“How bad is it?” she asked him directly. “Don’t sugarcoat it for me, just give it to me straight. Are we going to make it to Neo?”
He winced and crossed his arms on his chest, as if he suddenly felt cold. The air was indeed a bit chilly on the Capitol. “Bad. The Alliance is falling apart. I wouldn’t be surprised if we woke up one day to find half of the fleet gone.”
“If Dionysus is among the missing ships, I’ll take that as good news.”
Adrian gave her a mirthless smile. “I never imagined mankind would be like that,” he confessed. “I always thought better of our species. All the accomplishments of our ancestors, in science, art, philosophy… We’re not doing them justice. Yet I still believe our species has a future.”
“What do you think of Multan?”
“Honestly?” Adrian unfolded his arms and slid his hands into his pockets. “I don’t trust the man, but I think he’s right. We need to go to Earth.”
Riley stared at the scientist in disbelief. “You? You would support a religious fanatic like Multan?”
“It’s not about religion, Riley. Everything has a scientific explanation. I’ve reasons to believe Multan’s visions are real. But they’re not of divine origin. And I think I know where Ophelia is. She’s on Earth.”
At that moment, Riley seriously questioned Adrian’s sanity. Is he on stims? Is he delusional?
He took his hands out of his pockets and raised them in a placating gesture. “No, I’m not wacko. I’ve discovered some troubling things about the history of our species, but it’s a long story. Look at the problem this way. We cannot defeat the Taar’kuun militarily. We need to turn public opinion in the TGS to our favor. If we can prove that life on Earth hasn’t been destroyed by our ancestors, we’ll prove that the TGS propaganda can’t be trusted.”
Riley shook her head. “You’re an idealist, Adrian. The Biozi don’t want to know the truth. They’re perfectly happy with comfortable lies. Even if we prove that our ancestors didn’t destroy their world, the Biozi will still want to re-assimilate us, as they consider themselves a superior species. I don’t agree with DeCourt on everything, but he’s right about Neo. We need to escort our civilians to safety, then go back and fight for our colonies. I’m sure there are still millions of humans fighting on those worlds. Don’t underestimate their resilience and their determination.”
The conversation ended with an agreement to disagree, and they both resumed their daily activities.
Riley decided to take a shuttle to the Jamnagar, where Multan had established his headquarters, and try one more time to get an appointment with him. She wore civilian clothes, as this wasn’t supposed to be an official visit.
The ship was Oretown’s cousin, a converted mining spacecraft as graceful in its appearance as an iron soapbox, and covered with hastily added structures that didn’t belong on its hull.
As the shuttle approached, Riley’s expert eyes detected concealed bot launchers, rapid-fire guns, and even missile tubes. Multan was visibly considering military options.
Landing a boarding party on this flying fortress won’t be easy.
Inside, the ship was surprisingly clean and well maintained. The walls smelled of fresh paint. No posters with scantily-clad girls, not a single cream monger in sight. Not even a mini-skirt.
Two men with submachine guns, protective vests and helmets stopped her and asked politely but firmly the reason for her visit. They were not Fleet Security, so Riley concluded they worked for Multan.
This megalomaniac set up his own militia. As if we needed a paramilitary force on the fleet.
She said she was a friend of Adisa Multan. They asked if she had an appointment. Riley called Adisa on her cell comm, told her she had urgent info, and asked if they could meet. Adisa accepted. Even better, she agreed to lead Riley to Multan.
Riley took a deep breath to steady her nerves. She hadn’t been so nervous since her first combat mission. The guards scanned her for weapons, found nothing suspicious, and escorted her to the room where Multan was waiting.
Rather than a room, it was a hall, surprisingly vast for such an overcrowded ship. Beams of light streaming from the ceiling lit two rows of white columns decorated with abstract motifs. The atmosphere was fit for a temple, and prepared the visitor for an encounter with the spiritual leader.
Riley’s steps reverberated in the hall as she walked toward Adisa.
