The Tabit Genesis (5 page)

As the gaping hangar bay of Merckon Prime filled her view, Viola wondered what it must be like to see them up close. Her father was right: to unravel the mysteries of the Arkady, a journey to the gas giant was inevitable. There was little more to learn from the frozen fragments of specimens that miners returned to the Inner Rim with.

Soaring past the outer barrier, the Legatta turned toward a cluster of long, half-transparent columns jutting out from the bay walls. Each was lined with docking collars set at even intervals, with groups designated for different shuttle classes. Almost every one was occupied, and even more craft were taxiing in behind her. As the autopilot rotated the craft to align with an empty spot, she noticed an older woman in business attire waiting for her near the airlock. Short and sturdy-looking, she wore a Merckon ID badge, and her jet-black hair was slicked into dreads fastened to her broad shoulders.

Viola glanced at a mirror one last time, then activated the hatch. As it rushed open, the woman thrust her hand inside.

‘Dr Silveri,’ she said. Her eyes were vacant and cold. ‘I’m Mighan, your new assistant.’

Viola took her hand firmly.

‘Hello, Mighan, nice to meet—’

‘Right this way please,’ Mighan interrupted, stepping aside and leading with a hand towards the dock tram. ‘Mr Mareck is waiting for you.’

Viola’s heart skipped a beat, although she was becoming annoyed with the curt demeanour of her new ‘assistant’.

‘What else is on the agenda?’ she asked, as the tram began racing towards the main concourse.

Mighan seemed completely uninterested in making conversation.

‘After your meeting with Mr Mareck, you have a blood transfusion scheduled for 0900. At 1100, the CFO wants to discuss your budget proposal. You’re expected to begin your work immediately after.’

The tram slowed inside the main concourse. Like Luminosity, Merckon Prime was a Stanford torus design, only instead of orchards and rivers there were buildings and avenues, with the occasional tree or garden to break the arch of city blocks curving high overhead. Three of the station’s four district arcologies were Merckon property; much of the corporation’s manufacturing capacity and business operations was located here. The fourth district was devoted entirely to housing, and was where many of the company’s employees lived. The tram had taken her directly to Merckon Centre, the tallest building in the station; its ornate pinnacle nearly reached the central hub. Towering waterfalls cascaded down either side of the stairs leading up to the main entrance, where a statue of Mace Merckon stood.

Everywhere Viola looked, people hurried about. Men in suits discussed projects with engineers dressed in sterile scrubs and EVA gear. A teacher led a group of young pupils away from the platform, as more tram cars filled with commuters arrived. Pairs of security guards milled through the crowds, offering friendly greetings and the occasional direction. As the door opened, a series of personalised advertisements for cosmetics and shuttle craft appeared in mid-air; Mighan marched right through them, motioning for Viola to hurry.

By the time they reached the top steps, the Merckon assistant was laboring with breath but still pressed on urgently. The lobby was an arboretum; lush vegetation hung from sculpted containers suspended at varying heights from the ceiling. They had just reached the glass elevators when a voice called out from behind them.

‘Dr Silveri?’

Viola turned to find a familiar face that always took a moment to process. Wegan Lark, a maintenance administrator whose sole responsibility was to keep the Merckon facility clean, had set aside his equipment to speak with her. He was a mutant, and a severely disfigured one. Old Wegan had spent his better years aboard a gas harvester orbiting Zeus, and all that belt radiation awoke the dormant cancers within him. Boils the size of lemons deformed his brow, pushing his eyes apart from one another. If not for the blood transfusions and gene therapy that every firstborn was entitled to, he would have died long ago.

He went out of his way to greet Viola every day, and she thought him very sweet and kind.

‘Good morning, Wegan!’ she beamed. It was difficult to know which of his eyes to address.

‘I heard about your promotion,’ Wegan muttered, with a hint of sadness. ‘I just wanted to wish you the best of luck.’

Viola flushed with appreciation.

‘Aw, thank you!’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll still—’

‘Stop wasting your breath on him,’ Mighan interrupted. ‘Keep moving.’

Viola shot her a glance that might have pierced steel, and Wegan slunk away.

