by Barry Kirwan
“And this ship,” Rashid said, “is somehow a key?”
“Yes,” she said.
Blake recognised the look of uncertainty on her normally confident face. “So, what’s the problem?”
She tapped the screen. “Arjuna – we might as well call it that, as I don’t know its name – is dormant, and won’t respond to the Hohash. So our Hohash friend here wants us to wake it. Well, him actually. You see, there’s a single occupant inside the ship.”
They discussed it for hours, until they were getting too tired to think straight. They ate rations more or less in silence. Jennifer refused to sit with Dimitri, and responded to all of his questions with either monosyllabic answers or a shrug. The problem was that the ship was far below the water’s surface, they had no pressurised ship to explore it, no other obvious means of making contact, and the only deep diving gear was back in Esperantia. Blake acknowledged that perhaps this was of a higher priority in the grand scale of things, but there was nothing he could do, and there were other priorities he could do something about.
In the morning, he awoke later than planned. Rashid was doing some form of callisthenic exercises, and Dimitri and Jennifer were far away on the other side of the chamber, sitting close to each other, talking. He could tell by their body language that at least some problems had been resolved. Good, we have enough real wars on our hands.
On seeing him awake, they came over. Jennifer took the lead. “We’ve decided, while you slept, Commander.”
“Really? And do I get a say in the matter?”
“Dimitri and I are staying here, to try and help the Hohash contact the ship’s occupant. You and Rashid take Dimitri’s skimmer back to the city – the Hohash will show you the way back to the surface. Rashid will return with the diving gear. You must tell Shakirvasta that I was killed. It is imperative he believes I am dead, or else he will come looking, and find … this.” She scuffed the glass floor with her boot. “You must give me your word, Commander.”
Blake chewed his lip. He never liked giving promises, but it seemed like a lightweight one. “Very well. I give you my word. As for the rest, it sounds reasonable. I can go along with it, Jennifer.”
She looked down to the floor, then met his eyes head on, but her eyes were softer. “It’s Jen, from now on, just Jen. I will join you if I can. One more thing.” She squeezed her lips together, as if trying to hold something in. She held out an opened envelope. Her hand was shaking. “If Sandy returns, I…” Her voice broke. Dimitri wrapped an arm around her waist, and she took a breath. “I’d like to see her, Commander.”
He stared at it, then pushed her hand back gently, folding her fingers around the envelope. “I already know about Sandy’s pregnancy, Jen. Vince told me about it before the battle, but swore me to secrecy. You see, I do know how to keep my word.” He got to his feet. “And I understand, Jen. Good luck, both of you.” With that, he and Rashid departed, escorted by the Hohash out of the cavern.
* * *
Blake strode down the main avenue in Esperantia. It was noon. Plenty of soldiers – Shakirvasta’s militia rather than Blake’s original men – had seen him, but no one had stopped him yet. A swelling throng emerged from their dwellings to see if it was really him. Good, he thought, this way Rashid can get the gear out of the city and back to Jen.
He arrived at the central plaza, a straggling crowd behind him, and stepped up on top of one of the spider’s tables dotted around the square. He stood a while, meeting the eyes of many in the crowd, then raised both his arms.
“People of Esperantia, people of Earth, I have returned.”
“And you are under arrest for the unlawful killing of a number of soldiers.” Josefsson approached with a not quite steady gait from a shaded portico outside the largest dwelling. A phalanx of militia flanked him, pulse rifles at their waists.
“I acted in self defence.”
“Ah, but there are witnesses, Mr. Alexander.”
“Commander.”
“Not any longer; you see the constitution states –” he paused long enough to make eye contact with several in the crowd, “– as it did so back on Earth, that the President is in charge of the military, and I have suspended your commission pending your trial.”
Blake had expected much of this, but it didn’t make it any easier. He’d seen Josefsson as something of a fool, but public speaking was the senator’s – now the President’s – home ground, even if he was a puppet for Shakirvasta. Josefsson seemed in no hurry to make the arrest, wallowing in this charade. Blake knew he had to tread carefully.
