The IX (12 page)

The room spun, and everything went dark. A brilliant point of light appeared directly overhead. No sooner had he seen it than Mac was sucked into a maelstrom of scintillating horizons.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Salt in the Wound

Commander Saul Cameron scrutinized the latest findings with growing concern. To say what he saw troubled him was an understatement. Ruminating for a moment, he widened the holo-field of his projector and incorporated the results of similar reports from the previous six years. For the next five minutes, his eyes flicked from side to side as he compared the multitude of charts and graphs.

“Mohammed. Are these estimates accurate?” he mumbled, without shifting his gaze from the confusing mass of facts and figures before him.

“I’m afraid they are, Sir,” Mohammed Amine replied. “If degradation continues at its current rate, we’ll be unable to sustain viable crop rotation within three years. Four at the most. Livestock will last longer than that, but without a varied diet, quality will suffer.”

“Sentinel!” Saul snapped. “Does the Architect have any suggestions as to how we can reverse, or at least delay the . . . the slow death that’s being projected here?”

“I’m sorry, Commander,” the custodian replied cheerily, “but I have been unable to extrapolate that information. The calculations required are as infinite as they are complex. Remember, since the siege began, Rhomane’s choice of bio-templates has been severely limited. We have to utilize what we have very carefully to maintain the delicate balance of nutrients, minerals and trace elements. Add to that the harsh reality we face of a gradually diminishing herd stock and you can appreciate the factors that need considering before we even think of suggesting an official resolution.”

Sighing heavily, Saul flopped back in his seat and massaged the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. His voice was heavy with resignation. “I don’t suppose Calen is available? I could do with his gut instincts right now.”

“Calen’s avatar is still engaged with our fresh candidates,” the sentinel responded, “however, I will convey your request via main-stem.”

Saul bit down his frustration. He knew it was no use arguing with the Architect. His request was logged in the AI’s nervous system now, and would remain there until the Archive felt inclined to free the stored sum of Arden’s former scientific champion from what it felt were more pressing matters.

“Very well,” he muttered, “just leave us a précis of what we’ve been delivered this time, and I’ll give our imminent starvation greater thought tomorrow. Hopefully by then you’ll have something more constructive to add.”

“Very well, Commander. Downloading data to your console . . . now.”

Having completed its task, the construct disappeared, leaving the two men alone to stare at each other in bemused silence. Neither wanted to be the first to acknowledge this latest development, which was sure to be viewed as another nail in their collective coffin lid.

Leaning slowly forward, Saul placed two great hands on the desktop. Made of native orach wood, its color and texture reminded him of a compelling blend of both mahogany and oak. Tough, resilient, and full of character.

Exactly the qualities I need to display now, more than ever.

Swiveling in his chair, he reached down, tugged open the bottom drawer, and removed two, elaborately designed, quartz tumblers. Saul placed them on the table before him. As he chewed things over, he twirled them between his fingers, absentmindedly watching as the sun refracted along the keen edges of the glass.

His mind made up, Saul dipped again, a squat block of a decanter clutched tightly in his grasp. The rich amber liquid within it also caught the light, and flickered through subtle hues of topaz, gold, and ochre. Holding the fiery beverage before him, he raised an eyebrow toward his companion. “Join me?”

“Make it a double,” Mohammed replied. “I think I’m going to need it after
that
news.”

Pouring two generous measures, Saul handed one to his friend and tapped glasses. A satisfactory
clink
echoed around the room as the heavy crystal kissed. “To absent friends,” he murmured.

“Absent friends.”

Taking a gulp, Saul savored the satin smooth burn of the potent spirit now working its way toward his stomach. It put him in a reflective mood. “How long have we known each other, Mohammed?”

“Altogether? Ten years, why?”

