The Arc of the Universe Quartet Limited Edition Box Set: Sci-Fi Adventure

By Mark Whiteway

For the first time, the four volumes of the epic Arc of the Universe series are now available as a reduced price limited edition box set!

“This plot is quite exceptional and it exceeded my expectations. Quinn is a strong character. Readers will love him because he’s caring and strong, yet vulnerable—a compelling mix. Conor is underplayed beautifully. The action scenes move the plot along beautifully and all of the scenes are captured with great visual quality. I knew exactly where I had stopped reading and it was easy to pick up and to lose myself in the story-line again, and this is also quite telling. An excellent book.” - Annette Young. The Creative Competitor

“Whiteway’s writing is highly visual and not overly cluttered. The world building and surroundings are presented in ways that are easy to understand, even for people who don’t usually read science fiction. Familiarizing the reader with this new environment is where the author shows his talents.” - Kathy’s Book Reviews“The attention to every detail in this book is an amazing job by the author. You think you have the answer, and it is changed by a simple word or two. Just when you think you have it all figured out, the author takes a turn and you are back to square one. Character development is brilliant. The author is one of the best Science Fiction writers of our time.” - Sandra Heptinstall. Midwest Book Reviews

Whiteway, whose fantastic imagination conjured up a slew of alternate technologies for the Lodestone series, has no trouble creating beings that are definitely not like us. What makes this story stand out is not the futuristic technology and extraterrestrial anatomy—both of which are admittedly very cool—but the alien thinking exhibited by the otherworldly characters. Arc of the Universe is the first of a new series, and if the first book is any indication, readers are in for a ride that's exciting, emotional, and thought-provoking.” - Terence P Ward, Allbooks Review

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Whiteway
• Release date: May 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005661700

Mark Whiteway

Mark Whiteway (1959- ) lives in rural West Sussex, England, near the former home of H G Wells. The Lodestone series of novels is built around the concept of negative matter-an extension of Einstein's Theory of General Relativity. Mark lives with his wife Sandra.

Book preview

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The Arc of the Universe Quartet

By Mark Whiteway

Science Fiction

Copyright © Mark Whiteway

All Rights Reserved.

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Table of Contents

Book One

Book Two

Book Three

Book Four

Author’s Note

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The Arc of the Universe

Book One

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For Richard Fry

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The arc of the… universe is long, but it bends towards justice.

Martin Luther King Jr.

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Part One: The Ships

Regan Quinn gripped his son tighter as explosions arced like fireflies in the night. It was Mardi Gras in Rio, Bastille Day in Paris, the Fourth of July in Central Park. Only this was no celebration. Each fading orange flash ignited oxygen, blew bulkheads apart, and snuffed out human lives. Mothers, sisters, fathers, uncles, wives, lovers—the field of humanity burned like chaff.

Beside him, Conor winced. Quinn realised his fingernails were digging into the boy’s shoulder. He released his grip.

What’s happening, Dad? Conor asked.

Colonists gathered before the wide window like soap scum—like seaweed on an incoming tide. They fixed Conor with needle stares as if he were interrupting a religious service.

Quinn struggled to sound reassuring. I don’t know. I’m sure the ship master will make an announcement soon.

The fleet was barely three weeks out from Kapteyn’s Star, bound for a virgin world surveyed eleven years earlier. As a port official, Quinn had watched a score of these wagon trains depart over the years and never felt any compulsion to join them. Then xanthe fever had taken Sarah.

At the post-funeral reception attended mainly by dutiful co-workers, he’d nodded, served drinks, and made small talk. When he finally closed the door on the last of them and gazed about their four-room prefab, its emptiness gnawed at his stomach. He made his decision.

Their destination was a lot less promising a prospect than many others. Pictures showed a harsh, volcanic world plagued by tectonic shifts and sulphur clouds, but stories of lucrative mineral deposits were enough to tempt those willing to put up with shaking furniture and the stench of rotten eggs in exchange for a fresh start, a free home, and no taxes.

Quinn’s handful of friends did their best to talk him out of it. Conor said nothing. He would have followed his surviving parent into a pit of fire, which was not so far from reality. Both of us need time and space to heal. That was what Quinn told himself at the time, but like all sweeping statements, it papered over feelings. The hurly-burly of departure had given him the perfect excuse to avoid the subject of Sarah’s death.

In the darkness beyond the window, vessels burned, their skeletal superstructures lit like glowing embers. Twenty-seven ships had departed Eire, the colony world orbiting Kapteyn’s Star. How many were left?

As a pen-pushing bureaucrat, Quinn knew little of the hazards of space travel. He was certainly unaware of any natural phenomenon that could account for destruction on this scale.

An attack of some sort? He craned his neck but could detect no weapons fire. Since the diaspora had begun, a hundred years ago, the fledgling colony worlds had seen a dozen flare-ups, ranging from border spats to all-out conflicts. But they were a dozen light years from Eire colony, the nearest human outpost. Besides, what would anyone have to gain from attacking a bunch of miners, geologists, engineers, hydroponic farmers, and their families?

A claxon battered his eardrums. What now?

Boom! The floor bucked, and people fell like scythed wheat. Quinn staggered. Conor’s legs folded, but Quinn caught him by the arm and dragged him to his feet. The speaker stayed silent. Where are the announcements—the instructions? Where’s the crew?

Boom! The ship rocked again. Stars danced, and folk swayed in a crazy rhythm. He heard a crack then a hiss. An opaque blemish appeared in the observation window. Jagged lines radiated from the stress point.

A red light began winking above the observation room’s only exit. Decompression protocol. Get out! Quinn grabbed a handful of Conor’s jacket and dragged him towards the doors. The other colonists’ movements slowed with ice-bound indecision. Get out now!

Quinn thumped the wall panel, and the double doors swished open. He staggered through with Conor in tow. The cracking from the window grew louder. A woman screamed. He spun round. Bang! The window shattered, and an instant gale plucked people like weeds and tossed them out through the hole. They cartwheeled away into space, arms and legs flailing.

The survivors staggered and crawled towards the doors, faces contorted against the wind. A red light snapped on, and the doors began to close. The automated system was sealing the breach, just as an animal might chew off a limb to escape a trap.

A dark-complexioned girl with Polynesian features bared her teeth and stretched towards him, fingers splayed. Quinn hit the override—no effect. Keeping the door open a second longer than necessary could spell doom for the rest of the ship. Machine logic overrode human compassion. The doors sealed, cutting off the gale.