He turned back to the crowd. “You people need to be released from the shackles Shakirvasta has placed on you. He’s building an autocracy, enslaving people here.” He looked around the crowd, saw some nods, though not as many as he’d hoped for. He wondered where Antonia and Sonja were – they should have arrived by now.
“Nonsense, Commander – there, I accord you the title based on the merit that you were one of our greatest heroes, rescuing us from the brink of extinction at the hands of our real enemy, the Q’Roth and humanity’s bastards, the treacherous Alicians.”
He saw how deftly Josefsson worked the crowd. A little too quickly, some people in the melee shouted out “Death to the Alicians,” undoubtedly Josefsson’s men planted in the audience; this had all been pre-arranged. That’s why Josefsson was so confident. Which meant that either they’d intercepted his message, or they’d gotten to Antonia or Sonja. Or else Shakirvasta was just too damned good.
Josefsson continued, jutting out his chin, his greying blond hair shining in Aryan fashion in the pale orange sunlight. “Our Chairman, Sanjay Shakirvasta, has provided for everyone.” He addressed the crowd. “Do you go hungry? Do your children not have schools to go to? Are your medical needs not addressed? Yes, of course we all have to work hard out in the fields, and I assure you that Mr Shakirvasta barely sleeps, working all hours to oversee the re-building of humanity, getting us back on our feet, readying us to prepare for the day when we can exact revenge on the Alicians and the Q’Roth.”
More shouts this time, others joining in, not just the stooges planted in the gathering. Blake was losing this fast. He addressed the crowd, his words quiet, so they had to strain to listen. “It doesn’t have to be like this. Look into your hearts. We haven’t come all this way to become locked into a tyranny, with Shakirvasta as dictator.”
Josefsson advanced on Blake. “My dear Sir, you’ve been brainwashed by a few insurgents, terrorists who as we speak are being brought to the justice they deserve. The services you have given for mankind will be taken into consideration when you are sentenced, Commander. Chairman Shakirvasta has already decreed this.”
Blake’s patience broke. “Shakirvasta –”
“Saved your good wife Glenda, Commander,” Josefsson shouted to the crowd, as he joined Blake on the table. He faced Blake, lowering his voice, though clear enough for all to hear. “And yet you, Blake Alexander, are responsible for the death of Mr. Shakirvasta’s consort, Jennifer.”
Blake’s anger stalled. He was snared. It was Josefsson’s coup de grace, and Blake had to bite his lip, he’d given his word to Jen. For a fraction of a second it crossed his mind that Jen had been part of this – but he decided not, given her reaction to Sandy’s letter. In any case, a word given was final in his book. He’d lost this round. He gazed once more across the crowd. “This is your world, you must decide what kind of world you want it to be, while the decision is still yours to make.” The crowd stilled. “Josefsson, I’ll come with you now, but I want to see my wife.”
Josefsson nodded. “The arrangements are already being made.”
A glint of triumph peaked above the veneer of Josefsson’s practiced air of even-handedness. It was enough to enable Blake to do what he always did in situations like this: he transmuted his anger, storing it for later. Josefsson must have seen it in Blake’s eyes, because his smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He leaned forward to Blake, and whisp
ered. “I’d rather not use force, Commander.”
“There’ll be no more trouble today. Now, I’d like to see her.” Without waiting to be led, he jumped down from the table and made his way through the crowd, forcing Josefsson and the soldiers to trail behind him. He knew exactly where Shakirvasta’s residence was. The crowd stayed closely packed around him, slowing him down.
“Make way, please, make way,” Josefsson shouted, ineffectively.
Blake looked straight ahead as he cut his way through the crowd. He felt a number of people touch his arms, some shook his hand, a few saluted. Several times he heard whisperings: “May God be with you.” Once he heard “We’re still with you, Commander.”
