by Webb, Nick
“No, Tim. Same answer. Absolutely not.”
Granger leaned forward onto his bridge command console and stared the other man down. It was hard to physically intimidate over a video call, but he’d try nonetheless.
“You need me. Goddammit, Christian—if this is really it, if this is really the Findiri, then I’ve got to be there. I might remember something. At some, some critical moment—”
“No. With all due respect, Captain Granger, you’re asking something I can’t grant right now. Your short-term memory is only finally stabilizing, your long-term memory is—sketchy would be generous. And you’re still familiarizing yourself with the Defiance. No. Besides, you’ve got a mission already.”
“Mission? You just denied me permission to go back to the X-marks-the-spot world. I need to find the aliens that wrote this damn manuscript. I’m convinced those automated defense drones were protecting the aliens of that world. If we can’t talk to them, there’s no hope of translating—”
“Yes, but there are three other manuscripts you could be looking for, from what Proctor told me.”
Tim blew air through his lips in exasperation. “Christian, I—”
“It’s critical that we get as much intel on the Findiri as possible. But we can’t risk having some automated drones blowing you out of the sky before we do. My answer is final. Get those other three manuscripts. Stay away from IXF-459. And most definitely stay the hell away from Paradiso.”
“I—” but before he could argue further, Oppenheimer had switched off the video, and his face was replaced by a view of the Resolute—the admiral’s flagship—along with a small fleet of twenty or so heavy cruisers arrayed behind it. And moments later, they all q-jumped away, leaving the Defiance floating alone in orbit around Nova Nairobi.
“Dammit.” He collapsed back into his chair and stared at the screen. Now what? “We can’t just let the Findiri decimate our fleet.”
“We don’t know that’s what’s going to happen, sir. We could stop them, right then and there, at Paradiso,” said Commander Rice.
“No. No, we won’t.” He turned back toward his XO. “I don’t remember much, but I remember I made these beings with one purpose in mind, and one purpose only. To face the Swarm. To survive. And to win. They’re ferocious, tenacious, uncompromising, and . . . and . . . very very bad.”
“Sir, it would help us more if you could remember details.”
“I don’t have details, dammit!” This memory! He pounded the console, momentarily losing control. He took a deep breath and clenched a fist. “I don’t need details to know that what’s coming is going to kill Oppenheimer and his entire fleet.”
“But we can find the details, sir. We can figure this out. All we need are those manuscripts—”
“Which we have no idea where they are, or what they are.”
Commander Rice waved his arm over to the doors of the bridge, which Granger had not noticed were now open. “Which is why Shelby sent us him.”
“Howdy, Cap’n.” The man, disheveled uniform, balding head, stepped forward and tipped an imaginary hat before reaching out to shake Granger’s hand. “Lieutenant Qwerty, at your service.” He glanced down to the command console at the ancient book laying there. “Can I have a look, sir?”
“By all means. That’s why you’re here. Shelby says you’re a natural at—”
“Holy mother of egg-beater baby Jesus. This is the Voynich Manuscript.”
Granger’s mouth opened and closed, and then opened. Then closed. He wasn’t sure which to address first, the non-sequitur egg-beater baby Jesus, or the fact that this man had already figured out, within five seconds, what the damn thing was.
“Egg . . . beater . . . ?”
“Baby Jesus, yes.” Qwerty flipped the book shut and looked up at him with a grin. “Ever been to Huntsville? I was stationed there for a few months the summer of my sophomore year at the academy. And there’s this church, see, and on the front is painted this mural of Jesus, except his legs are all aglow or something, with lines and shit coming off, and the guy looks like a big old-fashioned manual wire whisk egg-beater.” He flipped the book back open. “But what you have here is most definitely the Voynich Manuscript.”
“What the hell is the Voynich Manuscript?”