Conor lay sprawled on the floor where Quinn had dropped him like an old sack. He stared at the doors as if he could see through them to the death and devastation beyond. The claxon wailed as if in grief.

Quinn knelt beside him. Are you all right?

Conor met his gaze. After a moment, he nodded.

Quinn eased the boy to his feet and checked the corridor. It was empty. The comm was still silent. Maybe the system was down, or maybe the crew were all dead. Either way, they were on their own.

A red arrow on the wall signified the direction of the nearest lifeboat. Come on, Quinn said.

He set off at a rapid pace. Conor trailed after him in a daze.

~

Quinn reached the lifeboat station, half expecting someone to have beaten them to it and the berth to be empty, but to his relief, the indicator shone green. The ship shuddered like a creature in agony. Thin smoke and ozone hung in the air. Circuits shorted out somewhere. He had no way of knowing whether damage was confined to this deck or whether the entire ship was crippled. Sweat trickled down his temples as he mapped out a plan. He’d launch the lifeboat and then try to contact the Halley or any other colony ship still functioning and request a pickup.

He performed the airlock sequence as he remembered it from the safety presentation. Inside was a small, round compartment with a raised console at the centre. He pulled down one of the wall-mounted seats, strapped Conor in, and then took the seat opposite the panel. The lifeboat could carry twelve at a pinch, but they couldn’t afford to wait.

An amber light winked in front of him, but he had no idea what it meant. A calm, female voice enveloped them. Welcome. Safety protocol 12A is in effect. Do you wish to override?

The lifeboat began to creak and judder. Quinn gripped Conor’s arm with one hand and his armrest with the other. The lifeboat began to shake violently. Launch now!

Launching.

Bolts shot back. Thrusters fired. Upward momentum slammed Quinn back into his seat. He screwed his eyes shut. Gradually, the pressure on his chest eased, and he opened his eyes. Conor was wide-eyed and breathing heavily but seemed uninjured.

Quinn forced a smile. Let’s see if anyone’s out there.

He hunted for the external-display switch.

Dad.

What is it?

Those people…

I know, Quinn said. Try to put it out of your mind.

Are… are we going to die?

Not if I can help it.

A rectangle of light appeared over the console, rotating slowly. The view showed hulks burning against a star-studded backdrop. Was one of them the Halley?

Computer. Interface, Quinn said.

Working.

Transmit general distress call.

Automatic beacon is already in effect.

Naturally. Has there been any response?

Negative.

Quinn paused. Show me the positions of all lifeboats in flight.

No other lifeboats are in flight.

What?

No other lifeboats are—

I heard you the first time. Glancing across, he saw Conor’s panicked expression.

Are you saying we’re the only survivors?

No other life-support systems are functioning.

Quinn’s heart thumped in his chest. He felt as if he were falling headlong off a cliff. Close to twelve thousand people had left Eire colony. Were they all now dead?

He dragged himself back. Distance to nearest planetary system?

Alpha Corvi—5.7 light years.

The lifeboat had only sub-light thrusters. They’d run out of fuel before they travelled more than a tiny fraction of that distance. The only choices before them ended in either quick or slow death.

The lifeboat started to grind and shake, rattling their seats and their teeth.

Interface. What’s happening? Quinn cried.

Extreme gravimetric interference.

What? Explain.

Space in the vicinity of this vessel is being distorted.

Cause?

Unknown.

Was this what had destroyed the rest of the fleet?

Engage thrusters.

Course?

I don’t know. It doesn’t matter… away from this disturbance.

The lifeboat groaned as if in pain. Snap… snap… hiss. Fractures appeared on the wall opposite, leaking precious oxygen into space.

Quinn tore off his restraints, grabbed an emergency pack from beside his seat, and began slapping patches over the breaches. Gradually, the hissing abated, but the seals were only temporary.

Thrusters are inoperative.

Dad! Conor pointed at the adjacent wall. A dark crack was spreading along its length.

Quinn dropped the emergency pack, tore open a locker, and dragged out a pair of pressure suits. Quick! Put this on.

Conor unbuckled his seat restraints, and together, they donned the suits. The hiss became a roar as air fled through the crack.

Quinn lowered his headpiece and felt the seals engage then turned to help his son. Conor’s tiny face was lost in the great glass visor.

The rush of air died away to silence. The vibration in the hull had also stopped.

Interface, Quinn called into his suit radio. Report external conditions.

Spatial compression has ceased.

At least they were no longer being torn apart. Quinn checked the heads-up display. A little over ten hours of oxygen remained. A hundred, a thousand—it wouldn’t have mattered. They couldn’t possibly expect rescue this far out. Conor gazed at him with wide, trusting eyes. I should never have dragged him along. Now he’s going to die and all because of me.

A wild idea came to him. They could cower inside this broken tin can and wait for the end. Or they could embark on one final grand adventure together.

He smiled. Let’s go for a walk.

~

As Quinn operated the airlock controls, the lifeboat complained bitterly that unauthorised extravehicular activity would compromise atmospheric integrity. There’s no bloody air left in here, you idiot. That was what he wanted to say. Instead, he simply countered the lifeboat’s senseless prattle by repeating override until it finally acquiesced.

He stepped through the airlock feeling festive—almost euphoric. He’d heard stories about the odd things people did when faced with imminent death, like rushing back into burning buildings. When fear took over, common sense took flight. Or perhaps dying is the only time in our lives when we truly get to shake off our inhibitions.

The galactic arm spread out before them in a bright panoply. Conor’s eyes widened as he drank in the view. Dad? he said, breaking the silence. Does anyone know we’re here?

Quinn weighed his response. The lifeboat’s automatic beacon is still transmitting. Whoever’s out there will eventually hear us. Eire colony was the nearest human outpost. Someone there might well pick up the signal in forty years or so. I just wanted to say I’m proud of you, son. Last year, when your under-fourteen team made the semis, was one of the proudest moments of my life.

They floated together in the bejewelled blackness. Dad. Conor’s voice sounded strained.

What?

I don’t really like soccer.

You’re kidding.

No.

Why didn’t you say anything before?

I-I don’t know. You worked so hard to get me on the team, remember? The coach was a shipping agent who owed you a favour. Then Mom was so excited. She came to every game. I couldn’t just quit.