“Welcome to the Hall of Prayer,” Adisa greeted her with a smile.
Israr Multan was sitting on the floor in the lotus position, clad in a white robe. With long black hair and untrimmed beard, he looked like a prophet from an ancient human religion.
Riley bowed her head. “It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
Multan’s brown eyes shone with benevolence as he raised his gaze at her. She barely recognized him; he seemed to have changed profoundly since the rebellion on Deneb. Whether this transformation was real, she couldn’t tell.
“The honor is mine,” he said. “Please sit with me. The grass is soft and the breeze fresh.”
Intrigued, Riley sat on the floor, expecting to find it cold. It wasn’t. The scenery changed, and they were transported to a forest. The illusion was so perfect she could touch the grass and feel the breeze. Even her skin felt the warmth of an apparent sun.
“Once we reach Earth, we won’t need temples,” Multan said. “The entire planet will be our temple. Look at those majestic trees, the columns of our temple. See how their branches weave to form the nave of our cathedral, how the sunlight streams through the canopy. Hear the song of the birds, the murmur of the brook, the whisper of the wind… This is the perfect symphony. This is God’s creation.”
Riley’s gaze wandered through the forest. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed. “I never thought there was so much life on Earth.”
“What we see isn’t just a computer simulation,” Adisa said. “This is what my husband saw in his visions.”
“Why are you here, Riley?” Multan asked.
“I’m here to warn you,” she lied. “The ASF is planning an assault on your ship. But I’m on your side. I want to join you.”
“Why?” Multan pressed her. If he was troubled or concerned by what Riley had told him, he concealed it well.
“Because I don’t trust DeCourt, and I respect you as a leader. On Deneb, we were ready to give our lives for you.”
A little smile played on Multan’s lips. “What you’re doing is called mental reservation. What you’re telling me is true, but it’s not the whole truth. Sometimes, half-truths can be more deceitful than lies.”
Riley’s heart skipped a bit. Although Multan’s gaze seemed benevolent, she felt like the man was seeing through her deception as an X-ray through a human body.
“I…” she started, then swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.
She gauged her chances of escaping from this place, without her weapons and gear, if Multan ordered his guards to arrest her.
“Don’t be afraid, child.” Multan’s voice had the softness of a gentle breeze. “I know you’re a person of honor and courage. But your greatest enemy lives within. You’re afraid of being vulnerable, you’re afraid of losing control, you’re afraid of your own emotions. Free yourself of fear.”
“Wise words,” she replied cautiously. “I’ll think about it.”
“You don’t share our goal to reach Earth,” he stated. “The president sent you here, as he thinks I’m an opportunist who takes advantage of people’s despair. Do you agree with him?”
Riley realized that lying to Multan was pointless. She’s never been a good liar anyway. “Maybe you believe in what you preach, but your ideas are dangerous. They’re seductive; they appeal to our deepest longing—return to the world of our origins. That’s why they’re so dangerous. The fleet must reach Neo. If you have the people’s best interests at heart, you’ll stop sowing discord. Right now, we need unity to achieve our goal.”
Multan sat in silence, eyes half closed, a
nd Riley wondered what he would do. Her senses on alert, she was ready to spring into action if he ordered his guards to seize her.
“Thank you,” he finally said. “Thank you for your honesty. I respect that. You aren’t the first agent DeCourt sent to investigate me. The other agents found nothing, because I have nothing to hide. You may return to your superiors, and tell them your mission was a success.”
Riley nodded and stood up. She wanted to say goodbye to Adisa, but the latter turned away from her, lips curling down in an expression of bitterness and disappointment.
Her heart heavy, Riley walked out of the hall. She was on her way to the shuttle bay when she received a call on her ASF channel.
“Commander Lance, code red.” It was Kwan Kor’s voice coming through her ear implant.
“I don’t take orders from you,” Riley replied in low voice. “You’re not authorized to use this ASF emergency frequency.”
