Chapter One

An Honest Day’s Work

The day was unmercifully hot. Stripped to the waist, men bent their backs and went about their labors with an eagerness that filled the meadow with the irregular, muffled beat of metal on soil. Every now and then someone caught their shin or toe instead of their intended target, and a barrage of cursing filled the air with colorful metaphors.

None of these distractions intruded on the world of Marcus Brutus, former Prime Centurion of the Ninth Legion of Rome — and more recently sub-commander of the Ardenese city of Rhomane.

As was his custom when engaged in monotonous physical tasks, Marcus became an automaton. Lost in a cadence of his own making, he allowed the rhythm of his exertions to detach his mind and transport him back to a time only three years previously, when he had basked in the limelight of achievement and success.

The eradication of Gallic insurgents who had disrupted major supply routes for months. A commendation from Emperor Hadrian himself. His promotion to Triari thereafter.

A sad smile creased his lips.

If only I could have realized my dreams there and then. The district of Lugdunum was prime real estate, especially the villages clustered along the Saône River. I could have built a house there, close to the forest and away from the rest of civilization. Found myself a woman. Settled down. Spent my twilight years getting old and fat . . . and overrun with children.

His smile broadened into a grin.

“Happy about something?” an unexpected voice enquired.

“I . . . I’m sorry?” Marcus stammered, caught by surprise. “What did you say?”

Marcus allowed his eyes to re-focus and discovered Searc Calhoun standing above his trench, a bottle of chilled water clutched in one hand.

Searc was leader of the Vacomagi clan, part of the Caledonian army that had ambushed the Ninth Legion back on Earth and inflicted heavy casualties before fate intervened and snatched them all away to Arden. Former enemies, the two men were now close friends who enjoyed each other’s company.

“I asked if you were all right,” Searc repeated, “you looked to be a million miles away there.”

“A million miles away?” Marcus snorted. “I’m afraid I was a lot, lot farther out than that.”

He snatched the bottle from his companion’s grasp and took a long deep pull.

Realizing what Marcus was alluding to, Searc couldn’t resist the opening.

“Och . . . dreaming of the ass-kicking we gave you back in Callie, eh? Lucky buggers. I’d have loved to stick your head on a pike and drink a blood-toast to your dearly departed ghost.” He paused to spit on the ground. “Bloody aliens and their interfering sprites, they spoiled a good ruckus.”

“That they did, my friend. That they did.” Marcus handed the bottle back. Shielding his eyes against the glare of the sun, he countered, “Anyway, what makes you so sure your uneducated rabble would have won? I think the Architect may have done you a favor.”

Around them, clansmen and legionnaires alike began hooting and hollering as the good-natured jesting became more personal. Joining in, several interrupted their chores to brandish hoes and picks at one another in mock anger.

“We could always reenact our little shindig, here and now,” Searc offered, “just you and me. I’ve got a score to settle, remember, after the tragedy of our last bout.”

The mood spread and soon a small crowd gathered in a loose circle to watch what had become a regular feature between the two warriors.

“Yes, that was a rather good tussle, wasn’t it?” A hint of steel entered Marcus’s gaze. As he climbed from the pit, he stretched his sore limbs. “Especially as I evened the score with a most skillful maneuver that put you flat on your face.”

“Skillful? Bloody lucky it was —”

A shadow flickered across the ground and everyone looked up.

Resplendent in midnight-green plumage, a chiraff spiraled lazily down from the sky to land in a nearby tree. A male, it was clearly on the hunt for a mate, for it cocked its head to the gathered throng below, strutted to the end of the branch, and puffed out its chest for inspection.

A flash of topaz-blue and royal purple stood revealed.

“Who’s a pretty boy then?” someone shouted.

“I wonder if it tastes good?”

The bird ignored them, continuing to flex and pose like an Adonis so his colors were displayed to their best effect.

“Nervy little sod, that’s for sure!”

A few whistled and stamped their feet. Others whooped and cheered the interloper on. In reply, the chiraff threw back his head, and fluted birdsong filled the glade with musical bliss.

His query was answered by a warbling echo, and everyone stopped to watch as a female appeared from the dense foliage of a nearby tree. Swooping low, she glided across the intervening gap and alighted near her would-be suitor.

They called back and forth for a few moments, whereupon the male skipped closer, spread his wings wide, and commenced bobbing up and down. The female, obviously impressed, issued a little chirrup of pleasure before both disappeared in a flurry of feathers and leaves.

“He’s got all the right moves too!” Searc cackled. He slapped Marcus on the shoulder. “Talking of which, how are things coming along between you and your new lady pilot friend?”

The highlander flashed his eyebrows outrageously, much to the amusement of those nearby, who tried to suppress their giggles.