At the edge of the crowd he recognised the familiar, pudgy face of Carlson, the psychologist, rushing toward him. Carlson shook his hand heavily, his greasy hair shaking with the effort. He spoke openly. “Antonia and Sonja have been arrested, and they have Sonja’s children in custody.” He raised an eyebrow. “And I’m next, on a trumped-up charge of sedition.”
“That’s quite enough of that, Mr. Carlson,” Josefsson said, finally catching up. The soldiers fanned out behind them, separating them from the crowd. “Let’s go, shall we? Mr.Carlson, I really think you should join us, don’t you?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Mr. President.’
As their entourage left the crowd behind, the chattering from the throng rose in volume. This isn’t over, thought Blake. A broad smile spread across his lips.
A puzzle creased Carlson’s brow as he trudged along next to Blake. “I’m not so sure why are you’re so happy, Commander?”
“I’m going to see my wife,” he said, “and as Kat would say if she were here, it’s about bloody time.”
When they rounded the final bend, he saw her willowy frame and short blonde hair ruffled by the breeze, standing tall and frail supported by two walking sticks. He couldn’t restrain himself any longer. He broke into a run to greet her. As he swept her into his arms and held her tight, he spoke softly, his lips against her ear: “Nothing else matters except this, Glenda, nothing, just this.” Her breathing stuttered beneath her sobs, her weakened legs trembled. He clasped her closer to his chest, feeling how thin she was.
“I held on for you Blake, just for you.”
His emotions broke through. “I’m here now.”
Carlson paced nearby, defying anyone to break up the embrace. “Let them have this moment,” he said to Josefsson, who begrudgingly acquiesced.
Blake drew back, finally, and brushed the salt water from her hollowed cheeks with the backs of his fingers, traced a finger over the hairless, painted eyebrows, and adjusted her blonde wig back into perfect place. “I’m ready now,” he said to her. “Don’t worry, Glenda, it’s not over. Hang on a little longer if you can.” She nodded. He turned to Josefsson. “Let’s get this done.”
Chapter 23
Murder
Ramires screamed the loudest kiai Micah had ever heard, to distract the Q’Roth, but its slits must have detected Zack. It whipped its upper right leg to intercept him. The nanosword sailed right through it – it would have found the creature’s head too had its reflexes not been ultra-quick, as it ducked backwards just in time. Its right mid-leg slammed into Zack’s torso, lifting him off the ground just as he landed, blood splashing out as one of the leg’s serrated thorns punctured soft human flesh. Two of the Q’Roth’s other free legs lashed at Ramires in a shredding motion, so fast they were a blur. Ramires managed to dive out of the way, but the Q’Roth continued to flail two of his legs to fence him off. Zack landed with a thump a couple of metres away. “Ramires!” he cried out and spun the nanosword through the air towards him. The Q’Roth readied itself to intercept the sword as it wind-milled through the air. But out of the blue, Sandy leapt forward, snatched the sword’s hilt and in one simple move thrust it point first into the centre of the Ambassador’s head. Ramires vaulted over the stalled, quivering legs and planted both his hands around Sandy’s, driving the blade down through the Q’Roth’s torso, spilling black, sizzling guts onto the ground as the creature slumped backwards.
“I was just about to do that,” Sandy said.
Ramires flicked a switch on the hilt, retracting the blade. “Nice catch.”
“Sabre champion, summer of ’52.” She stared down at their handiwork.
Micah dashed over to Zack, who had his back to them. He rolled him over and recoiled. “Shit! That looks bad!” Blood streamed from a cone-shaped hole the size of a fist. Intestines, muscles and sinews, and at least one organ were in clear view.
Zack groaned, “Not as bad as your bedside manner!”
“Don’t talk, Zack.” he said.
Ramires and Sandy arrived, leaning over Micah’s shoulder. “Ramires, can we patch this up back on the ship?”
Ramires shook his head. “It’s taken a chunk out of your liver, Zack. I’m sorry, friend.”
Sandy moved around the others and knelt next to Zack. “Wait, what are you saying? We can’t leave him here!”
Zack choked up some blood. “Get the fuck out of here, all of you, before the alien police arrive. This ain’t curable, Micah, mission comes first, just go.” Zack’s head lurched backwards, his face wracked with pain.