‘If Mr Mareck learns you were late because you felt a mutant’s time was more important than his, it won’t bode well for you,’ Mighan warned, her arm extended. ‘This way, please.’

Wegan didn’t dare turn back. Mutants were never treated well, but this was outrageous. Viola held her tongue, but by the time they reached the elevator, she could no longer restrain herself.

‘Mighan, what exactly is your problem?’ she fumed, as the car rocketed up. ‘Your attitude is completely unacceptable, and it needs to change right now.’

Viola waited for a response, but none came. The elevator came to rest and Mighan stared at her, expressionless, for a few long moments.

‘This way, please,’ she said, as the doors opened. ‘Mr Mareck is waiting.’

Viola’s temper was ready to boil over when a man’s deep voice rang out.

‘Dr Silveri,’ Travis Mareck said, stepping in front of them. Tall and muscular, he wore a beige-coloured, tight-fitting sweater that exposed much of his neck and chest, and charcoal slacks made from fine linen. His eyes were light green with flecks of grey in them, and they were blatantly drinking her in.

‘Mighan’s role is to supervise and assist your production of zenomorph research,’ he said. ‘She reports to you but answers to me. Her small talk is awful but you’ll find her more than capable. Will that be a problem?’

His eyes never left hers as, cautiously, Viola took his hand.

‘No, sir,’ she said.

‘Good. That suit isn’t flattering,’ he said, ‘though it’s more interesting than the lab scrubs you usually wear. Let’s see your new office.’

Despite being a household name in Orionis, few people had ever seen Travis Mareck in person. Until now, Viola had considered herself fortunate for the privilege. But there was an allure to him that transcended the simple fact that he was extremely powerful. He was presenting her with a different sort of challenge, she realised, and that provoked her own competitiveness. A mix of ancient ethnicities predating the formation of UNSEC flowed through his veins; he was as close to a living, breathing person of Earth as it was genetically possible to achieve. To some, that made him a god. Most people saw huge projections of him on virtual adverts or speaking on the news net, metastasising his larger-than-life stature. Somehow he seemed even more magnificent – and pathetic – in person.

Mighan was first into the office, which struck Viola as underwhelming. It offered an impressive view of the curving cityscape, but little else; a burgundy-coloured desk and an ergonomic chair were the only furnishings.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Travis said. ‘But looks are deceiving.’

Mighan stood behind the desk, and with a subtle hand movement raised a volumetric display. Then the room erupted with more of them. There was barely anywhere left to stand that wasn’t awash in imagery or data.

‘Welcome to your virtual lab,’ he said, sitting casually on the desk. ‘Everything you could possibly need to perform your work is located right here, in this room. And if we’ve missed anything, Mighan will take care of it in short order, isn’t that right?’

‘Yes, Mr Mareck,’ she answered.

‘What about working with physical samples?’ Viola asked.

‘Also done from here,’ Travis said. ‘Your lab clearance was revoked. From now on, a machine will hold the scalpels for you.’

Viola was taken aback.

‘Revoked?’

Travis flashed a broad smile.

‘You represent a large investment for me,’ he said, motioning for her to be seated. ‘These steps are necessary to protect it. There’s been a plague of industrial espionage. In my experience, proactive measures are the best defence.’

As she took her seat, Mighan left the room, and the door shut. Travis shifted so that his legs were just about touching the armrests on her chair.

‘I’ll be watching you closely,’ he said. ‘It’s for your own good. From here, all your work will be meticulously logged. So I’ll never have any reason to suspect you of any mischief that happens, in the lab or anywhere else.’

‘I’m grateful for the opportunity,’ Viola said, ‘I believe very strongly in the potential of this research.’

‘As do I’ Travis said, checking his immaculate fingernails. I’ve known your father for many years. He’s a good man, and I can see the same devotion in you. Both of you have served Merckon well, and for that I am … satisfied. For now.’

The Merckon CEO leaned in closer.

‘No doubt he warned you about the sacrifices you’ll have to make,’ he said, his eyes moving up and down the length of her. ‘No doubt old Klaus left you well equipped to deal with challenges. He always was thorough.’

Viola held his stare for a few moments.

‘Thank you, Mr Ma—’

‘Travis,’ he said, rising as the door to the office opened. ‘Just call me Travis. But only when we’re alone.’