“The president gave me full authority,” Kwan Kor maintained, then recited the authorization code. “Operation Laser Scalpel. You are to proceed to the coordinates I’ve transmitted. At once.”
The authorization code was valid, therefore Riley had no choice but to conclude the orders came directly from the president. “Negative, Control,” she whispered. “Security is tight. I cannot leave the main corridor without arousing suspicion.”
“I repeat, code red,” the colonel growled.
Riley was so used to following orders without questioning them that she obeyed. She turned into a lateral corridor. A guard shouted and ran after her. She turned a corner again and waited. As the guard rushed past, she grabbed him from behind and squeezed his neck just enough to render him unconscious. Then she grabbed his blaster and set it on stun.
Another guard appeared in the secondary corridor, looking for his comrade. She shot him in stun mode before he could react, dragged his body to a maintenance tunnel, and hid it there.
She followed the corridor to the coordinates Kwan Kor had transmitted, and entered a control room plunged into semi-darkness. Her optical implants went into light amplification mode.
“Designated coordinates reached,” she reported.
“Briefcase in the locker. Open it.”
An AIS operative must have smuggled it on board.
Riley obeyed. Inside the briefcase, she found a sniper rifle. Not a blaster, but a silent ray gun, the sort of weapon used by professional assassins. She assembled the gun in seconds, her hands working faster than her mind could process what she was doing.
“Take out the painted target.”
Still in obey-without-asking-questions mode, Riley aimed the rifle through the glass of the control room. The lethal ray would go through the glass without disturbing a single molecule, and without a sound.
She froze as she saw Israr Multan in her scope. He was in a cafeteria, standing next to a food dispenser and talking to Adisa. He was probably waiting for his meal. The rifle’s nanocomputer confirmed he was the “painted target.”
“Control, confirm order,” she requested.
“Order confirmed,” Kwan Kor croaked. “Take out the target.”
“I want to hear confirmation from the president himself,” Riley said, a part of her shocked by her own insolence.
Kwan Kor cursed in low voice, but didn’t add a word.
A few seconds later, Riley heard DeCourt, “Commander, what’s the problem? Control confirmed your orders. Take the shot. Now!”
“Are you ordering me to kill an unarmed civilian?”
“He’s not a civilian,” DeCourt snapped. “He’s the leader of an illegal paramilitary group, and he’s a threat to the entire fleet. We need to take him out before the situation escalates to open conflict. Take the shot—that’s an order!”
Riley lowered her rifle. “Negative, sir. I don’t do political assassinations.”
“Blasting a building full of civilians didn’t give you any pause, but when it comes to executing a traitor, you’re suddenly having a crisis of conscience, commander?” DeCourt yelled. “Take the shot, or I’ll court martial you!”
“I repeat, sir. I don’t do political assassinations.”
Riley killed the channel, bent the barrel of the rifle so it couldn’t be used, and stashed it in the locker. She turned her back on the glass and left the control room.
* * *
Hours passed slowly while Riley waited in her cell on the Capitol. She had ample time to think about what had happened, replaying the events in her mind several times.
Admiral Winsley came to see her first thing in the morning. As the heavy door of her cell slid to the side, he gave her an annoyed look, like a schoolteacher exasperated by a troublesome student.
“What am I going to do with you, Commander Lance?”
She scrambled to her feet and gave him a salute.
“Why?” he asked, stepping forward into the cell. “I expected such an act of disobedience from someone like Blaze, but you? You’ve been a model officer for years.”
Riley pursed her lips. “Forgive me, sir. I did what I thought was right. Murdering Multan would have been a mistake. It would have made him a martyr, and his movement would have become more radical and violent.”
“You don’t know that,” Winsley said, more softly than she’d expected. “Your job is not to think about politics, but to obey orders. Did he brainwash you?”
“Negative, sir. My thought process was not impaired in any way when I made the decision to disobey orders. I just considered… I thought killing a political opponent would be wrong.”
