The Tabit Genesis (18 page)

‘For
me
?’

OTHERS CAME BEFORE

TAKE FROM US

The very last thing Adam wanted to do was offend these creatures.

‘I’m sorry!’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean … we didn’t realise we were stealing from anyone.’

NO OTHERS HELP

YOU DID

‘Help? When did I …?’ Adam started. Then he remembered his ordeal with the hunter weeks ago.

HELP WITH NO BENEFIT

THIS WE DO NOT KNOW

‘How can I explain this,’ Adam said aloud. ‘Your … we call them “hunters”. One got stuck in our machinery. It was suffering, so … I wanted to help it.’

HUNTER CLAIMED YOU

YOU ARE IRRATIONAL

Adam smiled.

‘You sound like my mom.’

MOTHER

SHE SEES THROUGH US

SHE SEES YOU

THIS WE KNOW

‘Huh? My mother?’

OURS

ADAM SHE ASKS

PLEASE TAKE US TO THE VEIL

A pair of nearby hunters released their grip on the rails and unfurled their menacing tentacles towards Adam. Before he could blink, they had latched onto the Pegasus, yanking the machine upright as though it were a toy.

‘Whoa!’ Adam protested. ‘What are you doing?’

YOU MUST GO

Using the huge creature as an overhead crane, some of the hunters’ tentacles ‘walked’ along the belly of the beast while others kept a firm grip on the mech, eventually placing it within arm’s length of the rocket sled.

‘Wait!’ Adam protested. ‘I have so many questions!’

YOU MUST NOT BE HARMED

‘Harmed?’

ACTUATOR DAMAGED

YOU ARE IN DANGER

Adam laughed a shriek of amazement.

‘How could you possibly know
that
?’

OTHERS HAVE FALLEN

YOU MUST GO

A powerful gust of wind nearly knocked the mech over, but Adam grabbed the sled rail just in time. All of a sudden, Abby’s voice howled on the radio.

‘Adam!’ she hollered. ‘What the hell are you doing? There’s a huge storm coming! Who are you talking to?’

She was right; the upwind cloud layers were rising into ominous mushroom-shaped mountains in the distance.

He unhooked the refuelling hoses.

‘Will I see you again?’

The hunters all released their grip, allowing the wind to take them away from the rig. Above him, the enormous creature began gliding away.

WE WILL FIND YOU

‘Adam, what are you talking about?’ Abby demanded. ‘Get inside the sled!’

He pulled himself in, turned and shut the door.

‘Do you have a name?’ he asked. ‘What do I call you?’

NO

YOU CHOOSE

The ignition sparked and the sled rocketed upward. Adam panicked: what did you
call
an alien? His imagination failed him as the sled rushed higher and faster. Without thinking, he blurted out the commercial name engraved above the console:

‘Pegasus!’ he shouted, as the zenomorph disappeared beneath the clouds. ‘I’ll call you Pegasus!’

Excruciating pain had never felt so good.

As the starfield rolled and centred on the bright sphere of Corinth Naval Yards, Wyllym blinked away bursts of agony, concentrating on flying his Gryphon home. The numbing effect of nerve dampeners was wearing off, and the bioadmin could not deliver more without endangering his life. Wyllym had pushed himself to the brink for this final sortie, since it marked the end of a remarkable Navy career.

But his legend as an absolute master of space combat would persist. The deadly combination of his Gift and flying skills were simply unfair; he had been a cruel pilot today, pushing cadets to the very limits of their endurance, all in the name of discovering which of them deserved to be called Gryphon pilots. Many had failed. To have made it this far then fall short in the final contest was a bitter test of character.

But a few had succeeded, if only just. They would become the first and only Gryphon wing, permanently assigned to the
Archangel.
There were only eighteen of the unique fighters in existence, and as of today there were twenty-four pilots qualified to fly them. Now that the programme had ‘proved’ that Gifted humans were more capable pilots than machines, Admiral Hedricks planned to add three more wings. Those pilots would have to be trained by someone else.

Easing off the throttle, Wyllym took a moment to regard the brutish fighter flying beside his own. Two pairs of asymmetric ‘wing’s converged on the main hull; a gimbaled 70mm railgun was affixed to each end, allowing her to keep simultaneous fire on multiple targets from any aspect. There were eight vectoring exhaust jets, each capable of withstanding 50% of main engine thrust; the Gryphon was more agile than gunships half her size. Eight weapon hardpoints could accommodate every missile and EW/SIGINT/RECON sensor platform in the Navy; and for self-defence, a 12mm rail turret was affixed to her stern. It was the kind of ship that every child dreamt of flying, zooming toy models about while pretending to shoot down evil red ships.

Wyllym hoped he would never see one again.

Gliding through the hangar entrance, he landed the Gryphon’s skids onto designated docking latches, the boundaries of which marked the edge of an elevator platform. Three more fighters landed around him, forming a diamond pattern. When they had all locked in place, the entire platform rose several metres, rotated upside down, and then began ascending into the outer sphere of the station. As gravity began pulling on Wyllym’s bones, the pain intensified to unbearable levels. And still, he remained elated. When the maintenance hangar level descended into view, he saw the waiting ground crew cheering wildly.