You did it for us?

Conor nodded inside his helmet. After practice, I used to sneak off to the gym.

What for?

Me and a few others would play tennis.

Tennis?

Yeah. Sorry, Dad.

Quinn smiled and shook his head. When we get back, the first thing I’m going to do is buy you a racket.

You think Mom would have been disappointed?

Mom was never disappointed by anything you did.

Not even when I rode the cultivator through her flower bed?

Quinn chuckled. You got me there. She was pretty mad at you over that. She made me ground you for a fortnight.

She got sick not long after that.

Quinn frowned. Her coughing had awakened him, but he’d dismissed it as nothing till he saw blood in her spittle. Rounds of doctors and treatments followed, but she just kept getting worse. I’m sorry.

Dad?

After she… was gone, I should’ve talked to you more. I guess I just shut down.

It’s okay, Dad.

No. No it isn’t. The stars swam before his eyes. I dragged you out here. I didn’t give a thought to what you wanted.

But I’ve had a terrific time. I made a lot of new friends. And Daisy is great.

Daisy?

Her father’s a mineralogist.

A girl, Quinn said.

Sure. We’ve been hanging around a lot after classes.

First my son’s a closet tennis player. Now he has a girlfriend. Quinn’s heart surged at the prospect of the man his son might become and then crashed in the realisation that he would never have that chance. Everyone was gone. This floating together in an empty universe was all they had left. What’s she like?

I dunno. We just seem to enjoy the same stuff. She laughs at my jokes.

Your mother never laughed at mine.

That’s ’cause they’re not very funny, Dad.

Hmmm. Quinn hunted for a guide star, like searching for a familiar friend in a crowd. You know, I always wanted to be an astronomer when I was growing up. The thought of what might lie out there in all that immenseness fascinated me. But my math was never up to scratch. I ended up in an office, listing inventories and organising schedules. Engines drive ships, but they can’t fly unless their paperwork’s in order, right?

The comm was silent. Conor’s suit drifted. Something’s wrong. Quinn peered through his son’s visor. The boy’s skin was pale, and his eyes were closed.

Conor?

No reaction. Quinn checked the readouts. CO2 was sky-high. Quinn reached for his airline, his gloved fingers fumbling at the connection. He pulled it free, hearing it hiss, and then attached it to the receptor on his son’s suit. It clicked home. As oxygen flowed into Conor’s suit, Quinn’s air reserves dropped. He didn’t care. Pressing his helmet against his son’s, he gripped the boy by the shoulders and shook him, willing him to wake up. The indicators continued to flatline.

Quinn cried out in agony. His chest heaved. Salt tears stung his eyes. Baring his teeth, he ripped out the airline and watched the last of his own air bleed away into space.

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Part Two: The Room

Quinn opened his eyes. White light flooded in. He squeezed his eyelids shut and then opened them a crack. The whiteness was unremitting.

He remembered the attack—if that was what it had been. He and Conor had made it to the lifeboat. The lifeboat had been compromised. Then Conor’s suit had malfunctioned, and he had decided to pull out his airline. Yet his life had not ended. And now he was… where?

Hospital. He’d always associated white with hospitals. Some well-meaning idiot had plucked him from the jaws of suicide. But Conor was gone. Everything and everyone he cared about was gone. He wanted to find his saviour and punch him in the teeth.

Forcing his eyes open, he searched for the twinkling monitors and smiling nurses, but there were none. There was nothing except the all-pervading white.

He raised his head. His colony uniform was gone, and in its place was a simple white robe like a hospital gown.

Pain stabbed at his shoulder blades as he realised he was lying on a hard floor. He sat up. He was in an empty room. Floor, walls, and ceiling—all were blinding white, yet he couldn’t see any light source. Where was he? Perhaps the hospital staff had shoved him into a side room and then forgotten about him. He searched for the door but couldn’t see it. The only feature was a wide window that showcased a rolling meadow studded with twisted trees he didn’t recognise—the hospital grounds?

He got up, massaged the parts of him that ached, and went to the window. The meadow fell away to a line of blue-ridged hills in the distance. He turned slowly. Hello? The walls seemed to deaden sound. He raised his voice. Hello! Silence. Dammit—who’s in charge here?

He began a fingertip search of the bare wall. No lines, no cracks. If there was a door, it was invisible.

He tried to think. They were three weeks out from the nearest human settlement. Even if a stray ship had picked up their distress signal and dragged him aboard at the last moment, how did he wind up here?

Hello? Still nothing. He checked himself over. Other than the stiffness in his back and neck, he felt perfectly healthy. So what am I doing in a hospital? Maybe it wasn’t that sort of a hospital. Had the destruction of the fleet and then the loss of Conor turned his mind?

He began a self-diagnostic. My name is Regan Quinn. I am forty-one years, Earth standard. My birth identity code is 4376872*QUI. I am… I was travelling on a colony ship bound for Hades-7. Aside from a heightened state of agitation, which he took to be a natural consequence of being cooped up in this antiseptic room, he judged himself to be quite rational.

He inhaled, preparing to give full vent to his frustration, when a flicker caught the corner of his eye. The window shimmered… and the view shifted.

A crescent moon hung in a starry sky. He looked down on a valley of twinkling lights—some static, others moving in lines, like vehicles on a road. A settlement? He could hear the distant cheep… cheep of an animal.

He crossed to the window and brushed the glass with his fingertips. Was it a projection of some kind, designed to relieve stress? He didn’t recognise this scene any more than he had the previous one. Puzzled, he sat in the far corner, wrapped his arms around his legs, and gazed at the far-off town.

A lab rat. Researchers would place rats in mazes or confront them with challenges to test their responses, but he’d never heard of anyone doing that to another person. There had to be laws against that sort of thing. Besides, there was nothing for him to do here—no tasks to accomplish, no challenges to overcome. Just a window that—

There. The scene changed again. He was looking at a forest, or a jungle maybe. Huge variegated leaves waved almost within touching distance. Beyond them, a line of trees spouted yellow-and-orange fronds that brushed the ground. Above the trees were spindly towers topped by large silver discs. He could recall nothing like them either on Earth or any of its colony worlds.

He felt pressure on his bladder. I have to pee. He glanced around the room. Whoever had shoved him in here apparently hadn’t taken bodily functions into account.