Winsley shook his head, his face drawn and weary. “Even the most obedient officers must follow their conscience, otherwise humans wouldn’t be better than machines. People don’t let machines fight their wars exactly for that reason.”
He turned around, and Riley thought he would leave, abandon her to her fate. But he didn’t, and turned back to her.
“Israr Multan is a citizen of the Alliance, and he has the right to a fair trial,” Winsley said. “DeCourt abused his power. He’s the one who broke the law by ordering the killing of a political opponent. If our president resorts to such measures, we’re no longer a civilized society. We’re nothing but a gang.”
“Are you going to get me out of this cell, admiral?”
Winsley avoided eye contact. “It’s not that simple. DeCourt cannot charge you with mutiny, but he’s charging you with drug trafficking and assault.”
“What?”
“Your actions on the Dionysus.”
“But I was…” Riley’s voice trailed off as she realized what Winsley was alluding to.
“You had no official authorization to investigate stim trafficking on a civilian ship, commander. Let me guess; DeCourt ordered you to find incriminating evidence against Multan, and you thought the Earthists were involved in stim trafficking. But as you found no such evidence, DeCourt is throwing you to the wolves. I can take the heat for that. I can tell the court you were following my orders.”
“Negative, sir,” Riley said with determination. “I can’t let you perjure yourself. I broke the rules, and I have to accept punishment.”
A little smile lifted a corner of Winsley’s mouth. Now he looked her in the eyes. “Very well, commander. I’ll give you two weeks of solitary confinement. But once you’re out, I’ll give you the medal of valor for exceptional courage, shake your hand, get a pic taken, and hang that pic in my office.”
Riley couldn’t help but smile back. “Admiral, just one request. Send a copy of that pic to DeCourt.”
“Will do.” Winsley’s smile vanished as he turned to the warden and said, “Only water and military rations for this prisoner. It’s a jug, not a damn luxury resort.”
He left the cell and walked away, still shaking his head.
Despite her predicament, Riley knew she would sleep well that night. She would sleep like a baby, maybe for the first time in her life.
Part Five: In Search of Ophelia
29
DeCourt assembled his cabinet for an urgent session. The first item on the agenda was Colonel Kor. The Chief of Fleet Security stood at attention under the glares of everyone at the table, including Adrian.
A holo-screen replayed the press conference Multan had given on that day.
“It came to my attention that the police have abused their power once again,” Multan declared. “Colonel Kor’s people tortured a man in their custody, Malik Brunet, using electric sticks, then they arrested his wife, stripped her naked, and submitted her to the same ordeal. They made Mr. Brunet watch as they repeatedly tortured and humiliated his wife.”
Adrian’s eyes went from the screen to Kwan Kor, who hadn’t moved a muscle. The colonel’s face was still and unreadable, as if he were an emotionless android.
“Fellow citizens, I have only one thing to say to that—enough is enough!” Multan clenched his fist, his eyes narrow, his lips a thin straight line on a swarthy face. “On behalf of all the citizens of the Alliance, I demand justice. Police brutality must stop. Colonel Kor and his goons must be relieved of duty and tried for their crimes.”
“Mr. Multan,” the journalist with salt and pepper hair asked, “do you have proof of your allegations against the officers of Fleet Security?”
Multan nodded. “I do. The Chief Medical Officer, Ms. Galen, examined Mr. and Mrs. Brunet in person, and her report is unambiguous. She noted burn marks on the victims, as well as chemical imbalances in their body, consistent with the use of electric sticks.”
Several journalists shouted at once, raising their hands. Multan waited for a few seconds, then asked the reporters to proceed in orderly fashion, starting with a blonde female journalist.
“If we cannot trust Fleet Security, who can we trust to maintain order?” she asked. “Should the president declare martial law?”
Multan shook his head. “Certainly not. The military must focus on their role—protect the civilian fleet from external threats. We need Fleet Security, of course. But we need to purge this organization of people who abuse their power and commit outrageous acts of violence against their fellow citizens. That won’t happen while acting President DeCourt is in power.”
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