They swarmed round his Gryphon, moving beneath to where he could not see them. Of course, he would need their help exiting the craft; all the pilots would after today’s exercise. For a moment, he cringed at the notion of being hoisted on their shoulders, as he could barely keep his own head upright.

Still, Wyllym managed a smile as the nestled pilot module descended from the Gryphon’s belly. The airlock seals released, and the hatch opened. His moment of triumph had come.

And there was not one person there to greet him.

The crowd had moved straight past his Gryphon to the pilots who had made the final selection. Some were even flocking to those who had failed, offering them consolation and booze. All Wyllym could do was watch. Eventually, almost as an afterthought, two ground crew members returned to help him.

‘Let’s go, old man,’ one said, hoisting him out of the seat into their arms. Unceremoniously, and with a hint of contempt, they placed him on a gurney as the celebration roared on nearby.

No one noticed him being wheeled away.

As the senior officer on the flight deck, Wyllym was entitled to a private recovery room, for which he was grateful since the main ward was now a raucous, wild scene. His retirement papers had been filed before the drill began, and the final list of graduating cadets had been sent straight to CENTCOM (Central Command)”. His days in the Navy were over.

An assortment of intravenous tubes and wires penetrated Wyllym, labouring to repair the damage to his muscles. Some of his internal organs were already encased in a protective biomesh to help them heal from prior sorties Wyllym wondered how his body would fare in retirement. In the last five years, the longest he had gone without flying a Gryphon was a week, and he felt pain even when the bioadmin said he shouldn’t be.

This was a masochist’s profession, though it was hard to tell from the party raging next door. The Gryphon applicants were young, aggressive risk takers who were highly competitive, resilient, and motivated by self-imposed standards to be the best. But regardless of psychological profile, the human body just wasn’t built to withstand such prolonged punishment, even with the miracles of medical nanobiology. Wyllym imagined their careers lasting a few years at most, assuming they never actually encountered a Raothri warship.

He hated to admit it, but Augustus Tyrell was right. Wyllym fed these cadets the Navy-enforced propaganda that they were being prepared to face such an encounter. But he knew they were far more likely to use their unique abilities to kill humans instead.

In spite of everything he had taught them, Wyllym had never truly earned their respect – because he was not firstborn. These students were elite scions, some with living highborn parents. Wyllym was a ghost possessing mastery of the Gift, adept at honing their skills through punishing training – nothing more. Direct interaction between student and teacher was kept as impersonal as possible. The case was made that this assured impartial evaluation of their skills. But on a personal level, he felt none of the mentoring responsibility for his charges that other commanders did. And his pupils were more than relieved to be rid of his tutelage for good.

Wyllym shifted uncomfortably, reminding himself that those spoiled children were no longer his concern. He reached through a tangle of cords for his corelink. It was time to start his new life.

A land broker had provided him with a list of plots that Vulcan Industries leased out on Eris, a world with a thin carbon dioxide atmosphere. The equatorial regions made for excellent biodome farming, and the broker found him one with an impressive view of the planet’s largest mountain range. Wyllym smiled as he scrolled through the specifications. The plot was a full hectare, and included all the topsoil and equipment he needed to grow a wide range of crops.

Grain was always a safe bet, although there was more money in fruits and vegetables. Wealthy farmers ran expensive domes that could regulate atmospheric pressure and rainfall for really exotic crops like coffee and quinoa. But the money didn’t matter; his Navy earnings could sustain him indefinitely. Wyllym simply loved the challenge of growing food. Farming was in his blood.

His thoughts drifted towards plots of serene vegetation basking in the warmth of the Orionis sun. The sweet sensation of sleep was upon him when an unwelcome voice shattered the bliss.

‘You good enough to walk yet?’ Augustus Tyrell was asking, standing at the foot of his bed.

Wyllym squinted at him.

‘No, why?’ he said. ‘We celebrating?’

‘What’s there to celebrate?’

‘My career?’ Wyllym said, struggling to sit up. ‘You’re buying.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Augustus said. A medical officer rushed in and began switching off the machines. ‘You’ve been summoned by Admiral Hedricks.’

‘Unless he’s giving me a medal, I think I’ll pass – hey!’

The medic worked with reckless urgency, ripping out cords as though the flight deck was on fire.

Augustus had a grave look on his face.

‘Wyll,’ he said. ‘This is serious.’

‘Bugger serious,’ Wyllym protested. ‘I’m retired. My paperwork is in, I’m done.’

‘The Navy isn’t through with you yet,’ Augustus said, stepping aside as another technician hurried in and began wheeling machines out. ‘But I’m sure Hedricks will make a point of thanking you for your service at the briefing.’

‘Thank me, right,’ Wyllym grumbled, as the medic treated the punctures in his limbs and torso. ‘You mean the way these snotty cadets did?’

‘What did you expect?’ Augustus snapped, tossing Wyllym’s uniform at him. ‘They never want to see you again. Now get dressed.’

The medic left, closing the door behind him.

‘What’s your problem, Ty?’ Wyllym fumed.