Saul swirled his drink around as he reminisced over former times. “Ten years. Such a short space of time when you think about it. But we’ve been through so much together, haven’t we? The Tyrian Colony uprising of 2339, where you were first assigned to my command. The Breach of Pintus 12 the following year. Operation Trident, which ended the war in 2342. Then, just when you thought you’d seen the last of me, I go and get chosen as commander of the Pegasus Dwarf Galaxy expedition. The very latest design in deep space starships to play with. New experimental Light-Drive engines to test over the long haul. And they gave me a choice as to who I’d like as my executive officer. I remember thinking, what fool would love to throw a safe and secure life in civvy street away, to come and accompany me on a one-way mission to another world in a different galaxy? Who would be crazy enough to want to join one thousand five hundred other souls, encased in four hundred million tons of metal, hurtling through the void in excess of the speed of light in suspended animation? Of course, I immediately thought of you —”

“Why, thank you!” Mohammed saluted him with his tumbler.

“And so, we all went to sleep in 2345, expecting to wake up thirty years later in orbit around our new home. And where do we end up?”

“A lot, lot further away,” Mohammed murmured, staring off into space, “in time, anyway.” His gaze hardened. “But do you know what really gets me about all this, Sir? It’s the fact I didn’t have a choice. Yes, I know we volunteered for a one-way trip. And yes, I understand we would have all died, ten months out, as we accelerated into the meteor storm that led to our transference here. It’s just so damned frustrating not having any . . . any . . .”

“. . . control over your own destiny?” Saul offered, knowing exactly how his friend was feeling. “Because I know for a fact some of the crew would have chosen oblivion and release, rather than the endless nightmare of existing here for the last two years.”

“Amen to that!” Mohammed raised his glass again, this time for a refill.

As he poured, Saul continued, “But what really sticks in my craw is the fact that we’ve been through all that. Cheated fate on numerous occasions. Skipped certain death by being selected to come here. Faced countless assaults from the Horde. And now we face defeat from starvation, just because some genius in the past didn’t think to leave a wide enough source reservoir for the replicators to get their base samples from. I tell you, Mohammed. I feel as if someone’s taking a huge dump on us from a great height.”

“I don’t think it was Calen’s, or anybody’s fault, come to that,” Mohammed said quietly. “What the Ardenese did was a stroke of brilliance. Who’d have thought their survival would come down to a simple war of attrition
after
they’d entered the Ark? The livestock and grains they left should have been sufficient for survivors to be able to guarantee suitable replenishment. But things don’t always go as planned, eh?”

“Until now, perhaps?” Easing back his top drawer with one hand, Saul removed an oilcloth-covered item. Placing it on the desk between them, he leaned forward and flicked back the folds, one at a time, until its contents were finally revealed. An old Webley .445 break-top revolver from the early twentieth century. World War One vintage. “Who would have thought such an antiquated weapon might hold the key to our salvation?”

Setting his glass down, Saul lifted the gun, flipped a catch and watched as the drum and barrel fell forward. His gaze came to rest on the remaining bullets.
Just three.

Sighing, he flicked his wrist, and the housing snapped back together with a satisfying
clunk!
Saul caressed his thumb up and down the side of the revolver and listened to the satisfying click of the chamber as it echoed around the stillness of the room.
But one’s enough.

“You look as if you’ve made your mind up about something,” Mohammed stated.

“I have, my friend.” He replaced the gun on the tabletop. “It’s all down to this outdated little relic here, which reminded us all so poignantly that progress isn’t always to our advantage. You can’t blame the Architect, or course. It naturally selected the first candidates from temporal references as close to the Ardenese level of development as possible, thinking that technological sophistication would be the key to salvation. But as they, and successive waves discovered, it was a false hope. Energy-based weapons only fed the Horde, strengthening them as it stirred their savagery to new heights.” Saul nodded at the little piece of history in front of him. “It was blind luck that Simon brought this through with him on the seventh intake. An heirloom, passed on from father to son for hundreds of years. Cherished and kept in pristine condition. And just as well, for who could have guessed that centuries later, on a world far, far away from home, a descendent would resort to using it in panic, only to witness its devastating results just before he died?” 
And it was blind luck too, that I happened to be there to witness his sacrifice, or we’d still all be stumbling around like fools in the dark.

