Eden's Trial

by Barry Kirwan

  Micah was in no hurry to see Jennifer again – even if she’d turned over a new leaf according to Vasquez, the people of Ourshiwann would be less quick to forgive. He wished Dimitri could be there though – he’d have been a welcome tonic for the dour atmosphere in the room. But the Professor was too close to his protégé, and so would probably not be given a Council position. He didn’t recognise any of the other Council members, but they’d each been elected for various reasons. Micah mused that humanity was on trial yet again, this time judging itself – hardly best positioned to reach an objective conclusion.

  He stared towards the empty seat dominating the room: Blake’s. They’d awaited his arrival some forty-five minutes. When the Commander at last entered, Micah was shocked at how gaunt he looked, despite Vasquez’ warning.

  Blake’s force of presence wasn’t lacking, though. He strode towards his place, his footfalls stilling conversation in the room. He surveyed the alien from behind the polished oak back of the chair, and gave Micah the curtest of nods. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for waiting. I’ve already been briefed. I have to say that I was amazed, aghast even, at these proposals.”

  Shit, he’s against it.

  “However,” he cleared his throat, and stared down at the seat of the chair, “in light of recent events, namely that my wife’s can–”. His speech stopped dead. Several people made to get up but he raised a hand, his face tilted towards the floor, jaw clenched. Micah saw the great man’s chest lift and fall, Blake’s breathing the only sound in the chamber. He lifted his head, and gazed around the circle. “She will live. I have you to thank for that,” he said, addressing Chahat-Me. “But that’s a personal matter, and as Chairman of this Council, I don’t intend to let that influence my judgement of the proposition we’re here to debate today. So, we will hear your proposals, and then discuss them in private – humans only.” He addressed Micah. “Is that acceptable to our guests?”

  Before he could answer, Pierre nodded gravely. “Your terms are accepted.”

  “Then let’s begin,” Blake said, and took his seat.

  Micah swallowed, then rose to his feet to convey the Tla Beth ruling.

  Micah paced up and down the centre of the room, grown stuffy after hours of relentless arguing. “For the hundredth time, there’s really no choice!”

  “We hear you, Micah,” a matronly, red-haired woman said, in a way that indicated she’d heard quite enough.

  “No you don’t!” He raised his hands towards the ceiling, looking upwards, trying to make them see. “We’ve been out there, we’ve seen what awaits us. We won’t survive any other way.” He was glad Pierre and the Transpar weren’t present to hear all of this – they might just ship out and leave humanity to its own fate. But he hoped not. Pierre had confided in him earlier that the first Tla Beth assault on the Kalaheii had been a crushing rout. The Tla Beth Level 17 warships – not seen in action for fifty thousand years – had been easily disabled by Qorall’s arsenal of legendary weaponry. But such news had failed to sway the Council. It seemed too abstract and foreign to them, too far away.

  “You’ve seen it, Mr. Sanderson. But we have only your own word and your colleagues’ word for it. Perhaps you were unlucky with the aliens you encountered. Maybe you approached them the wrong way. Please try to understand – these are our children and grandchildren we’re talking about sacrificing.”

  Micah faced the stout, middle-aged woman. She was one of a number of key Council members, presumably stalwart citizens who had risen in status over the past five months, who were resolutely blocking the alien proposal. She was a lot shrewder than she looked, he’d come to realise in the past four hours. But he sensed that Blake was the real threat, though the Commander was biding his time, playing out his role as Chairman of the Council, staying out of the fray until the end. Blake’s emotions were locked down like a good poker player. Yet Micah had seen subtle reactions which convinced him that Blake was strongly opposed to the motion. Micah guessed that in the end, it was going to come down to him and Blake.

  “Not sacrificing,” Micah continued, no longer bothering to try and hide his exasperation, “they’ll be better, for God’s sake, better able to defend themselves and make their way in the galaxy!”

  The Councilwoman remained calm and collected, adopting a haughty air. “We’re altering humanity. There will be no way back, will there, Mr. Sanderson? May I ask you to remind us of the likely changes that will take place in our offspring?”

