Quest For Earth (3 page)

With a roar the
Quinnie
pulled free and Sherise felt the ship surge forward. She snapped open her eyes. The outer-most force field ring of the Vortex was coming up fast. A helmet clattered across the floor. The ship spun in a fast rotation that made Sherise's head whirl. The
Quinnie
rocketed sideways, plunged through the exit.

Finally, the ship's power source throttled back into a reassuring thrum and Sherise slumped in her chair. Sorrow for those they had lost ate into her essence, as corrosive as draptile spit. With a heavy heart, she severed her link with the ship then murmured a short prayer to Cercis.

A river of starlight glowed on the forward screens. The stern screen revealed the swirling black mass of the Azzirt Vortex like the gaping mouth of eternity.

By the goddess Cercis's good grace, we live … some of us.

Shudders wracked her. Memories surfaced of others who had died cycles ago, and now lay on a distant planet, cold and rotting. Now, by giving the order to release the starboard compartment, she was responsible for more deaths.

She hung her head and forced back the grief.

‘Is it over? Are we safe?' Bree's voice was shrill with fear.

Kondo responded, his voice cool, ‘It appears once more, the Darkons prevail.'

‘We have escaped the Vortex,' Sherise said hoarsely. One by one, she relaxed her fingers, releasing their death grip on the armrest.

She undid the catch on her harness. The air was as hot as the pits of Zirsk. She plucked at the damp clothes sticking to her sweat-coated body. Tendrils of hair plastered both sides of her face.
The temperature control must be damaged.
Using her sleeve, she wiped her face before lurching to her feet. Beneath her tunic, her knees shook so hard she feared the crew would hear the rattle of her bones.

Across the room the Commander had also severed his link. He soothed the metal armrests of his chair with a caressing motion. There was grim understanding in his eyes when he met her gaze.

Sherise managed a nod. They both carried the same burden of past defeats but this one, this order, was on her. She stumbled two short paces to where Bree remained seated, her body feeling as heavy as a tank drone. Her friend's tear-stained face reflected the same turmoil that raged inside her. Was there anything she could have done to prevent this disaster? The images of people dying in agony burst into her mind: their terrified voices echoed in her ears as their bodies stretched to impossible lengths before they exploded in a mass of shattered bone and blood.

I can no longer help them. Let them go. Time to deal with the living.
Sherise pressed her fingers hard against her temple, hoping to squash her lurid imaginings.

Bree sprang from the chair to throw her arms about her. ‘It's not your fault those people were trapped. No one could have saved them.'

Sherise hugged her back, feeling the sting of moisture at the back of her eyes. What would she do without her friend? Comforted, she blinked and stepped away.

‘How can I help?' Bree stared about the room.

Sherise murmured, ‘I will report to the medie chamber as soon as I hear the Commander's report. They will have need of assistance. Can you check on our passengers and let me know how they fared?'

‘Okay, I'm on it. I'll see you there.' Bree nodded, then hurried off.

Sherise pushed her limp braid over her shoulders, and crossed the room to where Commander Dyrke and his officers were gathered around a data stream.

Kondo rose from his seat and followed close on her heels. Blood marked his cheek from a seeping cut above one eyebrow. He noticed her glance and muttered, ‘Some fool Darkon left his helmet on the ground.'

‘Attend the medie chamber and I will see to it.' She turned her attention to the schematics. The runes and equations floating in the air flickered now and then from intermittent power surges; a clear sign the
Quinnie
was severely damaged.
Too damaged to make the return journey to Darkos?
Her pulse spiked and she rubbed trembling fingers across her forehead where pain sliced behind her eyes; an unfortunate aftermath from her connection with the ship.

‘Well, Commander?' She focused on the data. Many of the terms baffled her. They appeared to be in no logical sequence. She frowned and pointed at one particular line of repeating text. ‘I don't understand. These co-ordinates, do they not represent the remainder of our projected course? If so, then the context appears meaningless.'

Dyrke clasped his hands behind his back. ‘You are correct. We are working on re-calibrating our system in order to interpret the data.'