Hey there! Silence. He shrugged inwardly. When you gotta go, you gotta go.

He got up and went to the corner opposite… then took a step back. What the—

The floor opened, forming a round depression that led into a smooth-sided hole. Cautiously, he gave release and then watched in fascination as the hole closed, leaving a surface as clean and smooth as before.

He returned to his corner, slid down the wall, and tried to collect his thoughts. What just happened? He knew of no technology that could explain it, but of one thing he was now certain: someone was watching him.

~

Quinn sat in his corner while a variety of vistas processed before him. Some might have been human colony worlds. Others were so alien that he found them difficult to interpret. One looked like a whirlpool of rainbows. Another showed an underwater scene with distant shapes that drifted past. Still another featured total darkness, punctuated by bestial sounds that made his spine quiver.

A beach appeared. Breakers swirled over large, round stones, triggering memories of a vacation at Athmore Bay when Conor was six. The boy had spent virtually the entire time exploring the rock pools, each a new and unique world. Quinn felt his chest heave, and he fell into a fit of uncontrollable sobbing. When he finally raised his head, the scene had changed again.

He had almost resolved that he wasn’t going to learn anything useful from the window when the jungle scene returned. He pushed to his feet. The sky appeared darker as if time had moved on. Were the scenes being presented in real time? A repeat view suggested a fixed cycle of images or a database. He wondered why these particular scenes were appearing. Did these worlds really exist, or were they merely the product of his fevered imagination or a computer-generated fantasy?

By the time his eyes grew heavy, he still had no answers. He fell into a dreamless sleep…

He awoke to the sound of running water. On the opposite wall, a white spout delivered a laminated stream that disappeared into a small basin. He watched it in dumb fascination for several moments before rising to slake his thirst and sluice his face.

His stomach grumbled. When do they feed the animals in this zoo? He turned back to his corner and spotted something on the floor that had not been there before—a bread bun, pinned with a toothpick, and a small orange pile next to it. Frowning, he picked up the bun, turned it over, and then bit into it.

The juices ran into his mouth. The Rocketship Diner on Third Street, Eire colony. He’d taken the family there for a Saturday treat. This was a Jammin’ Jalepeño burger with sweet potato fries. How in the world…?

He glanced around the bare walls. Someone was yanking his chain—someone from the colony who knew him well. But the only colonists within light years were those on the ships. Was one of them involved in his abduction… rescue… whatever? A horrific idea occurred to him: could that same person be responsible for the destruction of the fleet?

No, it was unthinkable that anyone could contemplate the mass murder of thousands of innocent colonists. And in any case, how could they manage such a thing out in deep space? Why would they do it? He stared at the burger in his hands. If he were going to survive this ordeal, he would need to eat. It wasn’t exactly breakfast, but it would have to do. He sat cross-legged, chewed slowly, and watched the window.

Twin suns rose over a red desert. Cone-shaped structures hovered over the heat haze—dwellings or monuments; he couldn’t tell which. The various images were like a series of picture postcards… or a travel brochure. Maybe this was a bizarre travel agency. Maybe a bleach-blond saleslady with whitened teeth and a fake tan was about to jump out and offer him the trip of a lifetime to the resort world of Adagi Prime. He chuckled and shook his head.

The desert rippled and vanished and became a crowded thoroughfare. Quinn stood slowly. A morsel of bread fell from his open mouth. It was his first glimpse of people, only they weren’t exactly human. Many bore a superficial resemblance—two arms, two legs, and one head—but others were unrecognisable. He saw scales, claws, tentacles, and some other appendages he couldn’t begin to identify. Even a fizzling ball of energy drifting past attracted no special attention. Behind them, an equally odd mix of aerial devices bobbed, dived, and gyrated amid the hum and bustle, like eccentric toys.

Astonishment subsided, and scepticism took over. Sentient alien races were a myth. A hundred years of human exploration across a thousand worlds had turned up nothing more than a few fungal growths and a smattering of microbes. This is a deception.

He went to the window and stared at the passersby. It was as if he were peering out through a shop window. People and creatures strolled, waddled, loped, hopped, and flew past. None glanced in his direction.

Belatedly, he found his voice. Hello? An impossibly thin creature that looked as if it had been fashioned out of pipe cleaners ambled past. Hello! he repeated. It didn’t turn or break its stride.

Idiot. These were computer-generated images—they had to be. You’re trying to converse with a movie.

He was about to turn away when a blur caught his eye. A slight, yellow-robed figure dropped to the roadway. Long white hair parted, revealing bright green almond-shaped eyes set in a long, pointed face. Pink, leathery wings fluttered at her back. She carried a flat, oval device under her arm.

She crossed the line of pedestrians, placed her palm against the window, and stared directly at him. Quinn took a step back.

Her eyes darted back and forth, and then she began scribbling rapidly on the oval device. She held it up to the window so that he could see its screen. It read, Don’t. Quinn blinked.

The winged girl removed the device, wrote on the screen again, and held it up for him to see—believe. She nodded at him and began writing again.

The scene blurred and shifted, and he was looking at an assemblage of blocks poised at the head of a waterfall. A rainbow arced over it like a halo. He touched the glass, but there was only the glint of sunlight and the roar of water.

Quinn returned to his corner and sat in a daze. Don’t believe. Don’t believe what or whom? He pictured the winged girl. Who was she? Was she trying to warn him of something?

He sat, eyes glued to the window, willing the street scene to reappear and the winged girl’s return.

~

Quinn finally fell into a fitful sleep and dreamed of fabulous monsters—creatures that were part of an interactive storybook he had read over and over as a child.

He awoke to find a manticore in the centre of the room. The creature raised its humanlike head and bored into him with sickly yellow eyes. The head was set atop a lion’s body, making the beast look like the product of some horrific genetic experiment.

He scrabbled away, pressed his back to the farthest wall, and raised his arms. The manticore rose, padded over, and took a swipe at him with one claw, narrowly missing his face. Its tail whipped around. The end split and became a wide, serpentine mouth, spitting venom. Fetid breath washed over him.

He uttered a strangled cry just as the monster vanished in a burst of light. Quinn slid down the wall, trembling, and tried to blink away the afterimage. What was that thing? Maybe they were trying to scare him to death. Don’t believe. Don’t believe. Gradually, his heart rate slowed, and he raised his eyes to the window.

