The Tabit Genesis (15 page)

But I’m not actually
reacting
to anything; this is all just a script I’m following to an inevitable conclusion. She doesn’t know it yet, but the outcome has already been settled. This will end badly for her, right next to the same crate she ambushed me from.

I’ve always known how to handle myself in a fight. The academy told me I had the Gift.

The dance calls for me to bait her into thinking she can win by allowing some shots to land, but in reality I’m shifting enough to let the blow
just
miss the nerve endings she’s aiming for. The impacts still hurt, and, given my weakened state, do considerable damage. But not enough to incapacitate or prevent me from springing my trap, which begins with me pretending that she’s landed a savage kick to my kidney – which she actually does, except I’ve managed to put enough of my elbow in the way to absorb the worst of it – and in my mock agony I arch my head back, presenting all the meat of my neck for her to obliterate.

She looks young; almost certainly an overachiever; probably the brightest in her class and the most eager heroine for the most dangerous assignment; damnably inexperienced and possessing far too much confidence in her own skills. I catch the arm heading for my trachea, pivot, and break it clean through the skin at her elbow. Before she can shriek, I throw her face towards the crate, and with no arm to brace herself, the brutal impact knocks her unconscious.

When she collapses, I hear someone else breathing: a gurgling, muted, horrible sound. I track it towards a familiar-looking crate, open it, and there he is … blood trickling from a nose that looks like tenderised meat, and two terrified eyes only marginally relieved to see me.

‘Can you move?’ I ask.

‘I tink tho,’ Dusty splutters. ‘Sumting’s wong wit my node.’

I’m wincing at the sight of him.

‘I see that,’ I say, sliding my hands beneath his back to help him sit up. ‘Just breathe through your mouth.’

‘I wud wit sumone,’ he says, as I support his head. ‘Need to fund her. She mote be hurt—’

The upright position has shifted the fluids in his pulverised sinuses, and a chunky stew of crimson and cartilage gushes from his nostrils. Whatever did this to his face likely cracked his orbital as well, because I don’t like the way his right eye looks.

‘It’s over,’ I hear the Minotaur say. ‘Lower it. Two to come out. One casualty.’

‘Where the fuck have
you
been?’ I demand, turning away from Dusty. ‘All that tough talk and you’re a no-show?’

The Minotaur ignores me, and I hear a groan from the woman. He’s holding the gun that was kicked out of my hands.

‘Dusty,’ the Minotaur says, clearly. ‘Is this her?’

Dusty has a confused look on his face, but manages a nod.

The Minotaur smiles.

‘What’d your momma tell you about talking to strangers?’

Casually, the Minotaur fires once into her head. I hear Dusty gasp, about the same time as the wet, splatting noise of brains and bone concluded.

Then the Minotaur fires twice more; once in her heart, another directly in the face. Everything above her shoulders is pulp.

‘Why not?’ he shrugs, tossing the gun aside. ‘You killed two already.’

Fishing around my pockets, I find a smacker and offer it to Dusty. But he doesn’t answer, and just sits there taking fast, shallow breaths through his mouth, both hands trembling.

The tram is descending, and so am I.

I light up and inhale deeply.

Beyond the arena where Maez and Myrha Obyeran had battled for their command lances, a magnificent spaceport rose from the mottled grey regolith of Hyllus. The blue and yellow falcon of House Obyeran adorned the towering spires ringing the complex, which Al Khav had affectionately named The Forge. From its centre sprouted a space elevator whose terminus was the birthplace of every Lightspear since the first prototype. The sprawling station was a shipyard and manufacturing plant, and the primary port of call for all ships that arrived from the Inner Rim.

Nothing could approach The Forge under its own power. A strict customs line was enforced ten thousand kilometres away; every ship was required to halt there for boarding and inspection. If it passed, the vessel was towed in the rest of the way by Lightspears. If the freight was extraordinarily massive and it would be too costly or impractical to make a full stop, Lightspears intercepted the vessel in the Hades Terminus and performed a transit inspection mid-flight at speed, then escorted it all the way through burndown.

