“What? You almost got her killed? You useless piece of pickled meat!”
Orbiting Volda, Mallory studied the swarm of ships with growing unease. The fact that they weren’t listed in any of the databases was extremely curious. Who could have constructed and deployed a flotilla of this scope in such a populated system without leaving any record?
She handled the aero’s controls with crisp gestures while questions swam in her head. Finally, she made a U-turn and flew towards Volda.
The little planet looked like a lump of coal. As its surface slowly filled the cockpit’s bay window, the on-board navcom guided the pilot toward the surface in the direction of the signs of activity she had detected earlier.
The terrain was oddly uniform. As she drew closer, she saw a vague hilly region, but not a single peak or valley. Mallory had the impression of flying over a world flattened and smoothed over a thousand times by an army of bulldozers so thoroughly that its very history had been effaced.
In the center of this monotonous desert stood a concrete cylinder almost as dark as the planetary rock. On the cold, sinister expanse of the orb’s surface, the building’s presence seemed incongruous. It was significantly wider than it was tall, and the pilot saw at least three openings.
The place’s layout was unfortunate: while the aero could make itself invisible and could leave no trace of its passage on a world like Solicor, it was another story altogether on a deserted planet. The slightest energy expenditure would look like a solar eruption and would be easily detected.
Mallory was obliged to land at a healthy distance and then approach on foot as discreetly as possible.
Almost an hour-long walk in a spacesuit! How fun…
She put the aero down behind a succession of low rises that didn’t deserve to be called hills. Struck by an idea, she searched every corner of the passenger compartment, mumbling: “Come on! I’m sure it’s here somewhere!”
She had almost given up when her hand touched a metallic object that had fallen under the passenger seat. She fished it out of its hiding place and breathed a sigh of relief. She was holding her favorite weapon: a revolver with hypertrophic bullets.
Thanks to its ammunition—little gelatinous balls whose size grew hundreds of times upon exiting the barrel—a shot from this gun would disable any aggressor.
Delighted with her find, she called Jazz again. “I’m on Volda. I’m going to take a look at a building that shouldn’t be there. If I haven’t contacted you within three hours, tell the others.”
He didn’t hide his concern. “You never listen! I don’t like this place, with these bizarre ships and this dead planet! We should come back with reinforcements. There are ten thousand different ways you could get yourself killed in three hours. Be reasonable, for once…”
She opened the door, allowing the void of space to suck the air from the passenger compartment in a surge of wind. Her feet sank into a thin layer of carbonized dust, giving her the odd sensation of walking through black snow. Behind her, the aeroglider sealed shut and became progressively translucid, then invisible. On this monochrome planet, the optical camouflage was perfect.
As expected, it took Mallory an hour to get to the cylindrical building. She stopped and knelt, taking advantage of a low rise to conceal herself.
The three openings she had seen, probably airlocks, were closed. She had to find another way inside. She examined the concrete walls, seeking an emergency exit or a thermal exchange vent. A movement near the structure attracted her gaze. The place was being monitored by drone-cameras.
“Of course. I should have expected that,” she reproached herself out loud.
She could already hear Jazz making fun of her when she came back empty-handed because she couldn’t get into the building. The drones swept the area carefully, preventing any approach. She counted five patrolling the cylindrical construction. Annoyed, she brought her hand to her weapon. She was flooded with a furious desire to engage in some target practice, but she restrained herself. If she destroyed them, she’d trip the alarm, and that wouldn’t end well. Patience wasn’t her strong suit, but she managed to hold still and observe.
She was seriously considering giving up and leaving when the panels of the closest doors opened, revealing a cluster of beings whose silhouettes made them look like tall humans—at first. The shape of their spacesuits wasn’t quite right. They were carrying a large crate mounted on an antigrav barge. After having gone a few hundred feet, they stopped and put down their burden. The large box floated over a clearly demarcated area. After a closer look, Mallory saw that it was an artificially leveled surface, probably a landing strip. It had been camouflaged using the same black powder that covered Volda’s entire surface.
The tall bipeds went back into the building and came out with another container, which they set next to the first. They repeated this process four times, then inspected the large boxes.
Mallory watched them deactivate the antigrav supports one by one, leaving the crates sitting on the ground.
Apparently, they were preparing to load them onto a ship. She was convinced they were destined for the gigantic swarm of octagonal ships. It was an opportunity for her to see one from close up and, maybe, to get a look at one of the crew.
Finally, the extraterrestrials withdrew, leaving the six containers sitting in the middle of the field of black dust. Mallory sighed: the ship could show up in ten minutes, or it could be several hours…
VII
ESCAPE
COLE Vassili woke suddenly. He was lying on his back, felt glacially cold, and was coated in a sticky substance. He opened his eyes and saw a low, pale-gray ceiling furry with mold. Dull light shrouded the room, giving him the impression that the world had turned black and white. He examined the thick liquid smeared all over him.
Blood. His blood.
