Paul Collins - Earthborn The

"But enough of the past! We return not to the Earth our ancestors left, nor to a world full of thriving superior humanity. No! We return to a planet infested with a degenerate species that once was human, a species that is little better than animal, possessing a dangerous cunning. Our mission—and it may take years!—is to cleanse the home-world, restore civilization, and rebuild the supremacy of true human beings!"

An enormous cheer drowned out his final words and reverberated through the ship, bursting forth from every corridor and community room. When it eventually settled, Sobol resumed.

"We have entered orbit. We have begun atmospheric braking. Colony will touch down in twenty-four hours. It will not be an easy landing. This skyworld—like the others sent off to different destinations—was not meant to endure three hundred years of cold, hard vacuum and cosmic radiation.

The outer hull is riddled with fatigue. Our propulsion systems are weakened. But we will land tomorrow.

Of that I assure you. So now, Skyborn, go about your duties with the flame of destiny in your heart. For we are going home!"

The silence in the mess hall continued long after the vid screen snapped to black.

Despite the uplifting words, a chill feeling sleeted through Welkin. He recognized it was a dull surprise.

He was scared. Scared of something he'd rarely thought about before. The future.

* * *

Welkin and Harry hurried into the briefing room and took their seats. Elder Tobias was at the lectern, looking grimmer than usual. A low buzz of conversation filled the room as ensigns and other low-ranking officers—all about Welkin's age—discussed the latest events.

Tobias rapped for silence.

"Settle down! Last time I heard this much squawking was in the henhouse on farming deck!"

A titter of laughter snaked around the room. "Let's get down to business, shall we?"

He hit a switch on a console. The lights dimmed and a vid screen lit up. The scene showed a prison cell somewhere on the detention level. A long-haired youth was strapped to a chair. His clothing was ragged and he had a wispy beard. His eyes were wide with fear.

There was a loud click, and something went whump through the boy's body. He arched back, his mouth agape, his paralyzed diaphragm muscles preventing an agonized scream from escaping his throat.

Just as abruptly, he slumped back, barely conscious.

A stern voice addressed the boy in the chair. "You are from the lower decks, correct?"

The boy nodded feebly. Saliva dribbled from his slack lips. All his muscles were flaccid.

"Repeat what you said before!"

The boy blinked, trying to concentrate. He licked his lips. Haltingly, in a voice slurred by electroshock, he answered. "Planning— surprise attack . . . this time tribes united. Tired of lower decks.

Not fair!" He regained more muscle control. "Not fair! Our destiny, too! We're human. Just like you ..."

He started to laugh. The click came again and his back arched in a bone-wrenching spasm.

Tobias shut off the vid. The lights came up.

Welkin noticed that Harry looked slightly ill. He didn't feel good himself, but the boy was a lower decker, after all. What could he expect if he was caught? Welkin had no illusions as to his own fate should he ever be cast down to the lower decks. He might live a whole minute, possibly two, before they tore him apart and carried pieces of his carcass back to the tribal cooking pots!

"Welkin! Are you daydreaming again? What did I just say?"

Welkin jumped to his feet, confused. Harry whispered something that sounded like "go to bed hurt."

"Sir! All wounded will retire to quarters for bed rest!"

The class erupted in laughter. Welkin swallowed.

"Interesting interpretation, Ensign," said Tobias. "I think your shipmate needs to articulate more clearly next time. What I said was, we shall shortly 'go to red alert.' I think that's clear enough. Now sit down and pay attention!"

Welkin sat down, trying to shrink into his chair. He gave Harry a quick but blistering "Thanks a lot!"

look. Harry shrugged, barely containing a smile.

"We shall remain on red alert until Colony has landed, at which time new duty stations will be assigned. As you saw from the vid, we are expecting a breakout from the lower decks. Steps have been taken to neutralize this threat and I believe the danger has been contained. Nevertheless, we cannot allow ourselves a moment's respite! And it is with great sadness—and disgust!—that I broach a subject that until now has been a closely guarded secret known only to the elders."

A tense but expectant silence enveloped the room. Welkin found himself actually leaning forward, along with all the others.

"It has become known to us that lower decker sympathizers are among us!"

A collective gasp sprang up. Welkin stared in disbelief at the elder.

"You see the danger? What before was merely a dangerous turn of events regarding the degenerate criminals on the lower decks is now part of an ugly, treasonable conspiracy!" He paused. A vein throbbed in his temple and he stared at them with an implacable malevolence. "Mark my words, Skyborn. Rebels are among us, and we shall root them out and destroy them all—starting right now!"

The rear door burst open as if on cue. Four burly heavies, carrying stun rods and neutralizers, shouldered into the room. They came straight for Welkin. He froze, shocked into numbness.

But the security guards pushed past him and grabbed Harry, dragging him from his chair.

Welkin stared at his friend, whose face had drained of all color. "Harry?"

Harry looked back at him expressionlessly.

A sudden fury welled up in Welkin, and as the other officers hurled abuse at Harry, he found himself joining in, becoming part of the mob and its ugly, barely restrained violence.

A gloved fist slammed into Welkin's jaw, snapping his head back. A trickle of blood appeared. He wiped it away, sat up straight, teeth chattering.

He was in a portless, nondescript room, containing a chair bolted to the floor and equipped with leather straps for wrists, ankles, and throat. The heavies had come for him soon after Harry's arrest, dragging him from his duty station. Harry must have accused him of being a lower decker sympathizer—maybe to save himself. . .

The man in front of Welkin, Harlan Gibbs, was head of security on board Colony. He was thin, ascetic, almost emaciated. He believed in little other than order. Order at any cost, and obedience as the rigid path to that goal. In a previous era he would have made the perfect Gestapo commandant. Right now he was smiling a thin, dangerous smile that made Welkin's skin crawl.

"Harry told us everything, Welkin, so why not confess? Cleanse yourself of your sins. Be free of the awful guilt. I know what a terrible burden such secrets can be. Let me take them from you. You'll feel better for it."

Welkin knew he would like nothing better than to end his interrogation, except he had no secrets to

reveal. Indeed, if this went on much longer, and if some of the rumors of Gibbs's tortures were true, then he would desperately be making up secrets to divulge.

"Sir," he said weakly. "I have nothing to confess, sir. Harry was my shipmate, but I didn't know he was a ... collaborator!"

You would have denounced him if you had, wouldn't you, Welkin?"

"Yes, sir! I would have. Sir."

"Good boy."

Welkin started to relax. Suddenly the fist shot out again and caught him on the temple, rocking his head sideways.

"I believe you," Gibbs said in his oily tones. "But I have protocol to follow. One must be absolutely certain, don't you think? This is an infection after all. And it must be rooted out!"

"But, sir, I'm innocent!"