The scene showed a bare escarpment with openings too regular to be natural—a cave city perhaps. Winged creatures flew inside while others emerged, rising and soaring on invisible thermals. Could that be the winged girl’s home?

He went to the window and squinted at the glass, but the flying creatures were too distant for him to make out any details. Don’t believe. He had no idea who the winged girl was or whether she really existed or even if the aborted message had been meant for him.

Perhaps she was part of some psychological conditioning designed to erode his resolve and bend him to a dark purpose—place him in solitary confinement then tantalise him with a brief contact. But to what end? What was the point of it all?

Avoiding the middle of the room, where the manticore had appeared, he made his way back to the far corner.

The lighting was constant; he had no way to measure the passing of time. Get up, go to work, eat, sleep—the tick of the clock and the waxing and waning of daylight had regulated life in the colony. Now, for the first time, that order—that structure—was gone. He felt fragmented. Adrift. Rudderless.

He tried counting the seconds between one view and the next. The interval wasn’t constant—he estimated five to ten minutes on average. Of course, he had no way of telling how many scenes had passed while he was asleep.

Certain scenes repeated, though he couldn’t discern a pattern. The jungle returned three times. The town in the valley reappeared in daylight, but since he didn’t know the length of a day on that world, it didn’t help.

He went to the fountain and gulped some water. Behind him, he heard a distant rumble. He swallowed and spun round. The street scene was back.

He rushed to the window. The same eclectic mix of pedestrians paraded past. He pressed his palms against the window. Hello? He pounded on the glass. Hello! The creatures appeared oblivious. Why didn’t they answer? Perhaps it was a recording after all. The girl had seemed to look directly at him, but he must have been mistaken. Unless…

Crowd psychology. He’d heard that in some of the major cities on Earth, people would ignore one another even in emergency situations. Coming from a colony of just a few thousand people where it seemed as if everyone knew everyone else, he found such behaviour hard to imagine.

The scene would not be there for much longer; time was slipping away. He hammered on the glass again. Help! Help, please! The passing crowd thinned. He took a deep breath to shout once again and then caught sight of the winged girl across the street. She glanced left and right and then flew towards him, zigzagging through the stream of mad traffic. Deftly, she alighted in front of the window, the oval screen tucked under her arm.

Hey there! Quinn yelled. Hey there! Can you hear me?

The girl glanced at him, nodded, and began scribbling once more. Creatures flowed past, ignoring her.

Suddenly she stopped writing, gazed past him, and widened her eyes. Without warning, she spread her wings and shot into the air. Where’d she go?

Dad?

Quinn whirled around. Standing in the centre of the room, clad in the same white hospital robe, was Conor.

~

Conor smiled as if he’d just come in from soccer practice. What’s going on, Dad?

Quinn stood, mouth open, the winged girl and her mysterious message forgotten. Conor how…? I… I thought you were…

Dead? That’s right.

I don’t understand.

It’s a long story.

Wh-where have you been?

Conor smiled as if he were the parent trying to calm a frightened child. I haven’t ‘been’ anywhere, Dad. I was with you outside the lifeboat. Then I was here.

So they abducted you, too.

Not exactly.

Light flashed in the centre of the room, and two armchairs appeared, facing one another. Quinn blinked. They were exactly like the ones in his old living room back at the colony. Conor settled into one and motioned towards the other. Go ahead. Have a seat.

Quinn felt as if he had been in a bomb blast. A part of him wanted to throw his arms around the boy and weep with relief, but his limbs felt as if they belonged to someone else. He eased himself into the chair as if he expected it to vanish at any moment and deposit him on his rump.

Are you all right? Conor asked.

Yes… no. Where are we? What planet is this?

We’re not on a planet, Dad. We’re on a ship.

A ship. Someone must’ve picked up the distress beacon and taken them aboard. Where’s it headed?

That hasn’t been decided. Right now you’re a… I suppose the closest would be ‘guest.’

A guest of whom?

They call themselves the Agantzane. You would call them aliens. You’re the first human to make contact. That puts you right up there with James Cook, Ferdinand Magellan, and Christopher Columbus.

Aliens were a myth—the stuff of tall stories and fanciful tales. At least, that was what he had always been taught to believe. Yet there had to be a rational explanation for all of… this. Until he found out what it was, it made sense to play along.

Why haven’t they shown themselves?

They’re a lot different than us. So they devised a remote method of interaction. They planted a tiny chip in your head and tied it to an adaptive computer interface.

They put a chip in my head?

It’s harmless, Dad. It merely interprets your thought patterns and allows the room to respond to your needs. Unfortunately, the computer was programmed by aliens, so the experiment was less than successful.

You’re telling me!

The room did its best to sort through chaotic human thought processes, but it couldn’t discern between needs and wants, dreams and fears. After the incident with the manticore, they decided on a more direct approach.

And that’s you.

That’s me, Conor said.

They revived you somehow?

No, that was impossible. Conor was already dead. But the neuronal connections—the memories, the emotions, the essence of Conor—had not fully decayed. They managed to preserve me.

So, you’re saying you’re not really him?

Conor sat back and twiddled his fingers just as he had done since childhood. "I guess it all depends on your point of view. Conor died from CO2 poisoning. But I have his thoughts—his feelings. I remember the bicycle accident when I was six. I remember Mom’s funeral and how everyone treated me like I was made of china and how I smiled and tried to be polite when all I wanted to do was run away and hide. In every way that’s important, I am him. But none of that matters now.

"Dad, I’m here to explain what happened to you and why you’re here. Hades-7, the planetoid we were headed for, lies in an area of space occupied by the Consensus."

The Consensus?

Right. They’re a diverse group of alien races with a long, shared history. They’ve been aware of us for some time through our radio broadcasts. They learned our language. They also learned that humans have a history of violence. It scared them. So, when we dispatched our probe, they intercepted it and uploaded false data.

So, Hades-7 isn’t really a volcanic world rocked by earthquakes?

No. They wanted to deter us from expanding in this direction. I guess they underestimated human determination. When they sighted the colony fleet, they figured it was an invasion force and panicked. Only when the fleet was destroyed and they examined our ships’ recorders did they realise they’d made a terrible mistake. They found you dying among the wreckage and brought you aboard along with my body. Then they placed you in this room.

The explanation was plausible enough and yet… something was wrong, though Quinn couldn’t say for sure what. It was like a chord with one note played slightly off. What about the scenes in the window?