At first glance, it looked as if he had been bleeding from his pores. A memory dribbled from his muddled mind. An enormous face, almost deformed, and six pairs of eyes, all turned toward him.
“The ktol!” he realized.
The strange object had done something to him. Or rather, its creators had. He would have thought it was a dream, that the gigantic alien had been a figment of his imagination, but circumstances pointed to the contrary.
He remembered everything the alien had said when it introduced itself as a “Primordial.”
“You will serve us. Your body belongs to us. We will modify it to meet our needs, and you will do as we say.”
At that moment, a burning feeling had spread from his solar plexus and through his body. As the Primordial had promised, the ktol then injected him with a mutagenic substance.
His memory ended there. He didn’t know where he was now or how he had arrived.
He realized that he was still holding the ktol and that its needles were still deeply embedded in his palm. He tried to open his hand, but it refused to obey. Seized by a sudden panic, he used the other hand to try to pull his frozen fingers off of the extraterrestrial object. They only squeezed tighter, generating a wave of pain.
Vassili understood that the ktol wasn’t finished with him. Slowly, insidiously, a close connection had formed between him and the artifact. His consciousness shifted, first involuntarily, then with complete freedom once he stopped struggling. When the barriers fell between him and the ktol, he was assailed with images and sensations that were not his. He realized that the object itself possessed a memory and an embryonic will.
Following its creators’ instructions, it sought to turn him into a docile and efficient servant. For years, it had indoctrinated him with hatred toward his own kind. Each time the human had used the ktol, the drugs injected into his body had subtly altered his personality, transforming him into an agent devoted to the Primordials’ cause.
Being stripped of his genetic identity should have terrified him, but he realized with bizarre indifference that he had a strong desire to transcend the human condition. He wondered briefly if this feeli
ng was his or had been implanted by the ktol. The question was then erased from his thoughts. A tiny part of him tried to rebel but was immediately stifled.
Vassili freed his mind and accepted the pain caused by his metamorphosis with clinical detachment.
The cycle of unconsciousness and suffering repeated a dozen times, and every iteration carried him further away from his original nature. Each time he woke, he felt more of his weakness draining away, leaving him stronger and more capable.
Far from Aldebaran, in a system on the edge of the galaxy, the Primordial broke the link to the ktol and let out a satisfied sound. He had selected his new toy with care. After millions of years of practice, he didn’t often make mistakes.
The Primordials, ancient beyond measure, had encountered and triumphed over all kinds of threats, both external and internal. Wars, illnesses, religions, natural catastrophes… A long history that included every possible kind of drama.
However, success had taken its toll: there were no more than a handful of them left, and all physical traces of their existence had been erased by the passage of time.
The beings, who were as powerful as they were patient, considered the galaxy and the events unfolding in it as a show in which they could participate if and when they so desired.
They derived the greatest pleasure from manipulating other species. It was a form of recreation whose practice they had raised to an art form. They refused to participate in events directly. Thanks to thousands of ktols scattered throughout the known worlds, they possessed an equal number of sleeper agents. Although they suffered from the strong addiction, ktol adepts became the ideal subordinates when a Primordial chose to trigger their metamorphosis.
Cole Vassili’s encounter with the mentally unstable Vohrn ambassador had attracted the interest of one of these beings. As a result of strategic interference over centuries, the Aldebaran system would soon become the stage for a tragic performance.
Frozen in place and with nothing to look at besides a half-dozen crates, Mallory realized she was going to fall asleep. In fact, she didn’t really remember when she had last closed her eyes. Between the gunfight at the embassy and the high-speed chase through the unfinished liner, she hadn’t just kept going. Her eyes were about to close. Fortunately, a ship finally appeared near the concrete cylinder, dragging her from her torpor. She was almost disappointed: it wasn’t one of the octagonal vessels she had seen in orbit around Volda.
In fact, the ship’s architecture left no room for doubt. It was a cube just large enough to carry the crates next to which it had landed. It had only one synergetic drive that was just three feet wide.
A Tal Series 50 in cargo configuration, the pilot thought. It was an intrasystem utility vehicle, very common and a bit outdated. Normally there should be a registration number in large type on each side of the hull.
“Shit. Of course it had to land with the registration number facing away from me!” Mallory groaned, searching for a glimpse of it in vain.
She could see the inside of the hold when the ramp lowered, but her position blocked her from seeing the other sides of the ship. She could just make out a character that looked like an “S,” or maybe a “5.”
Two tall silhouettes emerged from the hold. Spicans, recognizable because of their four arms. With an ease that stemmed from long practice, they took hold of the containers as if they were empty and loaded them into the cargo hold.
The ramp was raised, and the ship’s maneuvering thrusters launched it from the ground. Mallory struggled to get a glimpse of its license number, but it flew into the star-studded sky without changing direction.
Disappointed that she hadn’t really learned anything, she took another look at the building and the drone-cameras flying around it. She briefly considered trying to get inside but decided against it. She didn’t know how many people worked there or how prepared they were to rebuff potential trespassers.