Qwerty sat down in the command chair, much to Granger’s exasperation, and thumbed through more of the pages. “It’s this text written in code back in fifteenth-century Europe. Supposedly by . . . Roger Bacon, I think? Got passed around a bit, and ended up at Yale where, if I’m remembering right, it disappeared back in the twenty-first century. And in the ensuing years, even the electronic record of its pages were lost.”
“Lieutenant, I found that thing buried in a grave on an alien world. Are you trying to tell me some aliens came to Earth in the twenty-first century and stole the Voynich manuscript from Yale?”
“Obviously.”
Granger silently debated tossing the man out an airlock. “Obviously?”
“Well, yeah. What else could have happened? But look. This one’s got your picture in it. And English. There’s no English in the original Voynich Manuscript.”
Granger paced back and forth a few times. The situation seemed absurd, to say the least. He was itching to be on the front line of an impending battle to save civilization, and here he was getting lectured about ancient European manuscripts by a socially awkward Texan polyglot savant. “But the original was stolen, you said? Surely they copied it before it was stolen. Look, can’t we just look up the translation of the Voynich manuscript? It’s European, right? Surely there’s already a translation in some database on Earth somewhere.”
“Ah, see now that’s what’s interesting, sir. The Voynich manuscript was never deciphered. Not for lack of trying. Scholars spent centuries trying to translate it. Later, when computers came around, they sicced the biggest, baddest supercomputers at this baby, and nothing. Not a single word. Most scholars thought it was a hoax—not that it’s fake or a forgery, but that it was a Renaissance joke. Some rich nobleman’s son with way too much time on his hands writing a book in intentional gibberish with no actual meaning.”
Granger’s pacing stopped. “Well clearly it has a meaning. Right? There’s no way it was buried in a human grave on an alien world just for shits and giggles.” He waved a finger insistently. “We think there are four of them, based on the little caricature faces drawn down here,” he tapped on the drawings at the bottom of the page. “But this alien face is circled. The question is: is this the original one from Earth that was stolen? Or is it the aliens’? And more importantly for now, how do we go about translating it?”
Qwerty shrugged. “Beats the dickens out of me. People have tried for thirteen hundred years.”
Granger came back to his chair and with a curt motion of his thumb indicated to the lieutenant to get out. Qwerty, still lost in thought, didn’t react for a moment, but then hastily stood up and got out of Granger’s way.
“Lieutenant, you’re going to translate the Voynich manuscript for me. Shelby said you could do anything with language, any language. Translate it. Fast. That’s an order.”
Qwerty gulped.
“Problem?”
“I’ll, uh . . . I’ll do my best, sir.”
“Good. Consider this ship, myself, and the crew at your disposal. We’ll go anywhere, do anything, threaten anyone, steal anything we have to. Just give the word, and we’re there.”
Qwerty looked rooted to the spot, and Granger wondered if he’d broken him, if he was the right person for the job—until he realized the other man was whispering something under his breath. Numbers, places, dates, other unintelligible phrases and terms. Until finally Qwerty’s eyes refocused on Granger.
“Earth. Yale. I’d like to talk directly with the rare collections curator at Yale’s library. Maybe he or she knows something about the lost original Earth manuscript that’s not generally known. That’s a first start, anyway.”
Granger swiveled
his chair toward the helm. “Got that, Ensign Nagin?”
“Aye, sir! Calculating t-jumps back to Earth. Estimated time—two hours twelve minutes.”
“Good,” he said, and added, thinking of Shelby, Oppenheimer, and the rest of IDF’s fleet about to face down their enemy for the first time, “I just hope we’re not too late.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Irigoyen Sector
Bolivar
Shovik-Orion City
“Business? I think any potential business can wait. I’m far more interested in the story of why I went to a funeral for a man who isn’t currently dead.” Senator Cooper had finally sat down, the last to do so, taking the chair at the head of the table. Danny wasn’t sure if it was because it was one of the only seats available, or if it were out of some sense of entitlement. Seeing how she was running for president, he assumed the latter.
