The first nuclear explosion on the surface of Sample World 5 took the team completely by surprise. Their first reaction was to reassess the technological capability of the inhabitants: had they somehow managed to be a stone-age but nuclear-capable society? But the next twenty nuclear explosions, scattered at random over the surface, showed what was really happening. A stream of primitive liquid-fuelled missiles was heading from Sample World 4 to Sample World 5. The missiles had taken years to reach their destination and must have been launched before the prideships arrived. They took one on board to study it and found it to be quite unsophisticated.
Should they intervene? Should they stay unobserved? They debated at length, but the problem was solved for them when the stream of rockets suddenly ceased. Sadly it was only because the inhabitants of Sample World 4 were refining their rocket technology to a higher degree.
The new rockets were bigger, faster, multi-stage devices that made the journey between worlds in half the time. However, they did
not
have nuclear bombs on board. Their payload was observation satellites. The rockets reached Sample World 5 and deployed their load into orbit so that a network of satellites covered every inch of Sample World 5’s surface.
And then Sample World 4 launched another salvo of nuclear warheads. Faster, better, they took only months to reach their target and it was clear that the satellites were guiding them onto the cities of Sample World 5.
This time the observers had no compunction about interrupting the stream of missiles. They took out as many as they could with lasers before they could get anywhere near their target, and the leading One Who Commands authorized the First Breed to send down landers to Sample World 5 to offer what assistance they could.
Unfortunately, the people of Sample World 5 by now were extremely suspicious of anything coming out of the sky. They mobbed the landing parties, and one lander was actually disabled by a rock flung from a catapult. The crew was massacred. The First Breed quickly pulled out and resolved to limit their well-doing to intercepting any more bombardments.
If only. Now Sample World 4’s attention was given to building a fleet of crewed ships, and their destination was all too clear. The Ones Who Command had no choice but to withdraw and watch, or be discovered.
The crewed vessels took half a year to reach Sample World 5. The fleet of ships arrived in orbit, waited until they were in position, then began a systematic bombardment of every centre of population they could find. Even when the clouds of debris thrown up by the bombardment obscured the surface of Sample World 5, they kept firing until their stocks were depleted.
The attack fleet seemed to have been on a suicide mission, as the ships all blew themselves up once their job was done.
The Ones Who Command quietly crossed the xenocides off the list of possible candidates to replace them. Ever hopeful, they sent one of the prideships down to make a thorough survey of Sample World 5. Its crew spent a week on the surface and its One Who Commands commander pronounced the planet lifeless. The inhabitants of Sample World 5 were extinct.
It was like hearing the Easter story again: a familiar, oft-told tale but ever able to deliver a punch. Glumly, Gilmore finished the report.
Recommendations
Technologically, Sample World 4 is not far behind us. We expect them to be able to leave their solar system within another century.
A permanent observation station is to be left in the solar system of Sample World 4 so that we can continue to observe and assess their technological capabilities. A list of possible sites for this station is included in the attached Appendix. The First Breed should be capable of crewing this station on their own until such time as our replacements are found.
We recommend that
no contact
be made with Sample World 4.
Sigil Measure Lantern
Senior, Replacement Mission
The report ended. Gilmore blanked the display and slowly stood up. He strolled to the balustrade and looked out across the white sands to the sparkling sea. It was a magnificent scene and he wasn’t seeing any of it.
After the failure of that particular mission, the Ones Who Command had decided to concentrate on one of the runner-up races. A by-far second-best choice, but one that was forced on them. A race of bipeds called human beings. So, without the xenocide, he wouldn’t be here now . . .
‘Sweet Jesus.’ It was a murmur; half addressed to God, half to anyone who might be listening. ‘They’ve got my son.’
And then, almost as an afterthought: ‘I have
got
to get on that ship.’
Eight
Day Nine: 11 June 2153
Two First Breed were squaring off against each other in the front yard.
The one had been trotting across the flagstones, sent on an errand it wasn’t to know was entirely bogus. The other had come round the corner from the observation tower at exactly the expected time. That was the First Breed for you; obedient to a fault, so eager, so easy to control.
Stand-off.
The watcher was inside the main residence, comfortable in the cool, dark interior. The First Breed were out in the bright sunlight and the watcher was invisible. No-one saw its amusement.
It was too far off to catch everything they said, but the observed bodytalk was easy to read, and as the watcher had provided the grounds for dispute, it was easy to fill in the blanks.
[Challenge]<
[Innocence]<
<
[Innocence renewed]<>
<
<
[Incandescent fury]<>
<
A nice leadership challenge was brewing. Another couple of days, three at the most, and the pride would have a new Senior.
One day, someone in Capital might notice the rapid turnover in the garrison prides of the island that the humans called St Helena.
This particular dispute had been easy. The First Breed’s masters had been wiped out by viral warfare gone wrong, and now to impugn the viability of another First Breed’s DNA, especially implying viral action, was the worst insult. The DNA of the First Breed who was now on the wrong end of the exchange was quite healthy and sound, but it
was
at the lower end of the acceptability parameters due to some purely harmless retroviruses. Immediately the watcher had read its file, it had known that the subject would be sensitive. And given that this First Breed was so vehement about
not
having radiation damage . . . well, the natural suspicion of the other pride members did the rest. If the damage wasn’t caused by radiation, it must be viral.