Deciding to return with reinforcements, she began to head back toward the aeroglider. She took broad strides. Around her, the flat terrain was covered with the same thick, black blanket. On the horizon, the giant star Aldebaran was reduced to the size of a swollen orange.
Mallory considered several theories about the unidentified ship and the events unfolding here on Volda. Contraband? A hidden lab? Just an isolated facility for storing hazardous goods?
She set each of these hypotheses aside immediately: nothing fit with the situation they had encountered on Solicor.
Quieting her thoughts, she saw that she was walking along the footsteps she had left on the outward journey. In the absence of atmosphere, they would remain etched in the soil for centuries.
Which was not good at all. Struck by a bad feeling, she glanced back over her shoulder.
Three antigrav motorcycles were heading toward her, moving very fast.
The aeroglider was still too far away. She had no choice: if she wanted to make it off Volda, she’d have to deal with them.
“That’s it, I’m cooked. When Jazz finds out, he’s going to read me the riot act for taking such an insane risk!” she mumbled as she reached for her hypertrophic gun.
She unholstered the weapon, aimed carefully at one of the riders who was gaining on her, and pulled the trigger. The gelatinous ball shot out of the short barrel and hit him point blank. Mallory didn’t expect such an impressive effect. Driver and motorcycle seemed to smash into an invisible wall, the vehicle exploded into fragments, and the alien was crushed like a mosquito against a windshield. A second later, the projectile vaporized.
The reflexes she’d acquired during months of training with the Vohrn took over: without thinking, she fired again and consigned the two other pursuers to the same fate.
She took off toward her ship. Running in a spacesuit was far from easy. The outfit hampered her movements, and her rapid breathing filled her helmet with a cloud of steam. The uniformly black plateau seemed to stretch out to infinity in front of her. She had to force herself not to look back every ten steps so as not to sacrifice precious seconds.
She queried her navcom. “How long until I get to the aero?”
The answer appeared as a countdown on the edge of her visor: a little less than ten minutes.
Mallory stifled a curse and sped up. The numbers changed: seven minutes.
With her lungs burning and her heart beating wildly against her ribs, she pushed ahead, guided by her navcom’s holographic projection. Focused on her objective, she thought of nothing other than controlling her breathing and watching her step: a fall would be catastrophic, despite the low gravity. Unfortunately, she was leaving footprints behind her that potential pursuers would have no trouble following.
Finally, she made out a black bump protruding from Volda’s gloomy surface. She arrived at her destination. When she caught sight of the aeroglider, she managed to dig a little deeper and push herself into a sprint. As soon as she got close, the door opened automatically. She crossed the last ten feet in one leap and sailed into the driver’s seat.
She grasped the controls and launched the vessel straight ahead. On the control panel, a screen displayed images from the reverse cameras. Mallory counted five motorcycles.
“Sorry, but I don’t feel like playing anymore!”
With these words, she pulled hard on the U-shaped helm. The aeroglider reared and shot toward the stars.
Torg was not happy at all. Jazz had just given him a full report. Not only had Mallory had a brush with death, but she had now continued on to Volda despite the unidentified ship in the vicinity.
Meanwhile, what was he doing? He was loafing around with Laorcq and Alrine looking for Vassili… His captain’s personal interest in the businessman only made matters worse. Endowed with a bestial protective instinct and a possessive streak, the cybrid was convinced the man was a creep who should be left behind as quickly as possible.
His bad mood manifested as an unusual silence. As they crossed the crowded esplanade, Laorcq addressed him.
&n
bsp; “Stop worrying about Mallory. It won’t change anything.”
Torg simply answered with a groan. Around them, a colorful crowd was going about its business: the excitement provoked by the shipyard’s destruction had already dissipated. The cybrid discovered that Solicor’s upper levels were inhabited by a variety of creatures with diverse origins, including a number of humans. The excellent reputation of Aldebaran’s ships attracted all kinds.
Here and there, small areas filled with plants and trees provided spots of color. Depending on the species, the leaves varied from light green to red by way of several shades of violet and blue.
Torg quite liked these islands of vegetation, but he hated the place’s ceiling: it was covered by a screen that was many thousands of feet square. It loomed over the immense esplanade, showing advertisements in a continuous loop.
Torg forced himself to look away from the monstrous display and turned his attention to his companions.
Thanks to Alrine’s credentials, an AI from the Gibral’s police force had informed them that Vassili’s navcom had been used to make a transaction. They set off as soon as they received the coordinates.
“We’re not very far,” the tall blonde confirmed. “I can’t wait to wrap up this case and to get back to the task Hanosk assigned us. I’ll be shocked if Cole Vassili has anything to do with the Vohrn ambassador’s bizarre behavior.”
When they arrived at their destination, they discovered a small establishment about thirty feet wide sitting along the square: a sort of café that was currently serving several humans.
Torg’s annoyance became anger: the man they sought sat calmly at a table, sipping an emerald-colored drink from a delicate crystal carafe. He seemed quite comfortable and did not look at all like he had been abducted.
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