They’re the worlds of the Consensus. They’re inviting you to choose.

Choose what?

Who lives and who dies.

~

Quinn gazed at the boy in the chair opposite. Is this really my son? Is this Conor? More than anything else, he wanted to believe it. Who lives and who—what are you talking about?

I’m talking about justice for me and the thousands of others who died. Surely you care about that?

Nothing can bring them back.

Conor shook his head. You’re missing the point. We have to right the wrong. The Consensus believe that justice is paramount. They consider it vital for maintaining balance in society. Humans believe that, too.

I suppose, Quinn said.

Then we agree. Justice demands recompense. You must exact retribution for the lives lost.

Why me? Quinn asked. Doesn’t your Consensus have a system of judges?

The only person fit to judge a crime is the victim.

Humans select a jury to decide—people who are impartial.

I know, Dad. But the system used by the Consensus makes a lot more sense. Impartiality is a myth; everyone has an opinion. Only the victim can truly know the extent of his loss. That’s you.

They expect me to pronounce judgement on them?

Yes. And the choices you make will impact the entire human race.

How do you mean?

Conor leaned forward. How much is a human life worth?

Quinn frowned. We don’t assign value to a life. Each life is priceless.

I know that’s what humans say, Dad, but it’s nonsense. Is the life of a criminal on death row worth the same as a newborn baby? Saying all life is priceless simply papers over the truth. To the Consensus, knowing the value of a life is the only way to assess the loss. It’s the very basis of their system of justice. You’re going to teach them the value of human life.

How do they expect me to do that?

They’ve infected you with a pathogen—don’t worry, it’s completely harmless to humans, but skin-to-skin contact will instantly kill any of the Consensus races. A touch would be sufficient. That’s why you’ve been quarantined in this room until you decide who should pay for the lives that were lost.

Quinn stared into Conor’s eyes, grey as a wintry sky, and struggled to comprehend the enormity of what he was suggesting. You want me to murder nearly twelve thousand people?

Justice isn’t murder; even humans accept that. As to the number of those who should die, that’s up to you, although there are limits. If you decided to exterminate the entire Consensus, for example, that would be unacceptable.

Quinn grasped at the passing straw. Suppose I decided no one should die?

Conor lowered his voice to conspiratorial level. "Dad, you need to understand the rules of this game. The computer will assign a value to each life you take. If you only take a few lives, or none at all, you’ll be testifying that human life is worthless. The Consensus will feel free to exterminate humans wherever they’re found. They may well decide to overrun Earth and its colonies and replace humans with more worthwhile forms of life.

On the other hand, if you pick many valuable lives, you’ll be placing a high value on the human race. If the Consensus were to invade our worlds, their own system of justice would demand an extreme price from among their own people.

What would be a ‘valuable life’ by their standards?

Conor shrugged. A scientist working to save lives maybe. Or a female and her six young offspring would be an excellent choice.

You’re insane!

Conor blinked. "Really? What about the thousands of people that the Consensus slaughtered, including me? A moment ago, you said our lives were priceless. Don’t we deserve justice?

The Consensus has given you the means to achieve real justice, to right a terrible wrong—something no human court could grant. On top of that, you’ll be preserving millions of human lives and ensuring the future of humanity. It’s a fantastic opportunity, Dad.

Dad. Quinn wished the person sitting opposite would stop calling him that, yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask him to stop.

The Consensus are aliens, not people, Conor continued. "The pathogen causes no suffering. You touch them, and poof, they die. Simple as that. It’s a much more merciful death than many on board our ships suffered."

Quinn felt like a man locked in a room with a ticking time bomb. You said the Consensus panicked when they destroyed our ships. Someone must’ve made that decision. Why not just punish the person responsible and have done with it?

The Consensus decide jointly; that’s what their name means. All of the races shared in the decision to attack our ships. They have a community responsibility.

Quinn shook his head. What you’re asking me to do is impossible. I don’t know the first thing about these races, let alone the individuals within them. I have no way to decide.

Conor grinned the way he used to when making the winning move in chess. That’s where I come in. I’ll take you to a variety of Consensus worlds. We can see the sights, and I can tell you about their history, their lives, their strengths and weaknesses, their virtues and vices. I’ll be your guide. Then you’ll decide who needs to die. It’ll be a great adventure, Dad!

Knuckles Knuckles 2 11 2023-03-10T02:23:00Z 2023-03-10T02:23:00Z 7 271187 1545766 12881 3626 1813327 14.0 96 800x600

Part Three: The Window

Quinn squinted at the howling blizzard and tried in vain to make out the features of the latest world on display. You’re saying we can step through, and we’ll wind up there?

Conor chuckled. Actually, it’s more like the window steps through us. He caught Quinn’s confused expression. You’ll see what I mean.

Play for time. It was a poor strategy, but it was all he could think of. At the very least, it would get him out of this wretched room!

He gazed at the boy next to him. Conor appeared strange—almost as if he were two persons in one body. Sometimes he was clearly Conor, right down to the unique mannerisms. At other times, he spoke with language and confidence far beyond his fourteen years… as if someone were using him as a mouthpiece. Was this his son or not? He didn’t know. All he could do was try to cling to what was left.

He wanted to mention the winged girl and her enigmatic message, but something stopped him. He decided on a more roundabout approach. Can I choose which worlds to visit?

Conor glanced at him, frowning. Why would you want to do that?

I don’t know. I just thought—

You already said you know nothing of the various races. I can take you to places that will help you make balanced decisions.

Quinn could see nothing balanced about the slaughter of thousands, but he let the thought pass. We’re not going there, are we? He nodded at the snowstorm.

Conor laughed in a way that Quinn found unsettling. Is that what you were worried about?

He waved his hand, the snowstorm vanished, and a stately forest appeared. Giant trees rose like pillars before disappearing into a purple canopy. Steady cheeping filled the air, punctuated by a harsh cackling that reverberated among the immense boles.

Conor’s voice darkened. If you’re thinking of escaping, forget it. They would view it as contempt for their justice system, and the results for humankind would be… unfortunate. If you were to attempt suicide, they would simply find another human and present him with the same choices. The Consensus will be watching all that you do. If you act foolishly, I can’t protect you. If you disobey, I won’t protect you. He brightened. So, are you ready?