March Sage Savour, last of the Ones Who Command, turned away from the window with a sudden surge of self-disgust. Its life-support bubble carried it back into the building’s interior. It was reduced to playing on the natural fears of its servants when once it had led a planet.
The bubble entered the emptiness of what should have been a Commune Place. There should have been others of March Sage Savour’s kind with whom it could bond, socialize, be with. But there were no more and it had the place to itself. Statues and sculptures lined the walls, of which it was quite proud. March Sage Savour couldn’t leave the bubble but it had got quite proficient at directing the carving remotely, with lasers. It was a new style. When did any First Breed create a new style? A half-finished work took up the centre of the room.
But now the bubble carried March Sage Savour over to the nearest comms console. It wasn’t in the mood for art. Maybe there would be a friendly voice to fight off the sudden depression.
March Sage Savour wasn’t a natural politician. Its first inclination, its first talent as a cub, had been towards sculpture. As the Ones Who Command died off and the mission to replace them became more and more urgent, no-one could afford the luxury of an artist’s life. So it had been drafted into the Space Service, then discovered to its surprise that it was quite good at the job. It ended up as the Senior of a prideship with a crew of First Breed.
Then there hadn’t even been enough Ones Who Command left to spare for space duty and they had all withdrawn to the Roving. When there were only five remaining, and March Sage Savour was most senior, the humans had been invited to this world.
Now there was only one left, and the humans were in charge.
Contact with the outside world was heavily regulated – things hadn’t quite developed as the Ones Who Command had planned, and the Roving’s new leaders had no intention of letting March Sage Savour try to rectify the situation – but possible. Messages were allowed; the last of an intelligent species couldn’t just disappear into the darkness without a lot of people taking interest. And because March Sage Savour wasn’t naturally political, it had taken a while for the fact to sink in that some of the messages had more than one level of meaning.
Friendly greetings, innocent correspondence . . . yes. But something else too. The slightest of hints, heavily veiled offers of help . . . March Sage Savour wasn’t entirely alone. Even the First Breed weren’t entirely united behind their new friends – though most of their opposition was in the form of grumbles followed by shrugging obedience – but the humans! A more back-stabbing race March Sage Savour had never seen in all his years of space duty.
So, there was a long way to go from where it now stood to reclaiming the planet, but help was there if only . . .
Then, two days ago, March Sage Savour had stood just here by the console and a glyph on the display had caught its attention. SkySpy! The word had seemed to blaze, to fill the display with urgent, screaming fury.
Oh yes. March Sage Savour remembered SkySpy.
For a moment, now, it just stood in reverie, remembering its space days. The mission to Sample Worlds 4 and 5. The attack. The xenocide. The landing on the Dead World, and what they had found there.
March Sage Savour had really hoped to die before this day.
But, who was that human artist? Apparently quite a famous one, whose work had never really appealed to March Sage Savour, but whose philosophy had? The human had taken a discarded, twisted chunk of marble, saying that there was some kind of supernatural being within it. Or something. Well, March Sage Savour could look at this problem like that. An out-and-out mess to the untrained eye, but to one who could see what lay within . . .
The next problem had been to work out how to send some coded messages of its own. It had managed, and plans had been laid. Contact was made with a couple of these strange, anonymous friends-though-they-hadn’t-said-they-were. A situation was evolving that it could use. The angel was emerging from its block.
Allowing for antennae, turrets and other bits and bobs that Donna couldn’t immediately identify,
Pathfinder
was essentially a hexagonal tube, the length of a thirty-storey building. It stretched from one side of her vision to the other, framed within her visor against the glowing backdrop of the Roving and decorated with items of data projected by her suit computer. The entrance to the boat bay was a rectangular opening in one face of the hexagon at the bow of the ship, and their suits carried them there automatically, homing in on the ship’s beacon.
Their equipment had gone on ahead, but for the practice – and, Donna suspected, for the spectacle – Able and Charlie Platoons crossed the mile of space between UK-1 and
Pathfinder
in their space armour. They had been told to stand off while the boat carrying the diplomatic observers came and went, but now they could come in.
‘Able leader to all marines,’ said a voice in her helmet. ‘Deactivate homing sequence, we’re going in manually. Able Platoon will take the lead, Charlie Platoon to provide support.’
Oh Perry, you’re so predictable
, Donna thought. She had already guessed what Bill Perry had in mind and she wondered if you could take medication for an excess of testosterone. ‘Charlie leader to Able leader,’ she said coolly, ‘Roger. Charlie Platoon, implement plan
entrée
, go, go, go.’
Suit thrusters blazed as her platoon’s number two section cut their velocity by half and spun round, still approaching
Pathfinder
but more slowly and with their backs to the ship. Shoulder-mounted guns clicked into position on their armour and each marine became a small, armed spaceship, poised to repel any marauders that might try to come up from behind.