‘Captain Lyons? It’s time.’

The words startled Wyllym from a deep, dreamless state, and the sudden movement sent his sleeping bag churning in the microgravity until the restraining tether pulled it taut. He could feel himself being tugged gently towards the bridge; the ship was slowing down.

‘You’re welcome to the view from up here,’ the intercom continued.

‘Alright,’ he grumbled, unzipping the bag and wrestling out, brushing against other restraints floating in the cabin. The trip to Corinth Naval Yards was a sixteen-hour burn from Tabit Prime, and Wyllym had slept for most of it. Squinting through a weary haze, he spotted his mag greaves clinging to the metal deck, fastened to a small travel case with his personal items. Everything he owned might have fit inside. Other than uniforms, medals for valour and some harsh memories, he had little else to show for his long career in the Orionis Navy.

The Gryphon training regime was a brutal affair, exhausting him and his students to the point of collapse. Even though he resented Admiral Hedricks for calling him to the
Archangel
in person, the respite was welcome. Wyllym’s greying hair was cut too short to need combing, and white stubble spread across his gaunt jaw like a dusting of snow. Every bone in his thin, angular frame ached and the whites of his steel-grey eyes were splotched with patches of blood. The flight manoeuvres he led with the Gryphon cadets were taxing enough even once per week, but the stress of multiple sessions per day was literally killing him.

The mere act of pulling his greaves on was painful. But for his own healing abilities and the genetic therapy the Navy administered to speed recovery he could already be dead. Every evasive manoeuvre unleashed crushing G-forces that, depending on the skill of his target, could last for minutes on end. Worse still was having only peripheral awareness of the damage his body was absorbing during the exercises. Only when the helmet was removed, and the Gryphon technology that blocked his brain’s ability to process pain was disengaged, did the full agony reveal itself. Most pilots lost consciousness, and all needed to be carried from their craft.

Wyllym swallowed his pride and opted to float towards the bridge instead of walking. He would never let his students see him like this, but here on the ONW
Belgrade
, it made no difference. The crew had been courteous when he boarded, but he had caught their stares and muted conversations. He was the first Gryphon pilot they had ever seen, and not at all what they were expecting.

Reaching for the painkillers that he had abused for too long, he wondered what this crew of privileged firstborns would think of the Gryphons after seeing a few more of their battered pilots. The programme was just one of many curses from the Archangel, and Wyllym had hoped to never board her. But Admiral Vadim Hedricks cared as much for Wyllym’s personal preferences as he did for malignant tumours. Wyllym could think of no reason why the Admiral had summoned him in person. At worst, it was showmanship, a pathological need to demonstrate total command over everything.

At best, it was to relieve him of command.

The wishful thought accompanied a burst of narcotic inhalants, sending a rush tingling down Wyllym’s spine. His legs floating freely, he pulled himself into a narrow passageway that ran the length of the corvette’s centreline. The
Belgrade
’s
engineering officer was clomping her way back to the engine room in greaves when Wyllym emerged.

‘Ten, hut!’ the engineer proclaimed, snapping a crisp salute.

‘As you were,’ Wyllym mumbled, coasting forward. The young woman opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Wyllym was grateful; he was in no mood to converse but did not want to be rude. He passed by without another word, gliding over the thick bulkhead separating the engine room and its fusion reactor from the main compartments.

The
Belgrade
was a Keating-class corvette, the workhorse of the Orionis Navy fleet. From above, she looked like a long, flat arrowhead; at the end of each of her ‘wings’ were oversized, cylinder-shaped vectored plasma thrusters that could swivel in almost any direction. She was eighty metres long from bow to stern, and less than half as wide, covered in a quilt of grey and white armour plating all over her hull. Beneath her keel was the main drive, an ion pulse engine that could push her to velocities approaching a quarter of the speed of light. Her smooth contours tapered into the hangar at the stern, large enough to house a boarding tug or a rear-facing point-defence gun turret.

Wyllym remembered when there were just a few of these magnificent ships in existence, long before cruisers or even frigates existed. The Inner Rim was teeming with warships now, and it was near impossible to pass by a station or outpost without seeing one. In Wyllym’s mind, Orionis had been better off when there were fewer ships flying around
,
before men like Vadim Hedricks rose to power.