“We’re not going to leave you, Zack! Are we?” She leaned across Zack’s shaking frame, glaring at Micah. “Don’t you go turning into Blake.”
Micah tapped his wristcom. “Hannah, Zack is down, we’re in trouble here. Can you break free?”
There was no reply. He spun around to Ramires. “If you want to go…” He didn’t much care for the look of indignation on Ramires’ face. “Okay, forget it. Can we stem the flow in some way, cauterise it with the sword?”
Ramires stared at the open wound. “No. Q’Roth thorns include an anticoagulant, so the blood runs free till there’s none left.”
“Zack,” Sandy said, “stay with us.”
His body was shaking. “T-tell … Sonja…” He coughed up more blood. Together they tried to manoeuvre him into a recovery position so he wouldn’t drown in it.
“Micah!” Ramires pointed at a dog-like creature wearing a white robe and a gold and lapus lazuli head-dress, approaching them on a floating disc. The creature took one look at the Ambassador and then came over towards Zack. It opened its mouth revealing thin cord-like strands, and emitted a grating noise which forced all three of them to back away. It stooped over Zack’s face, which was turning a sickly yellow colour, and sprayed fine white foam over the ragged wound. Micah was just getting used to the hope that this alien might actually be able to save Zack, when one of its silver hands morphed into a spear-like syringe and plunged straight into Zack’s forehead. Zack’s body bucked upwards once, then collapsed to the floor, eyes wide open, vacant, his chest still. Ramires’ hand pulled out the nanosword and primed its blade in one flowing movement. The dog-like creature – Ossyrian, Micah’s resident informed him – cocked its head, its silver eyes staring at the blade. Ramires raised it and brought it down on the Ossyrian. The blade stopped dead a centimetre from the Ossyrian’s dark brown head, a fizzing of light spattering out from the point of contact. Ramires’ forearms flexed, trying to cut through the field.
“Wait, Ramires,” Micah said. “It’s a doctor.”
“Then why did it just kill Zack?” Ramires took a step back. He lowered the sword, but didn’t switch it off.
Micah didn’t know if his resident could translate Ossyrian or not. Before he could try, however, four crystal spheres arrived on the scene, hovering above each of their heads, including one which approached Zack’s inert frame.
He glanced at Sandy, standing over Zack’s inert body. “Zack was right, we should have –”
* *
There was darkness. Micah tried to remember what he was about to say, what he was doing. Who he was. But he couldn’t think. He wasn’t asleep, but it was like a stuck disk, as if he couldn’t remember how to think. With an effort, and because he’d
been trained how to do it by his Zen master as an emergency escape in case of Optron terminal looping, he split his mind into two, creating a temporary schismata running in the background. It was still dark, and one part of him was still locked in some kind of thought-dampening bubble. But another part was now free.
Since he had no sense of space or touch, he presumed he must be in stasis. He considered what might be going on. On Earth, when criminals were apprehended – suspects, he corrected himself – they were handcuffed, and taken to a cell. So … what if in this culture, you were … mind-cuffed? It made sense; it would be easier to handle people who were cognitively inactivated. He heard a noise. Not good. They know I’ve found a loophole. The noise grew, sounding like a space-craft landing just above him. He knew they were shutting down the schismata as well. He thought about options, but he had none left. The noise became unbearable, and even though he knew it was only in his mind, unfortunately, that’s where he was. He gave up, no point doing himself mental damage. His second mind shut down.
Micah came to, standing on a small circular glass plinth suspended above – well, he could see nothing beneath him at first, just a gaping chasm, but as his eyes adjusted, he saw stars. Twenty metres beneath him lay open space, presumably behind some kind of force-field like the one the Ossyrian had been wearing. It crossed his mind that this was an illusion, but if so it was an elaborate one whose purpose he couldn’t fathom. He turned around carefully on the platform not much wider than his stance, and saw three other disks behind and beneath him. All three were standing – including Zack. But they were asleep.