246. Epilogue
246
Epilogue
A ’Dar
A knot of snakes is writhing in my belly as I swipe my hand across my jaw to cover my anxiety. We’re about to enter Xenon’s atmo, and the mysteries of my race will be revealed. With no contact for the two weeks since all this started, I doubt we’ll find anything.
My mate is on my lap. Every muscle in her body is tight, probably in sympathy with me. It’s only when she grips my hand that I feel ready to give the order.
“Vids on full magnification. Let’s see what’s going on down there.”
I’ve been dreading this since Ran’Kin first said he couldn’t hail anyone. Only an idiot would believe anyone was alive down there.
Although I thought I’d considered every possibility, what greets my eyes is something I hadn’t anticipated. The planet isn’t uninhabited. It’s industrialized. Smog is choking its atmosphere.
“Are there Xenons down there,” Ber’Rai, our pilot, asks, “or has our home been taken over by enemies?”
“Keep hailing on every frequency. They have to be able to hear us. We’re right fahking here!” I tell the comms officer.
Ran’Kin’s on comms. His military bearing comes through as he practically orders whoever is listening to respond to our comm. He is reciting our history, the story of the ten arcs, when and how we left, and who the original captain was. “Do your research!” He shouts, “Then give us landing coordinates!” He’s giving them no excuse to think we are enemies.
The tension in the room rises. If it weren’t so dangerous for our precious cargo, we would enter atmo without permission, find a place to set down, and demand to speak to the King. We can’t do that, though. We might be blown out of the air.
It seems an eternity until a male’s face comes onto the screen.
“I’m King Barron. Who hails?”
“Is he Xenon?” Ber’Rai whispers.
I’m not sure. He has Xenon features. His mandibles, if you can call them that, are open. His array surrounds his skull. Other than that, the resemblance to our species is questionable.
His features droop, one eye is an inch lower than the other, and his skin is a mottled gray I’ve never seen on another of my countrymen.
“Who is the captain?” he asks imperiously.
I introduce myself and explain how long we’ve been in cryo, that we are all the original crew, along with over fifteen hundred human females on board who we think we can reproduce with.
He angrily flashes fang at the word female. Even his fangs aren’t truly Xenon. They’re shorter, and diseased-looking gray instead of healthy white. His Xenon proper language has different pronunciations, even a different cadence. I guess that would be expected after nearly two thousand years of evolutionary change.
“Welcome back,” he spits out in the least-welcoming manner possible. There’s something about his attitude and expressions that remind me of Zedd. This isn’t just about his slack facial muscles, there’s something disdainful in his manner. This is not the homecoming I expected when I dared to be optimistic.
“I’ve sent you landing coordinates. You will dock immediately and be taken to processing.”
With that, he terminates the comm.
“Til’Dir, investigate those coordinates. Where is he sending us? A military facility? Is there enough housing for all of us? And what does he have in mind for the females?” I ask, wanting more information immediately. Something about this scenario tells me we have little time to gather intel and make decisions.
The human Sasha is a female who gets things done. Luckily no one has fallen into machta with her yet because she’s quite valuable and I’m glad she has all her faculties. Since we left Earth, she’s been scouring the Intergalactic Database about Xenon, trying to investigate anything she could find.
“Sir,” she bursts onto the bridge. “Look at this. I was able to hack into the Xenon Database as soon as we breached their atmosphere. It’s no wonder there isn’t any information on the Intergalactic Database. It’s obvious why they haven’t answered our comms. I’ve sent it to the vid screen.”
Much of the view screen we’re all facing shows her intel, leaving only a quarter panel to look out at my smog-covered home planet.
The date on the vid is from two years after our arc left the planet. It’s a newscast announced by a male who looks as if he’s broadcasting from a bunker. He explains that the generals of the pro-cloning forces have taken over the planet.
Other snippets Sasha prepared for us, spanning centuries, explain how the DNA strands used to produce clones have broken down over the intervening millennia, and how the population devolved into what we just saw.
From the pictures we’re seeing, the King is one of the most symmetrical, most Xenon-appearing of the hideous population now inhabiting the planet.
“Sir,” Til’Dir says. “You must see this.”
He casts a still picture to the screen. It is a medical facility starkly labeled “Genetic Laboratories.”
“We’ve been directed to these coordinates. My scans indicate less than fifty people are in this building. From my research, the best I can guess is this is where they collect genetic material to make new clones. Sir…” He pauses to ensure he has my attention. “There are no females on the planet.”
“I don’t believe they want any of us alive,” Sar’Dun, my science officer, says. “If I were to guess, they want our DNA and are willing to kill us in the process of obtaining all of it. The only thing that madman wants is healthy DNA to infuse back into that all-male population on a planet that looks like it is dying.”
It all clicks into place. Pictures Sasha found showing the husks of burned cities, males traveling the streets, their bodies so badly malformed it is hard for them to walk. No females, none at all.
I have no doubt the males on board with our strong pre-cataclysm DNA will be used to create others. If we’re allowed to live, it will be in that forsaken bunker on the right of the screen. And our females? Superfluous in the society our race has created.
“Reverse engines! Reverse engines immediately?” I yell to Ber-Rai. “I don’t care where you take us, but get us out of here. Now!”
I pull my mate onto my lap, hold her tight, and breathe in her scent as she hugs me and says with conviction, “I’m sorry your planet, your home, is gone.” Cupping my cheek with her palm, her gaze bores meaningfully into mine when she says, “Wherever you go, I’ll go with you. Your people and mine will become a new people. We will fly the stars until we find a new planet.”
Yes, with my heart at my side, we need no home other than the one we create together.