“Who, Angela? Very good. She’ll be back any day now, and has asked if I’d consider opening up some free time so I can learn more about flying one of the smaller cargo shuttles. She thinks such a skill will enhance my standing on the council.”

“Enhance your standing? Not good enough as you are? Well, well, well.” Searc pulled a face and addressed his audience. “We all know who wears the trousers in that relationship, don’t we, lads?”

A smattering of lewd comments rang out from tribesmen and soldiers alike. Marcus bristled and his eyes narrowed.

Searc edged closer, alert for any sudden moves: “But then again, I don’t profess to be an expert on the wiles of women. Fey creatures.” He shivered. “I mean . . . there must be something seriously wrong when they have a fine, augmented Highland specimen like me to choose from, and yet they go and pick someone like you. My God, man, even with the enhancements, you’re a long streak of Roman shite.”

This time the bystanders’ laughter was loud and raucous. Their competitive mood rekindled, the gathered men closed in, and the catcalling began all over again.

The two leaders squared off and circled one another, searching for an opening.

“I’m looking forward to this.” Marcus cracked his knuckles. “I’m going to teach you why a lady prefers intelligent conversation, sophistication, and good looks over some drooling, interbred, tartan-clad halfwit.”

“I’m eager to learn, laddie,” Searc quipped. “And don’t worry, I shan’t rearrange your new face too much. After all, your girlfriend does drive some rather large thingamajigs. I wouldn’t want her to go parking one on my head in revenge now, would I?”

Once again backs bent to the earth in effort and sweat, but this time it had nothing whatsoever to do with an honest day’s work.

*

Chief Medical Officer Patricia ‘Pat’ Frost adjusted the magnification of the holographic manipulator with a dexterity matched by few. When the latest batch of eggs came into focus, she began the delicate ministrations that would see them safely embedded within the lining of the artificial womb, ready to engender the latest in a new generation of children. Provided by the woman after whom this wing was named — Ayria Solram — Pat took her time to ensure everything was just right.

Excellent, the uterine wall has adopted the revised pH values without a hitch, so we won’t have to jiggle the intervillous placenta or villi around this time. And the amniotic sac has molded nicely to the chorionic plate. No danger of displacement whatsoever.

Although she had a fine team of nurses and sentinels supporting her, Pat knew the first few weeks following an in vitro induction always presented the greatest risk. She was also keenly aware that the future was riding on her shoulders. Because of this, she still insisted that she be the one to complete the final insertion . . . Just in case.

I can’t help it. It doesn’t feel right, leaving something so important to someone else, or to machines . . . No matter how sophisticated they are.

Exhausted, Pat pushed away from the amplification console and pinched the bridge of her nose. Despite her fatigue, she felt a huge sense of pride and personal satisfaction. To refresh herself, she grabbed her mug from a nearby table and downed the last of her now cold coffee. Then she raised the cup high in salute.

There you go, Ayria. Another clutch of babies to carry on your name and ensure your light never fades.

The Ark, buried deep in the earth beneath Rhomane, contained the genetic heritage of the entire Ardenese race. From this colossal storehouse, the colonists could take whatever they needed to rebuild a devastated world. However, while the Horde Masters had provided the life force to initialize the re-genesis protocol, a viable fleshly host was necessary to activate it, for the newly formed codex required living tissue with which to bond.

In a heroic move, Ayria Solram had sacrificed herself to ensure the sequence would be completed. Her gesture hadn’t been in vain, for the transmutation of her tincture had resulted in the generation of a new triple-stranded DNA helix. And over the months since it was released into the atmosphere, something incredible had happened.

Pat held up her hand and looked at the miracle that was her body.

Her fingers were slightly longer than before, and the flesh had adopted a darker tone, as if she’d spent her life in the sun. And yet her skin hadn’t wrinkled at all. In fact, she looked as young and fresh as she had in her twenties. A glance toward the metallic surface of a nearby monitor revealed the recent development of an aquamarine cast to her eyes. She was also a few inches taller, something that both amazed and frightened her when she pondered just how far the process might go.

How many times will I have to change my wardrobe?

The adaptation went beyond the superficial, for Pat also felt different, a simple truth that the Architect and its myriad scanners must have also witnessed, as evidenced by recent revelations.

Sophisticated Ardenese technology had the benefit of a seven-millennium head start on the most advanced knowledge held by refugees brought from Earth. Much of it had been designed so as to blend with its surrounding environment when inactive. In itself, not a problem, for it revealed an aesthetic representative of their hosts’ cultured way of life.

Originating from the year 3229, Pat had been part of the third intake and no slouch when it came to knowing her way around electronic components, or recognizing the signs of redundant technology.

Nevertheless, everybody was taken by surprise when, ten months ago, whole new areas of Rhomane had inexplicably opened up. Residents of the city had gone to sleep as usual, only to wake up the following day to discover hidden doorways now open, revealing concealed facilities or even whole new sublevels.