“So that’s why you asked the Architect to focus on a regressive timeframe?” The realization set Mohammed’s eyes alight. “And it also explains the unusual hiatus we’ve enjoyed over these past few months.”

“Precisely! If we’re going to survive, we’ve got to take the fight to them. Before, that would have been impossible. The Horde would have eaten us alive. But now? This last intake might be just what we need to turn the tide, even if they aren’t what we expected.”

Mohammed leaned forward. “How goes the induction?”

“Interesting would be the word I’d use.” A wry smile graced Saul’s face in a rare moment of humor. “It would appear we have candidates from a very wide spectrum . . .” Bringing a more detailed précis up on the screen, Saul skimmed the basics, “. . . ranging from the first through to the twenty-first century. Quite a mix, especially when you realize it’s been spiced up by the inclusion of a whole bunch of natural antagonists.”

“What? Combatants from
both
sides have been included?”

“Oh yes. As I say, it’ll make things quite volatile until they’ve had a chance to calm down.”

“Do you envisage any serious problems? You know I hate handling disciplinary matters.”

“That’s why I campaigned to have you elected as my second-in-command, old friend. You don’t like it, which makes you exactly the right candidate for the job.” Saul sat back again and retrieved his drink. “But to answer your question. No, I don’t see you having too much difficulty. Their mutual antipathy aside, I think an early introduction to our friends outside will help refocus all that aggression in the right direction. Don’t you?”

Mohammed didn’t look convinced.

Saul had an idea. “Look, it indicates here, the respective leaders of each faction should be through the first phase soon. Why don’t you see if Doctor Solram is free? Ayria is the longest lasting survivor of any of us. She, more than anyone, can emphasize what’s at stake. Then, while you’re giving them the grand tour, make sure they witness how close we are to the edge. Waning crops. Dwindling livestock. The new skills everyone has to learn. All that devastation on the other side of the wall. Once they see the benefits of mutual cooperation far outweigh their former petty disputes, we’ll have them onside soon enough.”

“And if not?”

“Well, I’ll leave the mechanics up to you, but make it clear to each and every single one of them that we can’t afford to have loose cannons in our society.
Their
actions will directly govern
our
choice.”

“Choice?”

“Yes. Leave no one in any doubt that how they act will help us decide which side of the wall they get to live on.”

“Ouch! That’ll rub salt in the wound.”

“I do hope so, Mohammed. I really do hope so.”

*

Stained-With-Blood sat cross-legged on the floor of his sparsely furnished room. Staring wide-eyed off into space, he saw nothing of his surroundings. Neither did he give conscious thought to the sharpening stone he was repeatedly grazing along the razor-keen edge of his tomahawk, Heaven’s-Claw. Instead, he was consumed by the vision quest now spreading its tendrils through his mind.

Reciting an ancient mantra as he soared, Stained-With-Blood let the intuitive rhythms generated by his actions guide him to the spirits.

The air wavered, and before he could fully appreciate what had happened, Stained-With-Blood found himself atop a wide, barren plateau. An old warrior squatted on the ground near the precipice, staring out at the plains below and the setting sun in the distance. To one side, a huge roaring fire saluted the darkening sky with its light and warmth. Walking toward the elder, Stained-With-Blood struggled to recognize the stranger’s identity. The flickering glow added fluidity to the brave’s features, which caused them to ripple as the shadows increased.

As he drew closer, recognition caused Stained-With-Blood to halt mid-stride.
Napioa! The Old Man himself is here.
As quietly as possible, Stained-With-Blood moved to sit next to the Father Creator. Whatever happened now, he knew he must remain silent and still in order for the vision to unfold.

Napioa let the dying rays of the setting sun stream across the landscape, forming contrasts of magnificent hue. He took no notice, for his eyes were focused beyond the veil between life and death. A wind sprang into existence, its fetid breath hot and stale. It lashed at the aged warrior without letup, continuing its rampage until the world had fallen dark and the moon was high in the sky. Yet nothing could ruin the Creator’s composure. To Stained-With-Blood, the Old Man looked to be waiting for a sign.