Survival Aptitude Test: Rise (The Extinction Odyssey Book 3)

by Mike Sheriff

  Cordelia slipped her tile into her pocket and grinned. “Then we’d best hurry if we want to get a seat.”

  She quickened her pace. Beside her, Asla and Kimye leaned forward to keep up. “Yellow Mother,” Asla said with a snort. “That’s going to stick.”

  CANG MARCHED TOWARD the bustling flight line. Behind her, rapid footfalls beat a chaotic cadence against the northern aerodrome’s white-ceramic slabs.

  Jiren Yongrui and Jiren Bhavya drew even with her and matched pace. She nodded at them, acknowledging their presence. Neither spoke, which suited her mood. The pair appeared content to focus on their destination, which lay one hundred feet ahead on the aerodrome’s western perimeter.

  A dozen Jireni milled beneath two aeroshrikes at the northern end of the flight line. The vessels hovered twenty feet above the ground, seemingly in defiance of physical laws.

  Ceramic armor coated their enormous gas envelopes and control surfaces, the curved black panels sparkling in sunlight. An array of triple-barreled point-defense turrets sprouted from symmetrically mounted quad-clusters along the mid-ship and aft sections, fouling the otherwise streamlined cylinders. Up forward, elongated nacelles bulged from the upper hemisphere of each bow. They housed the barometric cannons—the most powerful weapon in the aeroshrikes’ offensive arsenal.

  One hundred feet below the cannons, bridge gondolas jutted from the lower surfaces of each gas envelope like a pair of cleft chins. Crystalline stairways ascended from the flight line to the access hatches on their port sides.

  Forward of the hatches, rows of black-tinted windows concealed the crew members undertaking launch preparations. Midway down the longitudinal axis of each gas envelope, swept mountings supported contra-rotating airscrews. The idling airscrews—three on the port mounting and three on the starboard mounting—generated enough power to trigger sympathetic vibration from the aerodrome’s slabs. South of the idling vessels, a line of ten dormant aeroshrikes bobbed in the breeze, straining at their mooring cables. Three aeroshrikes were missing from the flight line.

  A pang of sorrow pricked Cang’s heart. She’d all but escorted Radan onto the doomed mission.

  Yes, he’d begged her to speak to Pyros about joining the mission. She’d ignored him at first—for purely selfish reasons. She’d wanted Radan to stay at home, in her abode. After the Unum’s blood-soaked cull order and the even bloodier battle to unseat him, she needed something real, something warm, something human in her life. But her aide had always known how to persuade her—and he was always most persuasive in her bed. After two weeks of stellar nocturnal performance, she could no longer resist Radan’s pleading. She’d asked Pyros to take him on the reconnaissance of Havoc.

  That request, made in kindness, had culled him. That request would forever—

  “Is the purpose of this mission reconnaissance or rescue?”

  Cang abandoned her rumination and glanced at Yongrui. She’d served with him on two prior missions to the mongrel colonies before taking up her position as district commander for Zhongguo Cheng.

  Yongrui, or Y as he liked to be called, was a first-class navigator back then—a bold and cocksure middle-grade Jiren in his mid-twenties. Had he been able to keep his penchant for cynicism in check, he might have already received a more senior appointment in the aeroshrike fleet. Not as a commander, but as a department head. Perhaps even as a combat head. Instead, he remained a navigator; five years older, slightly less bold, and slightly less cocksure.

  “Reconnaissance,” Cang said, voice raised to compete with the thrumming airscrews.

  En route from the border wall, she’d allowed a small part of herself to feel hope—hope that a rescue was possible. But she’d air-linked the air-burst transmission to her tile and reviewed it again minutes before arriving at the aerodrome. It crushed the delicate, delusional notion like an impact hammer. Her feelings for Radan weren’t powerful enough to overcome the laws of physics—especially those governing deceleration after a three-thousand-foot plummet from the sky.

  “I’m fine with that,” Yongrui said. “Makes navigation easy. Head north.”

  “I’m for anything that makes your job easier,” Bhavya said, punctuating the sentence with a grunt. “The less challenged you are, the better our chances of finding our way back home.”