The hospital wing Pat now occupied had been part of the process which proved the evolving emergence of Ardenese DNA within the human genome.

We’re hybrids now, Pat realized. The Architect recognized that fact and granted us access to wonders that not only helped us cope with the transformation, but paved the way for the resurrection of full-blood citizens . . . or whatever it is they’ve now become.

She thought of Ayria again as she strolled to the far end of the facility where the eldest fetuses were housed.

At nine months old, the single girl and two boys were plump and pink. Smiling, they wriggled energetically within their fabricated, amniotic world as if sharing a private sibling joke. And although engendered outside a normal biological context, they appeared none the worse for the experience.

As Pat surveyed the various aspects of the labyrinthine ward, her soul swelled in heartfelt appreciation.

We’ve got so much to be thankful for. This provision has promoted something that eluded our sharpest minds back on Earth; the full cultivation of tissue outside the living organism. And the artificial womb is a marvel of prophylactic ingenuity. Without it, I doubt we’d have been able to counter the hurdles resulting from the addition of Ardenese genoplasm. It’s taken longer to bring the embryos to term than we originally anticipated, but by this time next month we’ll have our latest additions to goo and gaa over.

She studied their hard-charts with interest.

Yes, the addition of the Ardenese strand prolongs gestation by about a month. Maybe a bit longer . . .

Then she caught sight of the clock.

Oh hell! I’m late.

Hurrying to her office, Pat activated the main computer and called up the latest information on some very special in-patients. Locating what she sought, she transferred their statistics onto her info-tablet and made her way to the department’s transporter pad.

“Resurrection hall.”

The response was immediate.

The air warped and Pat found herself within a vast darkened chamber. She smiled, for the view always reminded her of a night flight she had enjoyed a long, long time ago, when she had landed at Hillary Clinton Starport.

She had been welcomed home by a series of flashing blue beacons. Strung out along the tarmac like the tentacles of some cosmic jellyfish, they had guided a ship full of weary travelers toward the warming embrace of the main terminal, lost in the distance amid a sea of phosphorous red and yellow radiance.

Today a similar sequence of winking azure diamonds flickered in the darkness. Only here, the lights perched atop a protracted line of standing screens, arranged in uniform ranks along the very center of the room. Cushioned treatment platforms sat on either side of the consoles, where an army of extraordinary people lay sleeping, bathed in the rosy glow of muted instrument panels.

Each figure wore a simple metal coronet and matching wristband, made from what looked like platinum. Pat knew from personal experience that these halos were this very minute downloading vast amounts of data directly into a multitude of minds.

A very effective method of instruction. The Architect accomplishes in weeks what it would have taken the subjects hundreds of years of life experience to acquire . . . or in this case catch up on, while their tissue samples slept in deep storage.

Sizzling balls of light zipped through the air overhead, or hovered like wraiths above prone figures, creating a dizzying crisscross of after-images in the ether.

One materialized in front of Pat.

“Greetings, Doctor Frost. How may I assist you?”

“Hello, Architect, I’m only dropping by. I just need to touch base with Penny before I submit the latest projections for this week’s meeting. Do you happen to have the latest figures?”

“Estimates now indicate sufficient source material for a total of sixty-eight thousand, four hundred and ninety-three subjects.”

“So degradation did manage to soil the DNA samples?”

“I’m afraid so. The relentless struggle against the Horde resulted in a critical diversion of power from a number of crucial systems over a protracted period. Sadly, containment issues were inevitable.”

“Do we still have sufficient biodiversity to establish a viable population nucleus?”

The brilliance of the orb dimmed as it ran several computations.

“Latest algorithms indicate a ninety-eight point three percent probability of success. We are fortunate for the additional phylogenetic potential provided by the human advent, otherwise . . .”

The sentinel let its implication hang.

“What about the chromosomal redundancies?”

“Completely drained. As you are aware, things had reached a perilous juncture by the time the Architect brought the Ninth through. If not for their achievements, we wouldn’t even have this many.”

“Hmm. We’d better make the best use of the legacy we do have then.” Pat gazed across the room toward her assistant, recalling the reason for her visit. “Look, I’ll make sure this aspect is given special priority, and see if there isn’t some way we can come up with a strategy to ameliorate the situation.”

“Thank you,” the sentinel buzzed, “I will do likewise.”

It snuffed itself out of existence, and Pat made her way across to the nurses’ station. Sitting at the desk, Doctor Penny Frasier, a xenobiologist from the year 3060 and a specialist on the Horde for the past fourteen years, worked with a female patient. Equipped with a diadem similar to those worn by the rest of the catatonic throng, she was manipulating a number of ghostly symbols hovering between her hands. Penny’s circlet possessed additional blinkers to cover the eyes. Even so, she was aware of her colleague’s presence, for she held up a finger as Pat approached. Without looking up, she murmured, “I take it the Architect gave you the latest news?”