  He frowned. They’d been over this before. Each time he went through it he felt victory – sustainable survival prospects for humanity – slipping from his grasp. He held up a closed fist, and then peeled open his little finger, beginning his cataloguing of the five main differences the Ossyrians had predicted.

  “One – they will be physically superior – a little taller, a lot stronger, with faster reflexes, better hearing and sharper eyesight.” He noted Kat staring at him intently, Sandy too – Kat’s child and Sandy’s embryo were already undergoing the process, the ‘upgrade’ as someone in the Council had labelled it. “Two – they’ll be more intelligent. They will mature a lot faster, able to speak fluently after a year, and they’ll be able to grasp mathematical concepts by the age of two.”

  The woman interrupted. “At what age will they surpass us intellectually?”

  Micah restrained a sigh. “Around twelve.” He raised his voice to quell the murmurs simmering around the Council. “Three – they’ll be able to parallel process, meaning they can do two things at once, for example, having a conversation and working on a computer at the same time, without making any mistakes or missing anything.” He tried to press the advantage. “Don’t you see? That alone is worth its weight in gold. Flying a space-craft is very tricky; we have to rely on advanced computers all the time because they can process information in parallel, whereas we can’t. Most other races can. Without this upgrade, because it is an upgrade, we’d be the dullards of the galaxy! If we’re lucky they might let us farm land and plant crops. That’s all we’ll be good for.” He caught sight of Sandy’s slight shake of her head – of course, what was he thinking, there were farmers here in the Council. Several members folded their arms, their body language as clear as raising a drawbridge. This time he let the sigh come out. “Sorry, that was … that wasn’t meant the way it sounded.” He realised he was screwing this up. He unfurled his index finger. “Four – they’ll be more creative. Music, art, they’ll create wonders we’ve never imagined.”

  The woman raised her nose. “Will we lower-grade humans – dullards and farmers that we are apparently – be able to appreciate such art, Mr. Sanderson?”

  Sandy tapped her inflated belly. “I’ll appreciate whatever my son does.”

  Micah wanted to get through this part. His thumb joined his fingers, out in the open air. “Five.” He paused. This was the one people feared most. “They will be less emotionally labile.”

  The woman snorted. “Cold fish, that’s what you mean, isn’t it, Micah? Cold and uncaring? Like your friend Pierre?”

  Kat interjected, urgency in her voice. “Pierre’s already Level Ten. There’s no comparison!”

  “As I understand it, my dear, he is prepared to leave you and your child – his child – behind him, in the pursuit of greater things.”

  Micah cut in – he had to get off this track somehow. “That’s not how it’s going to be. Less labile means less erratic: people will be able to control their emotions, they won’t fly off the handle so readily. There’ll also be much less mental illness, if any at all. Isn’t that worth something?” He stared at the faces around the room.

  Blake joined in. “People will be more dispassionate, is that what you’re saying, Micah?”

  Micah wasn’t sure if Blake was supporting or preparing for an attack. “Yes,” he said cautiously.

  Blake rose from his chair. “But it seems to me, that passion is what makes us human. Isn’t that so, Micah?”

  It was rhetoric
al. He didn’t get a chance to reply.

  “You see, Micah,” Blake continued, “I didn’t lead us all the way here, fighting against the Alicians, so we could become like them.”

  Micah saw several vigorous nods.

  Blake continued. “I promised to protect humanity, not to sell it out.”

  Micah spread his hands. “It won’t –”

  “Hear me out, Micah. You’ve been speaking a lot this afternoon, and I’ve listened to everything you’ve had to say, and weighed it up carefully. But it comes down to this. Are we going to sacrifice everything that defines us as a species, in order to survive? If we’re no longer human, is that survival?” Several people clapped.