The corvette was more of an interceptor than anything; excellent at chasing down speedy shuttles or mid-burn heavy freighters and disabling them with virus bombs and mass driver cannons. Maybe it could chase off a few light gunships or another corvette. In those scenarios it came down to the skill of the crew and their pain threshold. Against a frigate, if the captain was very talented and could get in close, she might even last a few minutes.

But if a corvette engaged a Gryphon, she would be obliterated without ever knowing what hit her.

The bridge hatch slid open before Wyllym could knock on it.

‘Please.’ Captain Yoto Ishiin gestured. ‘Take the engineer’s seat.’

Like most of the crew compartments, the bridge was crammed into a tight space. Captain Ishiin stood before the projected viewscreen, surrounded by volumetric ship telemetry. There was barely enough room to accommodate his height, and he wasn’t an especially tall man. He had Eurasian features; thick, dark, perfectly combed hair, dark narrow eyes and a lean, athletic build. His smooth, cleanly shaven face seemed incapable of growing a beard.

Wyllym lowered himself into the seat as the hatch closed behind him.

‘If you don’t mind my saying,’ Captain Ishiin remarked, taking his chair at the head of the bridge, ‘you look like hell.’

Wyllym’s eyes did a casual sweep of the instrumentation, absorbing the ship’s data without even being fully aware of it. His mind sensed that the
Belgrade
was operating normally, but the ship’s velocity was too high for an approach to Corinth. But he decided not to ask questions just yet.

‘It’s the mileage that gets to you,’ Wyllym said, stretching out. ‘Not so much the years.’

The
Belgrade
captain regarded him thoughtfully. Judging from his appearance, Wyllym guessed he was three times the man’s age.

‘The crew would love to speak with you, but I’ve ordered them to respect your privacy,’ Yoto said. ‘When they heard you were coming aboard—’

‘When they heard
who
was coming aboard?’ Wyllym interrupted, deciding he didn’t care for the young captain. ‘Hedricks warned you not to say.’

‘They recognised you at port,’ Yoto said, with a slight smile.

‘Didn’t realise I was famous,’ Wyllym grumbled. ‘I’ll talk to anyone you want, but I can’t answer questions about the Gryphons.’

‘Oh, they know that,’ Yoto said. ‘They just want to meet the highest ranking ghost in the Navy.’

Wyllym narrowed his eyes at the man.

From the day it was founded, the Orionis Navy had run a strict firstborns-only culture – until the elected government forced them to allow lowborn recruits. Reluctantly, they accepted, restricting promotions to administrative roles only. Captain Wyllym Lyons, however, had broken down one heritage barrier after another, becoming the first lowborn officer on a combat ship, the first to be awarded a command, the first to record combat kills, and the first to receive Navy medals for valour. But his promotions drew the ire of a culture programmed to mistrust anyone who didn’t represent a direct link to Old Earth.

By the time the original wave of firstborns reached adult age, the colony was capable of supporting a much larger population. A third torus had been constructed around the
Tabit Genesis
, and the lunar camps on the Eileithyian moons were now producing their own food. To encourage growth, the Orionis government passed the Heritage Act. Highborns were urged to have more children, and incentivised their eldest sons or daughters to spread out beyond the space now known as Tabit Prime.

Under the new law, the Orionis government guaranteed firstborns and their children access to basic necessities such as food, healthcare, education, and employment as a fundamental right of citizenship. To encourage exploration and development, each was granted access to emerging technology, manufacturing capacity, ships and specialised equipment suited to their area of expertise. This was a debt-free loan: a single chance to wield these assets in the creation of a sustainable enterprise that could help Orionis expand.

The policy was intended to promote the growth of communities, commerce, and self-reliance. Some of the largest corporations now existing began with the Heritage Act in 2665. But even with no restrictions on breeding, the rate of growth was still too slow for ageing highborns who wanted to see a stronger resurgence of the human race. An impassioned plea to repopulate the species was heard throughout Orionis, driving the commitment of scientific resources to find ways to accelerate human reproduction. By 2667, amniosynthesis was created: the ability to grow human embryos to term inside a machine.