“It’s quite simple, really,” said Curiel. “No conspiracy here. Nothing untoward. I really was critically injured during the destruction of Britannia. My ship barely made it out. Some of the first wave of debris that blasted out from the Titan-Britannia collision hit us and took out life support, artificial gravity, and just about every other system, except for, as luck would have it, the q-jump drive. The pilot, running out of oxygen and bleeding from a dozen holes in his body, managed to jump us the hell out of there just minutes before he succumbed to his wounds.”
“Oh god,” said Cooper.
“I had several holes in me myself. Turns out the debris from that collision was traveling several times faster than IDF’s fastest rail gun. The hull didn’t even slow down some of the debris. Nearly lost my left leg. I’ve got half a liver. One lung. And I lost enough blood that I should be dead. But some quick thinking by my executive secretary kept me alive until the ship made it to a small mining colony in the Darius System. Took me several weeks to recover enough to even be conscious for more than an hour at a time, and by then my funeral was long past.”
“That still doesn’t explain the cloak and dagger secrecy, Mr. Secretary,” said Cooper. “Why let everyone believe you were dead for weeks after your funeral?”
“That’s where it appears we have a common problem, Senator.”
“Oh?”
“To answer your question, may I ask what you’re doing here? Just two hours after an attempt on your life? I understand that half of the top UE leadership thinks you’re dead, and the other half thinks you’ve been abducted.”
Cooper paused a long while. “Right. Let’s just say that I’d like to know who’s responsible for that bombing, and for the moment I want to see what happens when those responsible think I’m dead. Who do you think is after you?”
“I’ve got my suspicions.”
“And when did those suspicions start? It wasn’t some shadowy organization that plotted to blow up Britannia just to hit your ship with supersonic debris. What was it? Something that happened to you after?”
“Before, actually. It was the reason I was on Britannia in the first place. Wasn’t supposed to be there at all. But in the last days of the war, right before Britannia died, there were actually two attempted poisonings of me. Two. That’s why I was there—for treatment.”
“I . . . never heard anything about that.”
“Because I didn’t let any news about it get out. Wanted to play my cards close to my chest and see if I couldn’t flush out those responsible. And after Britannia? Well, I just figured that a period of time where my would-be assassins thought I was dead might give me some time to piece it together and track them down. Great minds think alike, I suppose.”
“And?”
Curiel simply shook his head.
“Who’s trying to kill me?” Cooper said.
“Oh, kill you? I don’t know. Me? I’d rather not say.”
“Is it Sepulveda?”
Curiel laughed. “That bumbling idiot? He’s got his cunning moments—he didn’t rise to the vice-presidency by being a total ignoramus. But a murderer he is not. That said,” he finished the sentence with a shrug. “When I say I don’t know, I mean I don’t know. This literally just happened to you two hours ago. No one has come forward claiming responsibility. IDF Intel is just ramping up their investigation, so I hear.”
“Okay. Just thought I’d check,” she said. “Shovik-Orion has so many fingers in so many pots, can’t blame a girl for trying.”
Danny was following along with the conversation, knowing that it wasn’t his place yet to contribute anything meaningful, when his companion grabbed his focus.
THAT ECHO. IT’S STRONGER HERE.
Wait. What?
THE ECHO OF THE OLD LIGATURE. I FEEL IT STRONGER HERE THAN I DID BACK IN POTOSÍ CITY.
Okay. But what does that mean? Are you saying it’s Curiel? Or the vice president lady? Or one of the others here?
I CAN’T TELL. IT MAY NOT EVEN BE IN THIS ROOM. BUT WHAT I CAN TELL YOU IS THAT THERE IS A LOT OF LYING GOING ON HERE. BY EVERYONE.
Well, I mean they’re both politicians.
His attention snapped back to the conversation when he heard his name. “Danny Proctor. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
“Of course! Pleased to meet you. The famous nephew of Admiral Proctor herself.”
“Famous? Well, I don’t know about famous. But, like you, I’ve got some experience myself with being dead. Funny story. I’ll tell it to you sometime.”