  Micah waited a moment. He hadn’t wanted to do this. His stomach churned, rebelling against the line of argument his mind knew was his last recourse, humanity’s last chance. He kept his voice low. “When we departed Eden, Commander, you made a speech to all of us.” He paused, allowing the clapping to sputter to a stop, all eyes turning to him. “You said that hubris had led to our undoing. I had hoped that we had learned from that, but maybe we just don’t learn.” He walked up to Blake, facing him off, raising his voice. “The Alicians are still out there. Sister Esma is biding her time, hoping we screw up so they can finish what they started, or better still, enslave us. And if they don’t, there’ll be a dozen other species in the queue.”

  Blake replied, ice cold. “We can take our chances; move planets again if necessary.”

  The frustration of the last few hours, the anguish of the past six months since he’d first stumbled on the Alician-Q’Roth plot back on Earth, and the scars from the War ten years ago, welled up inside him like a fast-fusion reactor with the safeties off. Bordering on shouting, his voice uneven, he launched his last-ditch attack on Blake.

  “Chances? What chance did we have against the Q’Roth, only a couple of levels above us? What chance did you have against Zack, your best friend, when he was re-programmed by the Alicians? What chance did your own son, Robert, have against the Alicians in the War? If he had had the opportunity the Ossyrians are giving us –”

  Blake’s eyes flared. “Don’t you dare drag my son into this!” he shouted.

  The harshness in his voice drove Micah back a step. Blake tried to recover his breathing, his eyes coring into Micah’s, amplifying Micah’s regret over his own tactics.

  “Commander, I was merely –”

  Blake held up his right hand. “Enough, Micah.” His eyes swept around the room. “I think we’ve all heard enough, haven’t we? Frankly, nothing new of any substance has been added in the last hour and a half. I propose that we move to the vote. Any objections?” Blake gestured towards Micah’s seat. Micah clenched his fists, but he turned and sat down, arms folded. Sandy laid a hand on his shoulder.

  Blake waited a full minute until people finished shuffling in their chairs, then addressed the Council. “There are eleven of us here, since Rashid is missing, but we have a quorum, so the vote will be binding. Moreover this will be an open vote: we take responsibility for our actions. All those for the proposal?” Sandy, Ramires, Kat and Micah raised their hands, followed hesitantly by Antonia. Micah glanced over to Vasquez, who replied with a subtle shake of his head, his old hand clasping the new one, locking it firmly in his lap. Five. Shit!

  “All those against?” Blake’s own hand went up first, followed by others. Micah bowed his head, ready for the coup de grace.

  “That… also makes five,” Blake said.

  Micah lifted his head. All eyes latched onto Sonja. He’d almost forgotten she was there; she’d said nothing throughout the entire debate.

  “Sonja?” Blake asked, quietly.

  She stood up. “You’ll have my answer first thing in the morning.” Without a backward glance, she walked out of the chamber, amid erupting confusion in the Council.

  Abruptly Micah stood up.

  “Where are you going?” Sandy asked.

  “To prevent a catastrophe.” He headed out the exit opposite the one Sonja had taken.

  * * *

  Micah dropped his bag onto the end of the bed. He resisted the urge to collapse onto the cot, and instead perched on its hard edge. Night was falling, wondrous to see after living on a spaceship for five months. He’d talked with Pierre, but he had been distant, his mind clearly elsewhere. Micah had felt like a mosquito buzzing around Einstein. Kat was right, Pierre was gone. He just hoped Pierre could do what he’d asked. He suppressed the guilt he felt about it.

  “Micah,” someone whispered.

  It took him a moment to register the voice. He levered himself off the bed, his spirits lifting. “Rashid?”

  His Indistani friend emerged from the shadowy doorway to the adjoining room. Micah stared at Rashid’s silver dolphin band around his head – he’d never seen one before, except in vids.

  “No one must know I have been here,” he said.

  Micah was taken aback at the lack of a ‘hello’ at least – he’d not seen Rashid since leaving Ourshiwann months ago. He seemed edgy. “Why? What’s going on?”

  Rashid bit his lip, looking toward the door. “How is Sonja?”

  “Sonja?” Micah’s brow puckered in puzzlement. “She’s, well, pretty cut up. Where’ve you been?”

  Rashid nodded, as if remembering why he’d come. “I’ve been sent to you to deliver a message, before we depart.”