Quinn wanted to go huddle in his corner, but he resisted the urge. What do I do?

Nothing. Conor held out his hand, but Quinn hesitated. It’s all right, Dad. Your touch is harmless to humans, remember?

Tentatively, Quinn took his hand. It felt limp—not the affectionate grasp of his son.

The window expanded and washed over him. He released Conor’s hand and spun around. The room was gone.

He was standing in the heart of the forest. A gentle breeze ran its fingers through the foliage overhead. Chinks of light danced like sprites on the ground. Nearby rustlings and distant calls suggested an abundance of concealed life. This would be an ideal world for human colonisation. He caught Conor watching him.

What do you think? Conor asked.

Best to be noncommittal. Very nice. Where are we?

Conor smiled. Congratulations, Dad. You made it. This is Hades-7.

~

Quinn took a deep breath, and his nostrils filled with the scent of growing things. A cloud of pink seed parachutes drifted past. Looks a lot different than the survey images.

I told you, Dad: the Consensus falsified the information brought back by our probe.

If they’d falsified the probe’s input, maybe they were falsifying this experience as well—making him see what they wanted him to see. It made little difference. His only option for now was to play along.

I brought you here to meet the locals, Conor went on.

What’s so special about them?

I’ll explain on the way. Come on! Conor set off at a jaunty pace.

A sleek four-legged creature emerged from a thicket up ahead. With a glossy yellow coat and a white belly with pepper-like spots, it reminded Quinn of a bizarre species of cat, except for the green dorsal fin running along its spine. It hissed, baring a row of sharp teeth, and slunk back into the thicket.

An idea occurred to him. He stooped down and picked a leaf from the forest floor. Shaped like an ace of spades, it was yellow with blue veins and a waxy feel. Checking to see that Conor’s back was turned, he slipped it into a fold of his robe.

If he got back to the room and the leaf was gone, it would prove this was just a simulation. If he still had the leaf, it would suggest this planet was real—unless it was all one massive, virtual environment. In that case, nothing was real, and nothing he did mattered. Somehow, he didn’t think the Consensus would let him off that easily.

He hurried after Conor. I’m not sure I can do what you’re asking.

Why not? Haven’t you ever hated anyone so much you wanted to kill them?

No… no, of course not.

What about people who commit horrible crimes, against children, say?

That’s different, Quinn said.

How’s it different?

I don’t know… I suppose I might feel they deserved to die. But it would just be in the heat of the moment. I wouldn’t actually go through with it.

So, what you’re saying is you know the right thing to do; you just lack the courage to do it.

Quinn’s mouth opened, but no sound emerged.

"It’s okay, Dad. The Consensus wouldn’t understand human weakness, but I do. That’s why I brought you here to meet the Darshan.

"Four hundred Earth years ago, they were at war with Karthik, the only other inhabited world in their system. Eventually, the Darshan broke through Karthik’s planetary defences and unleashed superconducting mass drivers. They obliterated the surface along with the entire Karthik race. Shortly afterwards, the Darshan petitioned to enter the Consensus.

The laws of the Consensus say that a race can’t be held liable for its actions prior to joining—otherwise, it’d mean going back over their entire history. So, I guess humans would say the Darshan committed genocide and then got off on a technicality.

Something in the tree canopy shrieked as they passed beneath. Why are you telling me this? Quinn asked.

Because I understand human thinking. Most people would say that if a few of the Darshan died now, it’d be natural justice—that they’d simply have got what was coming to them.

Conor was driving him down a narrow path. Quinn searched for an exit. What’s their life span?

About the same as ours.

Then everyone who was involved in the genocide is long dead. The individuals living now had nothing to do with it.

So, you’re saying the crimes of their forebears should go unpunished.

You can’t punish the dead, Quinn said.

Oh, yes you can.

How?

Conor plunged through the forest. By destroying their legacy.

~

The forest ended abruptly, and Quinn and Conor stepped onto a flat, silvery surface. Grey-skinned bipeds of various sizes wandered among conical structures that reminded Quinn of metallic tepees. The creatures were bent over and clad in silver coverings that shimmered like a heat haze. They lifted each foot as they walked, lizard-like. Eyes like black beads were set on either side of an elongated head that ended in a short trunk like an anteater’s snout. If Conor was telling the truth, then the two of them were the first humans ever to clap eyes on beings from another world.

Quinn tried not to gawp. These are the Darshan?

Right. I figured it’d be easier for you to expire something that’s clearly not human.

Expire—an odd word. Death cloaked in a comfortable euphemism. Quinn gazed at the back of his hand then turned it over and examined his palm. According to Conor, he had been transformed into an instrument of death. Power and horror swirled like dark currents within him. Do they know who I am?

They know why you’re here, Conor replied.

Then why don’t they flee?

Within the Consensus, evading justice is an offence as serious as the crime itself. They must accept their fate.

Including death.

That’s right, Conor said.

Play for time. Then I need to talk to them.

That’s a bad idea, Dad.

Why?

Because forming an attachment to them will only make it harder.

Quinn faced his son. Look, I can’t destroy a people without really knowing who they are.

I told you all you need to know.

They don’t seem warlike. They live in the midst of nature.

You’re being sentimental, Dad. Don’t forget; the very future of humanity’s at stake. You have no choice.

You said it was up to me who lives and who dies.

That’s true, but—

I’m going to speak to them. Quinn started towards the nearest creature.

They’re aliens, Dad, Conor called from behind him. They won’t understand you.

Quinn didn’t break his stride. I’ll manage somehow.

~

The Darshan raised its head and regarded Quinn. If the creatures were differentiated by gender, he couldn’t tell. It sniffed the air as if getting his scent.

Sign language. He didn’t know Earth Sign, but then neither did this creature. On the other hand, gestures were the most basic, universal language—among humans at least.

He pointed to his chest. My name is Quinn… Quinn. He pointed at the grey creature’s midriff and then pulled back, remembering the effect of his touch. The Darshan didn’t flinch. Your name?

A fleshy orifice opened at the end of the Darshan’s snout, but no sound came out.

Quinn, he said, pointing firmly at his chest again. The Darshan made no reply.

Conor still stood at the tree line, watching him. The boy wasn’t offering any help, but neither did he seem inclined to interfere.