“Oh, I know the story very, very well.” Curiel smiled. It felt genuine. As far as Danny could tell.
“Anyway, if we’re getting down to business, this is the first piece of business I want addressed. Mr. Proctor here has a ship. The Crimson Phoenix. A ship that Shovik-Orion owns and that Mr. Proctor is slowly, very slowly, paying off. Seeing how he and Ms. Liu are now my private security,” She stared straight at Curiel, and smiled broadly. “I want the cost of that ship reduced. Substantially.”
Curiel glanced at the vice president of governmental relations, and then at the chief operations officer. “I, uh, that’s quite a request, Senator.”
The vice president of governmental relations jumped in. “I’m sorry Senator, it’s against company policy to negotiate any price of any specific good or service with a politician of any government, outside of official channels and outside the window of contract negotiations. And against the law for you, if I remember my UE code right. Abuse of power.”
“I see. Well then. Don’t think of this as a request. Or an order. Or anything of the sort. Just a small something that would be very nice for these people who saved my life back there. And a small gesture that I would remember and keep in mind as the Senate Budget Committee goes over the next year’s allocation to various defense contractors.”
Danny smirked. “How big is that Shovik-Orion contract, anyway?”
“Which one?” said Curiel.
“Exactly,” said Danny.
Cooper smiled, but shook her head. “Oh, I’m not at liberty to talk about exact numbers before the committee has come to a decision to bring before the full Senate. But I can give you a hint that, compared to the price of the Crimson Phoenix? It’s a factor of, oh, somewhere between a thousand and a million.”
“Cute,” said Curiel. The vice president of governmental relations was about to interject, but Curiel held up a hand. “I’m sure the vendor can dredge up a coupon or something. Isn’t this the second ship you’ve bought from us? Well buy one get one half off or something. Right, Vice President Wen?”
The vice president rolled her eyes and shrugged. “I suppose the vendor can take a look at the old contract and see what discounts would apply.”
“Excellent,” said Curiel. “Anything else, Senator Cooper? Don’t tell me you came all this way just to get a discount on a ship.”
“No. I didn’t. To be honest, I thought there was a small chance that Shovik-Orion might know something about my recent ordeal. I thought, why not just hear it straight from the camel’s mouth.”
“And? Your verdict?” sai
d Curiel with a smile.
“I’m satisfied,” she said, matching his smile.
“Good. Then our business here is concluded?”
“One last thing. As I said, the budget is coming before the committee soon. I need to be able to justify a few line items you included. At the very least, I need to be able to vouch for the necessity of those line items, given that they’re classified. I want a tour of the facility where those items are . . . researched.”
“I see. And since they’re classified, and since as the former and probably future Speaker of the GPC, I don’t have a security clearance, you’re not going to tell me what they are, are you?”
“No.”
Curiel thought long and hard. “Very well. Inform my staff which facility it is you want to visit, and they can arrange it. If they give you grief, tell them I personally okayed it. Good enough?”
“It is.” Cooper stood up. “Thank you, Secretary Curiel. I’ll keep your fortunate condition to myself for the moment, though I suspect with your recent election as chairman of the board, things won’t stay secret for long.”
Danny interjected. “Are you worried that the GPC will elect a new speaker before you go public? You’re still speaker, right?”
“Pfft. The actual congress of the Galactic People’s Congress isn’t so much a congress as a group of squabbling children with lofty ideals but the organizational and political skills of a houseful of feral cats. Trust me. They won’t get their shit together to agree on a new leader for another six months. And when I return next week as the de facto head of the largest corporation in the galaxy, they’ll be thinking so hard about what I can bring to the table for the GPC that I’ll have my seat back within the day.”
Interesting, Danny thought. Curiel’s opinion of his own government was—well, most people’s opinions of governments were low, but this one was almost comically subterranean.
It wasn’t ten minutes later that they were back on the bridge of the Crimson Phoenix and Danny was spooling up the conventional drive to prepare to break atmosphere.