‘And, the
Quinnie
? How badly is she damaged? Have the rescue teams been activated?' She waited a beat before continuing, her voice soft, ‘I would like the names of those who have been lost.'

‘No contact as yet with the team leaders. Initial reports reveal the
Quinnie
has sustained significant damage.' He stalked over to a row of holographic displays which detailed the ship's schematics. ‘Here, here and here. These areas where the power sources are located are the most important, for unless we can repair her, she will not survive another trek through a vortex.'

Sherise froze.

If that was the case, they could never return home. And unless another ship followed, there would be no alliance between Earth and Darkos and no shared future for either race.

But she must succeed. Somehow, someway, the damage must be repaired. Perhaps on Earth, she could find the technology they needed.

‘New data coming up,' said Kondo. Nostrils flared wide, he folded his arms, his grim expression that of a warrior about to face the first charge into the jaws of the enemy.

Commander Dyrke sucked in a sharp breath, his jaw set so rigid the muscles of his throat corded like cables of steel. He didn't speak.

‘What is it?' Sherise's chest constricted as if a coda worm squeezed her, tighter and tighter as she waited five long beats for him to reply.

Voice bleak, Dyrke turned to face her. ‘The last impact has propelled the
Quinnie
through the incorrect gateway. We have emerged three hundred Earth years into the future.' He swallowed. ‘We have less than nine Earth weeks to restore the ship to full operating capacity. If we cannot do so, then the gateway path to our own time will close forever.'

Chapter 2

One week later

Planet Earth - Year 2459

Heat steamed from the parched, rubble-strewn earth where Maaka and his men patrolled. The heavy haze shimmered under the stark blue sky, distorting anything that lay further than a spear's throw. In front of him, a light breeze sprang up and whispered through the waist-high grasses that edged the roughly ploughed field.

Perfect cover for an attack.

The Half-dead may not have souls, but they were not without brains.

Maaka twisted his lips. Even though nightfall still remained a few hours away, he expected the torment of their insatiable hunger to drive them from their holes early.

With each turn of the season his enemies appeared to multiply, while the numbers of his people, the Lycaneans, and their newly pledged allies, the Freebers, diminished.

The lack of good food and clean water, diseases and frequent attacks from the predators that roamed unchecked over the harsh land were taking their toll. If only they had access to medicine and knowledge it would give them hope. But, banished to the Outworld, each day was a battle for survival.

He tested the weight of the crude axe he held and scowled. If he could only source weapons capable of piercing armoured hides and destroying the predators' nests, he would soon turn the tide of power. Alas, such technology was also denied to them.

His people's future lay as heavy as a mountain on his shoulders. He knew they had to annihilate the Half-dead or be vanquished.

Beside him, Junta, his second-in-command, spat out the strand of grass he had been chewing and with a sweep of his hand indicated the farmers tilling the earth behind them. ‘It was a good idea to advise the Freebers of this field, even if it lies inside enemy territory. What do they call these plants again?'

‘Gammas,' said Maaka.

‘Gammas.' Junta repeated the word in a wondering tone.

‘Liu assures this food can be made into pie.' Maaka shrugged. ‘Do not ask me what ‘pie' means.'

Junta grinned. ‘Anything will make a welcome addition to our solely meat diet. This new alliance will be good for our people. You have done well to forge this treaty.'

‘The Freebers' knowledge of healing and farming can only assist. With a united front, we will be stronger. Pity they are so wholly bound to their vows of non-violence,' muttered Maaka.
If only they would take up the sword. Fight by our side.
But no, they held fast to religious beliefs.

And for their faith, they had died.

Now they relied on his people, the Lycaneans, to provide protection. Still, as his lieutenant had said, it was a strategic move. More importantly, Maaka hoped the inter-race breeding would be the miracle they so desperately needed to avoid being turned if they were unlucky enough to be bitten by a Half-dead.

Maaka narrowed his eyes, allowing his second eyelids to come into play and stared unblinking into the distance. Now, that his vision had acclimatised to the haze, the misshapen outlines of the Towers of Folly could be seen as dark shadows on the horizon. The broken remains of what had once been a great city now lay in ruins as a reminder of the arrogance of man. A time of power and greed, it lived only as myths and fireside stories in the memories of the Elders.