  Micah presumed his reference to ‘we’ referred to Jen and Dimitri, based on what Vasquez had told him earlier. “Depart?”

  “Yes, we are … going away.”

  Micah’s frustration rose. It had already been a long, difficult day. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me where?” He watched Rashid’s face, the tension lacing his forehead. “Never mind. What’s the message?”

  “Protect the spiders. At all costs.”

  Micah waited, observing Rashid, who looked distracted, his shoulders rigid. But Rashid said no more. “That’s it? You mean the eggs, right?”

  “In two years a new generation will hatch. They are critical to galactic survival, and must be protected at all costs, but you must tell no one.”

  Micah parked his hands on his hips. “I thought communicating with aliens was difficult,” he murmured. But he could see Rashid was in pain of some sort. “Look, Rashid, is there anything I can –”

  “Zack. Did he make it back?”

  Micah sighed. “No. Long, sorry story, and I feel responsible.”

  “Then Sonja is –”

  “There’s something left of Zack. Maybe not enough, certainly not a man anymore, but Pierre thinks that maybe –”

  “There is hope, then,” Rashid finished. He straightened up.

  He thought Rashid seemed to relax, become himself again. He’d been hoping to have Rashid and Dimitri around, whatever the vote’s outcome. “When are you coming back?”

  For the first time Rashid faced Micah directly, as if he could see straight through the dolphin. “It will be a very long trip.”

  Micah didn’t want him to leave. Coming back hadn’t been what he’d expected. Instead of the exultation, the joy of seeing old friends and colleagues, he’d found complex political situations, changed relationships, and in several quarters, outright hostility. He didn’t know how much this was because people had changed, and how much was due to the fact that he himself had changed. “The Ossyrians could fix your eyes, you know,” he offered.

  Rashid jiggled his head, a smile at last dawning across his face. “Yes, I have heard about their medical wonders. A few weeks ago I would have begged them to return my sight.” His smile retreated. Micah realised Rashid had aged since he’d last seen him.

  “But sometimes, Micah, a blind man sees more clearly. Less distraction.”

  He had no idea what Rashid meant, but had learned to accept such aphorisms from his Indistani friend. Without warning, Rashid approached and hugged him. Micah’s arms stuck out like he was a waxwork model, then he hugged Rashid back.

  �
��Good luck, Rashid.” They stood back from each other. “Give my regards to Dimitri. And Jennifer, too, I suppose.”

  As Rashid headed for the exit, Micah thought of something. “Wait a second, Rashid. Why me? Why wasn’t the message for Blake?”

  “He didn’t say.” Rashid slipped out into the night.

  Micah stared out into the darkness, thinking that for the first time he really understood just how far away those stars really were. Somewhere in the distance he heard music, shouting. It was welcome after months of hushed, vacuum-packed space travel. He longed to hear cicadas, dogs barking, babies crying, or hover cars speeding in the distance; all the sounds he used to hate. Maybe one day.

  Then it struck him, because he was suddenly sure Rashid had not been referring to Dimitri: He? Who the hell is ‘he’?

  * * *

  The Council members arrived subdued, a few with stooped postures, bleary-eyed. The previous evening, and a sizeable chunk of the early hours of the morning, had seen a large open air party. People had been celebrating the Ossyrians’ arrival and medical prowess, as well as the recent release from Shakirvasta’s martial law. Micah hoped it had eased the mood in the Council. Sandy and Ramires were standing close by, and closer to each other. He didn’t try to engage them, instead leaning forward in his seat, alone, concentrating on the task ahead, feeling humanity’s survival hanging in the balance. Vasquez had earlier confided in Micah that he knew Micah was right, but that he wouldn’t go up against Blake. Micah had just nodded, knowing that loyalty could easily trump logic, and besides, who was he to judge what was right?

  He asked himself again why he’d told no one about Louise being still alive, or Hannah’s demise. He didn’t fully understand it himself. He could have thrown it into the debate, underlining their plight with the threat of Louise being back again, but somehow it felt underhand to do so. Of course it might pale into insignificance compared to what he’d instigated last night.