“Yes, he did,” Pat replied, concern in her voice, “I just hope we haven’t gone through all this for nothing—”

“Hang on. I’ll talk to you about that in a moment . . .” Penny’s movements became more urgent. “Almost finished . . . got it!”

Penny pressed a holographic button in midair, and her headband flashed. A corresponding gleam pulsed from the bracelet worn by the woman on the bed immediately next to the console — a woman nearly seven feet tall.

Pat glanced at the female patient and noticed her wristband had blushed green.

“That’s another one out of the way,” Penny sighed. She removed her equipment and stood up. “Induced reanimation is almost complete for the second wave. When the council gives the go-ahead, everybody here can be revived.”

“How are Sariff and Calen doing?”

“Absolutely fine.” Penny gestured and led Pat over to a couple of adjoining cots on the opposite side of the hall. Upon them, two familiar figures reclined, oblivious to the world. “As with everybody else, they’ve been made aware of the adaptations applied to their bodies to compensate for the addition of human DNA. They’re a remarkably resilient people and took the news in their stride. That’s why I’m proposing both they and the surviving members of the Senatum be among the first to be awakened. Their example will provide the returning populace with a sense of familiarity and hope.”

“Good idea. Actually, that’s part of the reason I’m here. The memorial is fast approaching, and Saul has asked all department heads to include the latest updates in this week’s conference. He wants the opportunity to pick through our current state of affairs to ensure he has some blindingly good news to lift everyone’s spirits.” Pat shook her head. “Unfortunately, with what I’ve just heard, that’s going to prove difficult. I dread to think how he’ll take the news of the loss. We were counting on—”

“Well,” Penny interjected, a telltale smile creasing her face, “that’s what I wanted to mention. I found out about the attrition rate earlier this morning, so I did a little research.”

“And?”

“And I think I might have discovered a solution. Come and look.”

Penny ushered her friend across to a command station, sat her down in the only chair, and said, “Population viability analysis, Frasier alpha one.”

The screen bloomed to life, and a series of graphs and tables flowed into being.

Pointing to them, Penny explained: “As you’ll appreciate, we need to ensure a sufficient degree of variation to avoid reduced biological fitness caused by inbreeding depression. We were cutting it fine as it was, but now . . .” She shrugged. “So, I wondered how we might improve genetic variation.”

“Improve it?”

“Yes. I came up with this.” Penny paused to enlarge a series of flowcharts and diagrams. “I started with the impaired bio matter for those subjects lost in stasis. Do you see? While there’s insufficient mass to regenerate an entire being, we might be able to utilize what’s left to boost existing reproductive strength. And if we use the artificial womb to insert a small variation in each chromosomal packet, not only can we target and purge any phenotype carrying deleterious recessive alleles, but we can supplement the natural genealogical coefficient.”

Pat was thrilled. “And can you do this with all the samples?”

“I’m afraid not. So far the estimates are running at seventy to seventy-three percent. But it’s far better than what we originally faced. Of course, once we factor in the living population, and the augmentation each race has been blessed with since the combining of our genomes . . .” She grinned. “Well, we’re game on.”

And if they accept my proposals for the artificial engendering of dizygotic twins, we’ll be able to increase the chromosomal profile even more.

Jumping from her chair, Pat hugged her companion fiercely.

“It’s a miracle. Oh, well done, Penny, I won’t feel like such a pariah now.”

“What can I say?” Penny beamed with evident pleasure and placed an info-crystal containing her recommendations into Pat’s hand. “Miracles are my specialty and all in a day’s work.”

Pat accepted the proffered gem gratefully and promptly headed for the transport pad. “Sorry Penny, I’m already late as it is. I’ll let you know what they say . . . though I’m sure there won’t be any problems. We’ve come too far to let things slip through our fingers now.”

Minutes later, Pat found herself in the main arterial corridor of the medical wing. So excited was she that she had to force herself not to run.

At last! A definite step in the right direction. I’ve been living in a shadow for so long people tend to forget who I am. Perhaps they’ll start to take me seriously now?

On the way out, her attention was drawn to the large golden epitaph adorning the main entrance. She stopped to admire it.

In memory of Ayria Solram.

Who gave her life so that Arden might live.

Pat allowed her fingers to trace over the words inscribed on the plaque. She suddenly felt deeply ashamed of her self-centered mood.

And here’s me thinking I’m sooo clever. When you cut to the chase, we only have this chance of a new beginning because of Ayria’s foresight and sacrifice.

Suitably chastened, Pat completed the rest of her journey deep in thought.