A movement.

With his hand, he made a quick slashing gesture and sank slowly into a half-crouch, using the tall grass as a shield. He didn't need to check if his men had followed his signal to seek cover. As chieftain of the Lycaneans, he demanded—and received—total obedience.

With infinite patience, he waited, his heartbeats steady. His soul simmered with resigned acceptance of what was almost upon them; another battle for life. In one hand, he gripped his sword, in the other, his axe.

He blocked out the squeaks and rattles of the timber carts as they trundled over the dirt, the heavy pants and grunts of the warthogs and the slap of leather against their scaly hide that urged the animals to plod faster. He strained his hearing, seeking beyond the rhythmic swish of the sickles slicing through the vines, the thump of objects landing in the carts and the unending humming noise the Freebers emitted as they worked tirelessly under the relentless sun.

Claws scratched against stone.

The haze beyond rippled, revealing hunched, dark shapes of what had once been men. The Half-dead. The result, Maaka believed, of experimentation gone terribly wrong. Or the deliberate mutation of his race. Of equal height, their hunched backs made them appear shorter, disguising their fierce sinewy strength. With large egg-shaped eyes, mouths of sharp elongated teeth and bony faces that constantly wore expressions of feral hunger, the Half-dead were not a pretty sight. But by any manner of thinking, they were a deadly foe.

His vision sharpened.

The Half-dead were moving fast. And heading their way.

Keeping his gaze fixed on the oncoming army, he signalled his second-in-command who had crept several paces away to his right.

In response, Junta raised a bone horn to his lips and the blast rent the air with raucous warning.

The humming ceased.

Behind them, the Freebers sprang into well-trained action. They herded the warthogs and carts into a rough circle in the middle of the field and set blocks behind the wheels of the carts. Shortening the leads of the warthogs and still clutching their farming implements they huddled in the centre. The farmers' heavy breathing mingled with the snorts of the warthogs sounded far too loud in the sudden hush that had fallen over the land.

Maaka tightened his grip on his weapons. He inhaled deeply. His lungs filled with heat, dust, sweat, fear—and a smell that made his gut clench.

The thick stench of rotting flesh.

They were close.

He leapt to his feet, twisting his body to the side to present the smallest possible target. Knees bent and legs braced, he balanced his weight, then pivoted. He swept his sword in a wide arc and cleaved an oncoming creature in half. Blood and gore spurted in a long spray, coating Maaka's skin with false warmth.

The top half of the creature's torso slid to the ground. A moment later, its legs collapsed in a puddle of blood and bone.

Maaka vaulted over the twitching remains. With his axe he chopped the head off the next Half-dead as a mass of slavering beings swarmed towards him.

This would not be an easy win.

He met the next creature, sword against sword. He smashed his axe against a Half-dead's shield. The creature fell backwards and was trampled underfoot.

He slashed and hacked through the enemy lines. Weapons clashed. The grunts and cries of men and monsters roiled like bubbling lava in the heat. A malevolent bog that sucked ever downwards on their courage.

For a moment, the onslaught faltered. Maaka paused to gather his strength. From the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement. He raised his axe and warded off the sword thrust just in time—the blow would have spliced open his chest, spilled his heart onto the ground.

His opponent's sword nicked his forearm. Then the tip dug deep across his chest bone. Maaka slammed his forehead against the Half-dead's skull.

The Half-dead lost his grip and the weapon clattered to the ground.

It reeled on its clawed feet. He drove his knee into its groin. With a gnash of its three rows of teeth it collapsed, shrieking.

Maaka plunged his sword hilt deep into the creature's chest.

He yanked his sword free, then wiped a blood-smeared hand across his face. Chest heaving, he gulped in lungfuls of stinking air. He swung round in a half-crouch to check his unguarded back. Once, years ago, he had fought side-by-side, back-to-back with Junta. But with their numbers dwindling, they now fought alone on many fronts, not just this one.