  Bhavya alum Gita served as an acoustic-sensor operator. Technically proficient and blessed with a sense of hearing that bordered on mystical, she’d nonetheless been passed over for promotion twice since joining the aeroshrike fleet. Once for untoward fraternization with a more senior Jiren, then again six months ago for striking the same Jiren. The man in question happened to be Yongrui.

  “What would you know about finding your way home?” Yongrui asked, snarling at Bhavya. “You couldn’t navigate from your abode to the aerodrome without your tile’s plasmonic map.”

  “Just like you had trouble finding my tasty pocket when we were—”

  “That’s enough bickering,” Cang said. “You should both be focusing on what lies ahead.”

  The pair fell silent. They reached the stairway beneath the first aeroshrike’s bridge gondola. “Load the flight plan and be ready to launch in ten minutes,” Cang said. “I’ll be aboard shortly.”

  “Yes, sireen,” Yongrui said. He ascended the staircase with Bhavya close on his heels.

  “And Jiren Bhavya?”

  Bhavya halted midway up the staircase. “Yes, sireen?”

  “Don’t hit him.”

  Bhavya’s lips hitched upward in a wistful grin. “I’ll try not to.”

  Cang lingered at the base of the staircase. A few seconds later, Commander Eshan exited from adjacent aeroshrike’s bridge gondola.

  Eshan moved methodically as he descended the stairway, placing each step as if negotiating an icy slope. An Indonoid in his mid-fifties, his genetic lineage had seen fit to endow him with persistent joint pain. Years ago, medical practitioners had recommended he remove his glass implants, suspecting a pernicious infection. Their advice brought no relief, but it left his scalp and forearms forever pocked.

  Scars aside, Eshan never complained about the malady. He was one of the most experienced aeroshrike commanders in Daqin Guojin. She was pleased to have him and his crew with her for this mission.

  He snapped a crisp nod when he reached the base of the staircase. His eyes squinched as if the gesture had triggered a painful spasm. “Final preparations are under way, commander. I’ll be ready to launch in five minutes.”

  “Did you have a chance to review the air-burst transmission from the Pyros’ fleet?”

  Eshan patted the outer pocket of his bianfu’s tunic. A curt nod confirmed he had. “Did a mongrel weapon bring them down—or was it an accident?”

  “Sha knows, but we should assume the worst.”

  “Agreed.” He glanced up at his vessel’s bridge gondola. “Formation for the passage north?”

  “Loose line abreast until ninety miles south of Havoc,” she said. “Then we’ll close to no more than two thousand yards’ separation for the rest of the flight.”

  “Actions upon contact?”

  “You have independent freedom of maneuver to keep your weapon arcs open, but keep a close watch on our separation. Concentration of firepower will be key to holding off any mongrel attack.”

  “And if we find ourselves outnumbered?”

  “Gather as much data on the threat as possible before breaking contact,” Cang said. “Then we’ll execute a high-speed transit back home.”

  “Understood.” Eshan came to attention with a groan. “I’ll check in with you once we clear the border wall.”

  Cang nodded and watched him climb the stairway with equal care. After another quick survey of the aerodrome, she made the ascent into her own bridge gondola.

  4

  The Bold and the Merciless

  DAOREN SQUEEZED HEQET’S hand as they loitered outside the outpost’s entrance. Over the space of ten minutes, the market-like atmosphere that earlier c
haracterized the northern border had undergone a palpable shift.

  Across the cull zone, throngs of denizens streamed through the wall’s archways, returning from their labors among the crop circles. Commander Hyro had dispatched scores of Jireni from Nansilafu Cheng’s reserve force, staging the squads in strategic locations to help expedite the mass movement. The volume was steady enough to notice, but not urgent enough to raise disquiet among more casual observers.

  An unsettling disquiet nonetheless disturbed Daoren’s thoughts. For reasons he couldn’t articulate, he couldn’t let go of Heqet’s hand. An irrational fear churned his gut—the certainty that she’d be swept away by an irresistible force if he relaxed his grip. He couldn’t put a finger on—

  Heqet flinched and drew a raspy breath.

  “Another kick?”

