them in what must be done.

  * * *

  McClaren had forced himself to eat and drink something, not so much because he was hungry or thirsty, but because he suspected he would need the energy soon. He was also trying to lead by example, as some of the crew feared that the food or drinks, which included water, coffee, and beer, of all things, might be poisoned. But McClaren figured that the aliens could kill them a million different ways, and poisoning didn’t seem to be their style. Their preferred methods of mayhem and murder seemed a bit more direct.

  The other officers had joined him in taking at least a token bite to eat of some of the fruit and other food the aliens had offered. At first he had thought the food must have been taken from the Aurora’s galley, but on further inspection he decided that the aliens had probably replicated it, just as they had the ship’s computer systems. As much as anything, he was curious about the taste, and wasn’t disappointed when he sampled one of the apples. It was delicious, and he quickly ate it down to the core, then drank some water.

  He noticed Yao moving slowly along the tables holding the weapons, looking at them carefully, and walked over to join him. He knew more about Yao’s background than anyone, except possibly Harkness, and he wanted his insights. “What do you think, Yao?” he asked quietly. Since they had arrived in this room, the aliens had relaxed their ban on the humans speaking to one another. He was keeping his voice down because he didn’t want the other members of the crew to hear.

  Yao paused and looked up at him with troubled eyes. “You realize what is coming, do you not, captain?” He glanced at the others, most of whom stood huddled in a fearful group near the center of the room, watching the warriors along the walls. “The crew...there is no way to prepare them.”

  McClaren’s mind had been grasping at possibilities, at outcomes that would at least give them a chance of survival. “I can’t accept that they’re just going to kill us,” he grated, “not after all this. What would be the point?”

  “The point may be irrelevant, captain,” Yao replied. “I believe we are to face a test of character,” Yao told him. “We will never know the reason behind it, for the aliens cannot communicate it to us, even if they wanted to, and we must accept that. But I do not believe that any of us are destined to leave this place alive.” His gaze hardened, revealing the warrior who dwelled within. “The best we may do is to earn their respect.”

  “I agree,” Amundsen said softly from behind them, having quietly moved over to join the discussion. Marisova, Harkness, and the two midshipmen stood with him. “I don’t see a positive end-game in this, captain. I realize that I’m usually considered a pessimist, and often enough that’s true. But this,” he gestured around them, at the weapons, at the portal that led onto the sands of the arena, then shook his head. “I see nothing here that gives me any hope. We’re sacrificial lambs.”

  “Kuildar mekh!” one of the warriors sudden
ly barked, startling the human survivors. As one, the other warriors lowered their heads and brought their left arms up to place an armored fist over their right breasts in some sort of salute. The clawless ones did the same.

  McClaren looked up toward the warrior who had spoken, wondering what was going on, when behind her a huge warrior walked right through the wall into the room. Had he not seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed it.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” someone cried, and the group of crew members clustered toward the center of the room darted away from the apparition like a school of terrified fish.

  McClaren realized that it was the same warrior he had caught a glimpse of leaving the theater where they had reconstructed the ship’s computers. She was something different from the others, over and above however she had managed to walk through a solid wall. She was easily the tallest being in the room, standing a full head taller than McClaren, with the most impressive physique he had ever seen on a female (if inhuman) form. While her armor was a gleaming black just like the others, hers had some sort of rune of blazing cyan in the center of her breastplate. Her collar was also different, holding some sort of ornamentation at her throat that bore the same marking as her breastplate, and a dozen or more rows of the strange jeweled pendants that the other aliens, including the robed ones, wore from their collars. Only this warrior had far more than any of the others. The claws that protruded from her armored gauntlets reminded him of the talons of an eagle, and were the longest he’d seen by far. Her hair was also much longer than that of the others, but like theirs was carefully braided, with the long coils looped around her upper arms. Her face struck him as regal, with deep blue skin that was as smooth as porcelain. Had her features been translated into the form of a human woman, she would have been a thing of beauty. But here, now...