Any ship – or other ballistic entity, for that matter – that refused to stop, or could not slow down sufficiently, was atomised.

No precaution was too great. The Forge had taken five decades to build and was a national treasure to House Obyeran, in some ways more vital than the Lightspear fleet it had created. In time, it would become the launch point of a journey to the Ch1 Orionis AB system. King Masaad reflected on all the sacrifices it had taken to reach this moment. Everything he and his brothers had accomplished, rested on the outcome of what was about to transpire. The question of whether House Obyeran would continue on for generations, here and on another world, would be decided now.

It was all Masaad could do to maintain the steely exterior expected of a king.

He arrived by space elevator, surrounded by royal consorts and acolytes. When the doors opened, a phalanx of citizens cheered as rows of Guardians lined a path to where the two immaculately polished Lightspears, awash in floodlights that made him squint, rested beneath the gantry that would hoist them into the launch track.

Maez was in the closer one, and the boarding ramps were lowered. His crew, forbidden from accompanying him, were the last men and women assembled before Masaad reached the entrance, where he acknowledged their salutes with an approving nod. Once aboard, he walked briskly down the long narrow pathway towards the bridge. He found his son seated in the captain’s chair, encased in the chamber that would induce him to hypersleep. The area was dimly lit; none of the astronavigation displays that would normally fill the bridge were present. Without them, this place resembled a tomb, as all dead ships were, which suited the purpose of this trial for the highest honour of House Obyeran.

The two acolytes attending Maez bowed deeply as Masaad entered, leaving Maez’s helmet behind as they exited. Father and son were alone.

‘All hail the king,’ Maez said, lifting his restored arm. ‘Thanks for the hand.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Masaad said drily. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Aside from the unreachable itch in my crotch, good,’ his son said. ‘Today is a fine day to get lost in space, I suppose.’

Masaad wasn’t in the mood for his son’s sarcasm but did his best to take the higher ground.

‘Your wit never angered me,’ he said. ‘It was always the timing of it.’

‘Why? Is this a special occasion?’

‘The people gathered here seem to think so.’

‘They also gather at public executions,’ Maez said. ‘But there are worse spectacles to celebrate.’

‘This is no spectacle, Maez.’

‘Well, of course you don’t think so, but humour me anyway.’

‘This is an
honour
,’ Masaad said, exasperated. ‘A great moment for House Obyeran, and the people who look up to you.’

‘It’s a training exercise,’ Maez said. ‘Really, the crowd and cultural overtones are a bit much, don’t you think?’

‘We are a spacefaring culture,’ Masaad said, as Maez rolled his eyes. ‘But it will take more than words to convince them to leave here on an interstellar voyage. If you can pass this trial, it will demonstrate that they are being led by someone who knows the way.’

‘Did it ever occur to you the result could be a huge disappointment?’ Maez asked. ‘Only two have passed The Voyage Home, and they invented the bloody test.’

‘What are you implying?’

The humour vanished from Maez’s pale, square-jawed face.

‘I was wondering what the point of it all is when you’ve already chosen your successor.’

Masaad was taken aback.

‘That was no easy decision to make,’ he said.

‘Please,’ Maez dismissed. ‘I made it too easy for you. And besides, it was the right choice.’

Masaad was shocked. He had not spoken with Maez since The Rites, leaving him to heal and train – convenient reasons to delay what he had always assumed would be a difficult conversation.

‘Do you mean that?’

‘I’m not blind to my deficiencies,’ Maez said, his lips broadening into a smile. ‘You put them on display in arenas for everyone to judge.’

‘It … wouldn’t serve to only put one of you through this.’

‘I wouldn’t stand for that whether it suited you or not,’ Maez said, stretching his neck. ‘My sister is relentless, which is the mark of a good tax collector. She’ll make a fine queen someday.’