  “No,” she said. “You’re crushing my fingers.”

  He loosened his grip. “Sorry.”

  “They’ll all be inside before long. Don’t worry.”

  He tried to heed her advice and still his mind. Hyro had tasked two-dozen Hexalite levicarts to fetch those tending the most distant crop circles. Within an hour, every denizen would be south of the border wall . . . but did they need to be? “Maybe I’m overreacting.”

  “Better that than underreacting.” Heqet glanced to the right. “Though we should get some more food before the stalls close.”

  Twenty feet away, more Jireni squads marched from stall to stall, compelling the vendors to shut down for the day. The order met with displeasure from the denizens lined up to sample the edible wares.

  “Good idea.”

  He led Heqet—and five of the ten Jireni that Commander Slabidan had selected as their personal guard—to the nearest stall, which happened to have the shortest line. They halted unnoticed behind five Asianoids. Two members of the guard paced forward, seemingly intent on clearing the queue for the Unum and the Zhenggong. Daoren waved them off and tarried for his turn like any other denizen.

  The stall’s vendor had set up sculptglass signs to identify the jars of wares by their unique tastes and textures. Sweet and Moist. Tangy and Chewy. Spicy and Dry. The Asianoid at the front of the line pointed at the shelf labeled Sweet and Moist. The vendor handed him a crystalline jar.

  The Asianoid turned, holding the jar of blue spheroids in his right hand. The left sleeve of his purple shenyi was folded in half and pinned to his tunic’s lapel. Above it, a broad smile bloomed. “Unum!”

  Daoren extended his hand to Su al Xing on instinct. “Good fortune.”

  Su glanced down. His smile dimmed—with his right hand occupied, he had no way to grasp the outstretched hand.

  Daoren winced at the gaffe. He raised his hand to adjust his collar. “What, um . . . what brings you to Nansilafu Cheng, Su?”

  “Fresh produce,” he said, seemingly unfazed. “It doesn’t get any fresher than here.”

  “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Heqet tapped the jar. “Those are delicious, by the way.”

  Su rotated the jar. Inside, hundreds of blue spheroids glistened with moisture. “Grooll never agreed with my constitution. Having these new food stocks as an alternative is like living in a dream.” He flicked his gaze between Daoren and Heqet. “What brings you out to the wall?”

  “Crop inspections,” Daoren said. “I prefer to see the results of the harvest first-hand.”

  Su nodded at the glut of denizens crossing the cull zone. “Looks like the harvesters have been instructed to come inside.” He raised his eyebrows. “Anything I should know about?”

  Daoren summoned his most casual expression. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Su hitched his eyebrows even higher. “If you want to remain ruler, you should learn to lie with more conviction.”

  The candid remark caught him off-guard. He stammered, dredging for a suitable response.

  “Not that you’d need to lie, of course.”

  “I can only do what’s best for the city-state. Then it’s up to the people to decide if my best warrants their trust.”

  Su’s eyes twinkled, mirroring the stud pattern implanted in his scalp. The ancient script dated from Mother China’s imperial past and loosely translated to awaken. In the months since the battle at the Center, Daoren had learned it could also mean enlighten.

  “I suspect it will,” Su said, “even if you’re honest with them.” He smirked. “Though you can never be certain when it comes to people, can you?”

  “No,” Daoren said. “You can’t.”

  “Well, here’s one certainty for you.” He hoisted the jar and shook it. “I’m going to find a quiet spot to eat these. I hope you both enjoy the rest of the day.”

  He bowed and wandered toward an open cloister, south of stalls. Heqet tracked his egress, shaking her head. “He never seems to get flustered or upset. Why is that?”

  Daoren shrugged. Su had lost his arm to a volley of sonic rounds during the fighting at the Center. After recovering in the medical facility, he’d played an integral part in keeping the peace among the city-state’s more hardened dissenters. The breathing space had proven vital during the early days of Daoren’s rule, allowing reforms to the Jireni security force to take root in an atmosphere of calm. “Maybe it’s his natural disposition.”

  Her eyes narrowed, distorting the rows of micro-studs in her cheeks. “I wonder.”