Maybe they don’t use verbal communication. Quinn tried another tack. He got down on his hands and knees, wetted his forefinger, and drew a trail of saliva in the shape of a small circle. Earth… Earth. It’s where I come from. He drew another circle a short distance away. Darshan. That’s here—the world where you live. We call it Hades-7 because it’s—he wetted his finger again and made six smaller circles followed by a larger one—the seventh planetoid from your sun.

He glanced up. A knot of Darshan, large and small, had gathered. They watched his antics, heads moving in unison like a crowd at a tennis match, showing no hint of recognition. Could it be that they no longer had knowledge of astronomy? They lived in a pastoral setting. Perhaps their barbaric history had caused them to abandon science and technology.

The Darshan shuffled their feet as he resumed drawing. He drew a stick man and pointed to himself again. Human. That’s me. Then he drew a bent-over stick equivalent. Darshan. That’s you.

The creatures parted. Had he insulted them somehow? He stood, but before he could speak, a doubled-over Darshan shuffled forward, head half-covered by a cowl. It raised a bony hand, beckoned with a skeletal finger, and then turned and moved away without waiting for a response. Quinn followed, and the rest of the Darshan trailed after him like kids on a school outing.

The aged Darshan stopped in front of one of the conical structures. A partition slid open, and the creature disappeared inside. The other Darshan stood behind Quinn, willing him forward—or were they cutting off his retreat? It hardly mattered. The answers lay within, and he had come too far to turn back now.

Fighting back his fears, Quinn stepped across the threshold. The partition slid shut, severing the light.

~

Trapped. Quinn swallowed, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The only light came from a guttering flame on the far side of the structure. The hooded Darshan sat beside it, head lowered as if sleeping.

The curved walls were perfectly smooth. He could see no outlines of furniture or other trappings. As he walked towards the flame, the Darshan patted the ground.

Obediently, Quinn sat on the floor opposite and crossed his legs. I’m the alien here—the guest. He sat in silence, waiting for his host to make the first move. Slowly, the Darshan extended a wiry arm and opened a hand. Lying in its leathery palm was a dark pebble—a gift? Gift giving was integral to many primitive cultures on Earth. If he were right, then it would be an insult to refuse.

He picked the pebble from the Darshan’s hand, careful not to make skin contact. The stone was smooth and round as if it had been plucked from a stream. He could see nothing remarkable about it. He nodded to the Darshan. Thank you.

The Darshan withdrew its hand and extended the other, palm open.

Uh… sorry, I don’t have anything, Quinn said. The creature held its hand out farther. Look, the Agantzane took everything I had when… they rescued me. He shrugged. I have nothing to give you.

Then he remembered the leaf. Maybe that would do. He reached into his robe and placed it in the creature’s palm. The Darshan’s six fingers closed around the leaf, and it withdrew its arm.

Suddenly, he heard a sound like a distant choir. He strained to catch the source, but it seemed to come from all around. The music swelled, and the air filled with kaleidoscopic light. The light surrounded them. Within it were stars, comets, and nebulae—as if the grandeur of the entire universe were within his grasp. The unearthly concert grew to a crescendo. Spreading his arms wide, he soared—up, up… into a stratosphere of light and sound. Then he felt himself falling—down, down… the universe split asunder and became an abyss. A river of galaxies poured into it. Tucking his arms into his sides, he plunged headlong into the bottomless black…

The choir melted away, and the light faded to a flickering flame. Quinn sat cross-legged opposite the Darshan, breathing heavily. Finally, he found his voice. That… was amazing… thank you.

The Darshan raised its head. Its aged face bore the marks of its battle with time. Could a race create something so beautiful yet at the same time have the savage past that Conor described? He thought of humans. They had produced the works of Shakespeare, Da Vinci, and Beethoven, yet their history was littered with wars, pogroms, and ethnic cleansing.

The Darshan began writing in the air, leaving a fiery trail. Quinn watched in fascination as it wrote, 1 + 1 = 2.

The flaming formula faded. Quinn blinked. Math had never been his strong suit, but he knew it could be used as a form of communication. You start with basic concepts… like prime numbers.

On impulse, he raised a finger and moved it through the same space. To his amazement, it left a line of fire. His heart quickened. Scrolling back to front, he wrote, 1 + 2 = 3, continuing the sequence of prime numbers. He suddenly recalled something he had learned a long time ago. This was the Fibonacci series—a mathematical relationship that occurred again and again in nature, covering everything from cauliflowers to pine cones. Connection—communication with an alien race. Many had dreamed of it, but he had proved it possible!

To his shock, the Darshan waved its hand in the space, disrupting the flaming numbers and banishing Quinn’s proud equation. It wrote, 1 − 1 = 0.

One minus one equals zero. It was true. But what did it mean? Maybe this isn’t Fibonacci. Maybe he’s just running through the operations of basic arithmetic. Quinn waited for the Darshan’s formula to fade then wrote, 1 × 1 = 1.

The Darshan banished Quinn’s effort again with a swipe of its hand and wrote, 1 − 1 = 0.

The creature raised its head, and its eyes flickered in the flame.

Quinn felt sweat trickle down the back of his neck. I’m sorry. I don’t understand. I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.

The Darshan seized his hand. Quinn pulled away, but its grip was surprisingly strong. It stiffened, fell forward, and lay still.

Quinn’s hand trembled, and he stared in horror at his hand and then at the Darshan’s body. Why? Why would it do that? Perhaps it was simply trying to communicate and didn’t realise the danger. Or… or had it deliberately committed suicide?

Still shaking, he got to his feet. The partition slid open, admitting a wash of light and a puff of wind that snuffed out the flame.

Conor stood, framed in the doorway, and smiled. Way to go, Dad.

~

Quinn awoke to a hand on his shoulder.

Dad? The room’s light had returned, though whether it was actually morning was anyone’s guess. Wake up, Dad. It’s time to go.

Quinn stirred and rolled over. Many times he’d awakened Conor when the boy’s alarm had failed to do the job. Never once could he remember it being the other way around.

The horror of the previous day’s events, including the death of the Kamilah, flooded back, sapping his resolve. Conor said the Kamilah had been a spiritual leader. How were the Darshan faring without him?

Quinn pushed to his feet, went to the fountain, washed his hands, and threw water over his face. Are you taking me back to the Darshan’s world?

Conor frowned. Why? Do you want to go there?

Not particularly.

Conor nodded. "I agree. I thought we’d keep them in reserve. I’ve spent