‘It makes me proud to hear you say that.’ Masaad beamed.

‘Proud?’ Maez said. ‘Relieved is more like it. You’d better hope at least one of us makes it back.’

‘You’re more prepared than I ever was,’ Masaad said. ‘Both of you will return.’

‘We’ll see,’ Maez said, nodding towards the helmet. ‘Would you be so kind?’

Masaad smiled, lifting it over his son’s head. As he lowered it, Maez stopped him.

‘For what it’s worth, I’m glad you came here,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

King Masaad left Maez’s Lightspear feeling elated.

Expecting defiance, he had found a supportive son instead. Now he was more confident than ever about his decision, and eager to see his beloved Myrha. With his chin held high, he strode purposefully down the aisle of Guardians leading to her Lightspear.

But upon reaching the bridge, he found the captain’s chair empty. Alarmed, he began working his way back towards the entrance ramp. Before he could reach there, he suddenly found himself staring down at a young acolyte whom he had given a very special task.

The anguish on her face said it all. His heart sank as Myrha stepped out from behind her, eyes cold as ice.

‘I’m sorry, your majesty,’ the acolyte said, tears streaming down her face as she hurried past.

Myrha, dressed in her armoured survival suit, was holding a datacore stack in her hand.

‘How could you?’ she demanded.

The modular, redundant design of the Lightspear placed CPUs capable of running the entire ship in every subsystem; each chip was paired with a datacore that recorded the performance metrics of the reactors, engines, astronavigational computations; essentially every heartbeat of the ship from the moment it was powered on. For the trial, these stacks were erased and a random number of CPUs removed, simulating their destruction in an emergency. Without the datacores, which also contained the base instructions for operating the ship, the captain would have to restore systems manually, in essence teaching the ship how to fly all over again.

Masaad had instructed the acolyte – Myrha’s personal servant, and a familiar face on her ship – to slip datacores with full operating instructions onto her Lightspear so that it would be almost completely functional from the moment she awakened, all but rigging the trial’s outcome.

‘
Why?
’ Myrha hissed.

‘Because you must not fail,’ he answered solemnly.

‘Did you do the same to my brother’s Lightspear?’ she asked.

‘No.’

Myrha clenched her mailed fist around the chip and pulverised it.

‘It makes no difference,’ he said. ‘You will succeed.’

‘Have you been feigning trust in me all this time?’ she demanded.

‘The fate of our House rests with you,’ he answered. ‘My intent was to ease the burden.’

‘By
cheating
?’

‘By ensuring the people of House Obyeran believe in you. A wise ruler would swallow her pride for the good of the kingdom she serves.’

‘There’s no honour in this!’

‘Myrha, there are times when the perception of honour will better serve your interests. If you mean to rule, you must learn to lie.’

‘How often have you lied to me?’ she asked. ‘Or to Maez? To your brothers?’

Masaad took a deep breath.

‘When facing defeat in battle, a captain who speaks the truth is less effective than one who claims he can still win, no matter the odds,’ he said. ‘The lie inspires hope, Myrha. We teach our warriors that you must know fear to be brave. The
perception
of confidence is indistinguishable from true faith. The people of House Obyeran must see you make The Voyage Home before they follow you to our new world. That is paramount.’

‘They will learn the truth!’ she snapped. ‘What then?’

‘No one will learn of this, I promise you.’

‘Why should I trust you?’ she asked.

‘Because you should never doubt how much I love you,’ he answered.

Myrha smashed her fist into the console rack holding other datacores and CPUs.

‘I will tear this ship apart,’ she growled, ripping out a chunk of mangled electronics and waving them at Masaad. ‘You may have cheated your way to power, but I refuse to follow your example. I will
earn
the respect of House Obyeran, not deceive them into it!’

Masaad willed himself not to panic.

‘The trial cannot be passed,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s impossible.’

Her handful of wrecked equipment fell to the deck.

‘What?’ she snarled.