The passage of the Amniosynth Charter decreed that the technology and access to the human gene bank of the
Tabit Genesis
be made available to any firstborn on the condition that they demonstrate the means to raise children responsibly and to provide the same basic rights that Heritage granted to firstborn citizens. Some corporations took this charge with great care. Sadly, many others did not. Failed ventures, accidents, and outright neglect or abuse left a generation of amniosynths orphaned, and the resulting humanitarian crisis taxed the resources of Orionis and corporations to breaking point.

Many amniosynths, particularly those created beyond the planet Eris, were born with defects. Without basic rights, they were unable to procure the blood transfusions they needed to recover from the radiation damage sustained by working in space, particularly around Zeus and the Great Belt. The government could not – or would not, depending on the political perspective – amend the Heritage Act to include them. They became known as ghosts: human beings without a true biological mother or father, with neither rights nor place in a society ruled by last living connections to Earth.

But the lowborns fortunate enough to be taken in by noble corporations thrived. Some banded together and formed the first privateer corporations: those with no ties to Orionis, free of government taxes, able to conduct trade with any party they chose.

Wyllym was the third child born to ghosts who owned property on the agricultural moon Peleus, where he spent his childhood in vast subterranean caverns excavated beneath an airless surface. Water drawn from underground streams and reservoirs irrigated crops grown on imported Merckon soil. Sunlight harvested from orbital solar arrays powered artificial illuminators in the caverns below, nourishing the fields and prized livestock commodities that thrived there.

The workdays were long and backbreaking. But Wyllym never complained, and his own aspirations were never more ambitious than to own his own farming outpost someday. His brother Rob was of similar demeanour, a simple man who loved getting his hands dirty. But with the blessings of his parents, his sister Amie sold her share of the business and moved to the Inner Rim to pursue a corporate career in finance; her gift for numbers would have been wasted tilling soil on a Heran moon.

For Wyllym, life on Peleus was fulfilling. And it came to a horrifying end all too soon.

‘Where I’m from, the word “ghost” is rude,’ Wyllym growled. ‘But your ship, your mouth, your rules.’

‘My sincerest apologies,’ Yoto said, sounding like he meant it. ‘Truly, I meant no offence. Forgive my ignorance, but what is the correct way to address—’

‘‘”People”.’
Wyllym glared. ‘Human beings who weren’t born with privileges. I’m sure that’s what you meant.’

‘That’s what makes your accomplishments all the more impressive,’ Yoto said, leaning forward as though fascinated by the musings of a toddler. Wyllym sighed. The crew’s order to stay mute didn’t apply to the captain, it seemed.

‘The competition to make the rank of captain … how did you …?’

Wyllym knew he was trying bait him into talking about the Gift.

‘By earning it,’ he said.

Captain Ishiin was undeterred.

‘But
how
, exactly, were you able to defeat so many of your—’

‘I was better than all of them at one thing,’ Wyllym said.

‘Fighting?’

‘Teaching,’ Wyllym said. ‘By taking heritage out of the mix and training my squadron to work as one.’

Captain Ishiin seemed disappointed at first, then his face brightened.

‘What was it like, battling Ceti?’ he asked. ‘At Hera’s Deception … when Brotherhood was lost?’

Wyllym was certain that Captain Ishiin had never fired a weapon outside of a training sim. He had been promoted simply because of the blood in his veins.

‘You don’t think about fighting for your life,’ Wyllym said. ‘You just move from one decision to the next.’

Captain Yoto Ishiin frowned as he mulled this answer.

‘They say you shot down six Ceti corvettes and many more gunships before …’

‘Before I died?’ Wyllym said.

‘Yes. Is that true?’

Wyllym had been barely a month into his own command then, patrolling the privateer outposts in the Hera Belt when Ceti descended upon his corvette
Santiago.
They attacked
in packs of three, indiscriminately destroying civilian and military targets in the rings. As the Navy rushed to divert ships to Hera, Wyllym battled against odds that should have killed him instantly. Instead, he somehow knew where to manoeuvre the
Santiago
to avoid hull-shattering cannon fire, and he was doing it impossibly faster than any computer.