  “You wonder too much. Maybe that’s his secret—living in the moment rather than ruminating on the past or worrying about the future.”

  She shot him a sideways glance as the line edged forward, but didn’t respond. Within minutes, they stood before the Africoid vendor. After a moment of embarrassment over making the Unum and Zhenggong wait in line, he handed over two jars brimming with blue spheroids and another two jars filled with coarse grains. Hands full, Daoren and Heqet retraced their steps toward the outpost in company with their Jireni guards. Thickening crowds hampered their progress and triggered a pronounced sigh from Heqet.

  The sigh conveyed more than mere frustration with the mob. She’d grown more somber since returning from the crop circles. Her voice had taken on a blunter, more irritable tone. Was the threat of a mongrel incursion fouling her mood? “You don’t have to stay here,” he said, keeping his tone light. “It could be hours before Cang reports back with news.”

  “I’m fine.” Her brow suddenly pinched. She sucked a sharp-edged breath. “But my houseguest isn’t in a good mood.”

  “Go back to the abode. I’ll ask Commander Slabidan to provide a levicart.”

  “I’m staying here.” Her stern gaze drifted to the crowds glutting the cloisters and transways south of the cull zone. “As are lots of Asianoids, I see.”

  Static clusters of Asianoids dotted the flowing throng like rocks in a stream. Most wore sullen expressions; an odd counterpoint to the afternoon’s cheerful sunlight. Of all the lineages in Daqin Guojin, Asianoids were the most insular. They made up the city-state’s most voluminous cohort, but rarely ventured beyond their home district of Zhongguo Cheng despite the removal of restrictions on inter-Cheng movements.

  “There does seem to be a lot of them here,” Daoren said.

  “And yet none were out tending the crops,” Heqet said. “Why would that be?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe they’re—”

  Daoren’s shoulder struck an unyielding object. The collision twisted his torso, nearly sending one of the sculptglass jars to the ground. As he recovered, a splash of sunlight on a purple shenyi signaled the unyielding object’s true nature; he’d blundered into a member of the Cognos Populi. “Pardon me,” he said. “I didn’t see—”

  Hai al Kong smiled and bowed at the waist. “I beg your pardon, Unum. I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

  Hai straightened, resuming his towering stance. His gleamglass tunic strained to contain his chest and arms despite its generous cut. While there was no shortage of obese Assembly members, his bulk owed more to musculature than excessive calories. In keeping
with his toned physique, Hai’s face bore no glass implants or other adornments save for a cropped beard. Gray whiskers lent a wizened aura to an otherwise youthful countenance.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” Daoren said, “so far from the Assembly.”

  “Nor I you.” He offered Heqet a tight-lipped grin. “Inspecting the crops, Zhenggong?”

  “More like sampling their wares,” she said, tone more cool than convivial. “And you?”

  “Nothing as enjoyable as that. I’m here for a meeting with some colleagues.”

  “Assembly business?”

  Hai’s eyes fluttered closed. “Something more . . . personal.”

  “We won’t keep you then,” Daoren said. “Good fortune.”

  “And to you, Unum.” Hai turned to Heqet and bowed his head. “Zhenggong.”

  He marched south, charting an easy path through the milling crowds. Daoren shifted his focus to Heqet. Her crimped forehead told him everything he need to know about her mindset. “What troubles you now?”

  “There’s something about that man that I don’t trust.”

  “You don’t trust anyone.”

  “There’s a coldness to him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He never took union or had children despite scoring high enough on his S.A.T. to earn the right of unlimited reproduction. Doesn’t that strike you as cold?”

  “He’s dedicated his life to perfecting plasma technology,” Daoren said. “It could revolutionize the city-state’s power-generation capabilities.”

  Heqet rolled her eyes. “Mmm-hmm.”

  “That kind of dedication doesn’t make him cold.”

  “Selfish maybe?”

  “He helped contain dissent among the Asianoids when I decreed that grooll couldn’t be bartered. He suffered personal attacks from his own people for taking that stance.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “And Hai’s been a useful ally in the Assembly. He’s helping to draft the edicts that will govern the popular voting for Assembly positions next year.”

  “And that makes him an ally?”