Numbers one and three sections accelerated to twice approach velocity and blasted past Able Platoon towards
Pathfinder
. They dropped down onto the ship around the entrance to the boat bay and their gripsoles latched onto the ceramic compound that was the ship’s skin. They made a rough circle around the entrance, weapons readied against any foe that might appear from around the outer hull.
A small party of marines faced inwards, weapons pointed into the bay itself.
‘Boat bay clear and secured,’ said Sergeant Quinlan in Donna’s earphones. She grinned.
‘Charlie leader to Able leader: boat bay cleared for your arrival,’ she said, careful to keep the satisfaction out of her voice.
‘Thank you, Charlie leader. Come in after us.’ Perry’s voice was calm and couldn’t be read, but Donna suspected that he had set what was meant to be a surprise test and Charlie Platoon had passed. So, would he be pleased or would it be an affront to his macho pride? Time would tell.
They settled onto the elevator and it carried them down into the light and air and gravity of
Pathfinder
’s hangar. They cracked the seals on their helmets and breathed ship’s air; canned, tinged with propellant, essentially what you would expect a hangar deck to smell like. Donna welcomed it. Most of her active military service had been in hot, sweaty, insect-ridden jungles and there were distinct advantages to sterile, controlled environments.
The ship’s hexagonal cross section could clearly be seen in the six walls of the hangar deck.
Pathfinder
was the first human/First Breed ship built, and both it and the ships that came after –
Explorer
,
Adventurer
and the somewhat desperately named
Climber
and
Scrambler
, which were still on the builder’s blocks – had been built with two purposes in mind, exploration and defence. They were well-armed, well-equipped, long-range starships. Donna knew from inside information that although voices within the Commonwealth had pushed for the development of purely military starships, Michael Gilmore had held back. There was only one known alien race that gave any cause for concern, and they didn’t have step-through. And while those voices said, yes, but the Commonwealth might meet someone else, Gilmore had said yes, but there again it might not. But it did need a defence force, and it did need exploration ships that could look after themselves. The Pathfinder class was the ideal compromise, to be used for either purpose simultaneously or separately.
The hangar deck was large enough for four landing boats, but because this wasn’t a mission of exploration, only two were in place. Maintenance teams of humans and Rusties were working on them, and Donna watched them idly as the elevator came to a rest.
Two Rusties were waiting for them. Bill Perry said a few words to them, then nodded and saluted, and turned to Donna.
‘This half of the deck is ours,’ he said. ‘Before we start unsuiting, get your people fallen in.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Donna said, and passed the order on to Sergeant Quinlan.
Two minutes later, fifty-eight marines were standing in neat ranks that faced Perry and Donna. They were unhelmeted but otherwise still in their space armour.
‘Well, here we are,’ Perry said, with pride in his voice. ‘There’s a lot of things I’d like to say, but stand by for someone who can say them a lot better than me.’ He nodded at Able Platoon’s sergeant, who touched a button on his wrist. A lifesize image of King James appeared in front of them. The sergeant touched another control to make the image turn to face the marines, then set it to ‘play’.
‘Congratulations, men and women of King Richard’s Regiment of Royal Marines,’ the king’s image said. ‘This is a proud moment for me, as it would have been for my father, after whom you are named. This is the regiment’s first operational assignment and I have no doubt you will be a credit to us all. We enjoy good relations with the Commonwealth, and this is our chance to show them—’
The staccato buzzing of an alarm filled the hangar deck, drowning out the king’s voice. It wasn’t an alert, just a warning of moving machinery. The boat elevator was in action again, rising up into the boat bay through which they had come in.
‘Cut it off, cut it off,’ Perry shouted angrily at the sergeant. The king’s image froze in mid-speech and the marines waited until the elevator had risen completely into the ceiling of the hangar. Perry looked suspiciously up at it, then over at Donna.
‘No-one else was expected, were they?’ he said. She shook her head.
‘
Pathfinder
was due to cast off ten minutes after we came on board,’ she said. ‘No-one else was due after us.’
‘So what was that?’
‘Maybe that’s its stowed position.’
‘Maybe . . .’ Perry glared up at the elevator for a moment longer. Then: ‘OK. Sergeant, take it from the top again.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The image of King James flickered briefly, then:
‘Congratulations, men and women of King Richard’s Regiment of Royal Marines. This is a proud moment for me, as it would have been for my father, after whom you are named. This is the regi—’
The staccato alarm warned that the elevator was starting down again, and Donna didn’t have trouble reading Perry’s lips or the single syllable he uttered.
‘Cut it!’ he shouted at the sergeant, making a slashing gesture across his throat. This time the descending elevator had a small landing boat, a pinnace, on it. It came to rest and a single figure carrying a bag jumped out. Donna’s eyes widened when she saw who it was.
A human lieutenant had entered the hangar and hurried over to where Michael Gilmore stood, bag by his side. Gilmore handed the woman a crystal which she plugged into her aide.