‘Myrha, the odds of surviving an accident that cripples power, propulsion or life support—’

‘I know the odds, the Lightspear was made to beat them!’

‘Some odds cannot be overcome,’ Masaad admitted. ‘Given enough time, every ship is a tomb. If we are to reach further than any before us, then nothing gives us more hope than the Lightspear. Some of us won’t survive the journey. But no one will even try unless they know the odds were overcome once before.’

‘Al Khav overcame them!’ Myrha protested, with less conviction now.

‘And no one will ever see him here again,’ Masaad said. ‘You are the one we must follow.’

Never before had he seen such anguish in his daughter.

‘The Voyage Home is a test of fortitude,’ he explained, choosing his words with care. ‘It measures your resolve, resourcefulness, and perseverance. It tests your faith in the technology, the ship, and yourself. It builds a legacy around the Lightspear, and the commander destined to lead our fleet.’

‘So The Voyage Home is a lie,’ she whispered.

‘A necessary one,’ he acknowledged. ‘But yes.’

She leaned against the console, her eyes glazed over.

‘I’ve prepared for this my entire life …’

King Masaad clasped his hands, pacing as he spoke.

‘There were dark days, when the
Tabit Genesis
arrived here in Orionis,’ he began. ‘Imagine, my brothers and I, huddled among the last of us. Our survival relied entirely on technology and those who produced it. Right from the start, the same power structures that had ruined Earth began to reassert themselves.

‘We left because we believed humanity had to pursue several paths at once. Democracy was one way. But the path we chose could not be obstructed by politics or corporate greed. A House culture was appropriate because our vision would take centuries to realise. Stability and unity of purpose were critical. The Obyeran line, our genetic dynasty, aided by our own innovations, would lead the quest for mankind’s survival.

‘In truth, my brothers and I were terrified of leaving the Inner Rim. Convincing people to follow us … Myrha, we had to lie about the odds. We had to promise what could never be reached in a lifetime. We told people they could return if things went wrong. We built freighters and filled them with everything we needed to start over, and just like the
Tabit Genesis
, we began a one-way journey.

‘Your mother was the only one I confided in. She lifted me whenever the doubt took hold. She knew better than anyone what it takes to lead, and she believed in what we were doing! None of this would have been possible without her. And if she were here right now, she would tell you, as she once told me, that you have to make yourself into something more than what you really are. If you want people to follow you, you have to reach greatness beyond what you’re capable of. You have to become more than human. And to do that … you have to cheat.’

‘No …’ Myrha began.

Masaad shook his head.

‘Myrha, what is legend?’ he asked. ‘Every hero in every mythology that ever was gets that magic token from the gods; a mysterious saviour always appears when no hope remains to show the hero a path forward. So it is with our culture. To reach our world, you must become legend. As your father … it was my duty to help you reach greatness.’

Myrha was elsewhere. Her eyes were distant, her expression blank. After a few moments, she began walking towards the bridge.

Masaad gently took her arm as she passed.

‘Myrha, I beg you, please let this take its course,’ he implored. ‘No matter what you destroy in here … the outcome is settled.’

His daughter gazed on him with sheer contempt.

‘Leave me,’ she whispered.

Masaad felt a stab in his heart.

‘As you wish,’ he said, letting go.

King Masaad watched as the procession of Lightspears departed. Before they vanished, he saw them split into two groups, each following a different course, accelerating into the void.

Over and over he cursed himself, and there was no hiding his distress this time. He had personally seen to it that the test conditions were favourable for Myrha. It was a plot years in the making, done so discreetly that the Guardians would never question the randomised damage simulations to each ship or the locations where each Lightspear would be towed to. One more encoded datacore stack wouldn’t have made a shred of difference, but he had still gone through the trouble of enlisting the acolyte to sneak one on board. Just one more redundancy, one more edge, one more parcel of insurance to guarantee Myrha’s success … and why not? This transcended the bond between father and daughter. The future of the House was at stake!