‘It’s
our
problem, and it’s a big one,’ Augustus said. ‘There are two soldiers right outside that door with orders to physically haul your ass out if you’re not up in three minutes.’

Wyllym snapped.

‘What the fuck—?’

‘It’s not just us,’ Augustus muttered, looking over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. ‘All of CENTCOM will be there.’

The effort of becoming angry was taxing. Wyllym wasn’t ready to go anywhere – the recovery therapy had barely been through its first cycle when the medic had switched the system off. Slowly, he managed to swing his legs over the side.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘You’ll find out at the briefing.’

‘Well, who’s giving it?’

‘Me. The security part anyway. You’d better be ready to answer some questions yourself, Wyll.’

With considerable effort, Wyllym put his hands up.

‘Alright, enough,’ he grumbled. ‘You tell me just what’s going on, or I’m not going anywhere.’

Augustus looked over his shoulder again.

‘Jake found something,’ he said.

‘I’m glad he’s still alive,’ Wyllym said. ‘What’d he find out?’

‘That I was right to put him in harm’s way,’ Augustus said. ‘On your feet, pilot. We’re going to the
Archangel
.’

No matter how many times Wyllym saw it, the
Archangel
always left him speechless. The mothership defied all the engineering precepts that shaped how a conventional starship should appear. The strange, gaping hole that the hull was built around was complete; the construction equipment was absent, and the inner walls were rotating slowly along the circumference.

On approach, the shuttle oriented itself with the one of the
Archangel
’s hangar bays ‘right side up’, just like at Corinth. But the moment the ship broke the hangar plane, Wyllym felt himself pulled toward the deck. There was no transit to the inner wall of a rotational, centrifugally oriented structure. Somehow, despite the lack of rotation, gravity was omnipresent on the
Archangel
.

Once they were inside, Wyllym refused a gurney. But he did need Augustus’s shoulder as he struggled to reach the briefing room. They drew stares and salutes from other crew as they marched through a labyrinth of hexagon-shaped hallways. They finally arrived at a dark, circular conference room with most of CENTCOM already present. Wyllym recognised some of the faces: Rear Admiral Jang Lao, the Hera OPCOM (Operations Commander); Rear Admiral Kenneth Dyson, the Zeus OPCOM; Vice Admiral Kristjan Larksson, the Belt OPCOM; and at least a dozen more Navy officials.

At the centre of them all was
him.

For all his political and military influence, Admiral Vadim Hedricks was a larger-than-life figure who was surprisingly underwhelming in person.

The man was bone thin; his hands, criss-crossed with unsightly veins, seemed too large for the wrists that bore them. The skin was pulled tightly over his face, stretching over an oversized chin with nary a trace of beard. His lips were narrow and pursed. Thick black hair, combed precisely to one side, was cropped above ungainly ears pressed close to his scalp. His deep blue eyes always seemed to follow you, even when he looked elsewhere; or to stare through you, when you were the target of his gaze. And whether delivering humour or scorn, his expression rarely changed; impassive, though quietly judging, and always plotting.

Wyllym was always repulsed by the sight of him.

Admiral Hedricks registered their presence.

‘Let us begin,’ he announced, his high-pitched voice quieting the room. ‘Commander Tyrell, the floor is yours.’

Augustus helped Wyllym into a seat, then strolled to the centre of the room.

‘Gentlemen, we’ve received word that Vladric Mors is about to launch a direct assault on the
Archangel
,’ he announced, as the display changed to an overview of Ceti military strength. ‘This intel coalesces numerous observations of Ceti activity reported by sources at lower infiltration tiers. All current indicators have reached the maximum confidence level. This is going to happen. The Ceti fleet has undergone a massive refitting effort to incorporate new technology, the precise nature of which is unknown. Admiral Larksson?’

Instead of rising, the elder officer spoke from his seat.

‘Ceti runs three hundred corvettes, give or take,’ he said. Wyllym thought he was trying to suppress a yawn. ‘They own two frigates, both scrapworthy by Navy standards, and one cruiser in dry dock, which is incapable of flight. Their crews are competent at striking lightly defended targets but utterly incapable of prosecuting full-scale assaults against fortified assets. And yet Vladric Mors is planning exactly that. His objective is to take the
Archangel
intact.’

‘You must be joking,’ remarked Admiral Dyson.

‘He’s mobilised his mechanised infantry, which isn’t even divisional strength,’ Augustus commented. ‘Has them drilling breach ’n raids around the clock.’

‘Let’s play devil’s advocate,’ Admiral Jao said. ‘What about Brotherhood? He pulled that off with fewer assets.’

‘He also had the element of surprise,’ Admiral Larksson responded. ‘And in terms of defences, this is no comparison.’

‘People in his own camp are calling it suicide,’ Augustus told them. ‘There is rampant dissent among his fleet captains. He’s made examples of the more vocal ones to keep everyone else in line.’

‘What’s his motive?’ Admiral Lao asked. ‘Is there one, besides insanity?’

‘He considers the
Archangel
a mortal threat to “freedom” in the Outer Rim,’ Augustus said. ‘He wants to pre-empt us before we can bring the fight to him. Should he fail to capture the ship, he plans to destroy it.’