by Nick Webb
Granger turned to Emphatic. “I need a ship to take me to Earth. Can you help me? One last time?” He glanced at Varioosh, who, after listening to the translation from Qwerty’s handheld, relayed the request to the Eru. Emphatic responded.
“She says that the Home Ship must leave and deliver my people to our refuge. But that one of their gun ships can deliver you, with an escort.”
He bowed slightly to her. “Thank you.”
After translation, the Eru matched his bow and Varioosh added, “She thanks you, Old-man-et-cetera, for such valuable and selfless assistance so many years ago. Without you, this very ship might not exist.”
He nodded. “I’m sure there’s a long and interesting story there. For another time. Shall we go? My planet needs me urgently.”
Emphatic led them from the records room back through the section of the ship Granger had already seen, but angled off to a different shuttle bay than the one he’d arrived in. Waiting there was an Eru shuttle. Emphatic said something to Varioosh, who turned to Granger. “The pilot will take you and Human-who-talks-much to the gunship. From there, communication will be limited, but they know to take you to Earth. Once there you’ll have to convey to them, somehow, that—”
She was interrupted by the opening of the giant shuttle bay doors that led to the airlock, revealing an IDF shuttle that soared into the bay. Emphatic leaned down to Varioosh and said something, which the Trit relayed. “She says that the human just arrived on a large warship and needed to talk to you urgently, Old-man-et-cetera.”
Before he could ask any questions about the identity of the newcomer, the shuttle’s hatch opened even before it had finished landing, and Admiral Proctor came bounding down the ramp. “Tim!”
“Shelby!” He ran forward and grabbed her arms. “I’m glad you’re okay. Running off like that to face the Swarm alone. I wasn’t going to say anything, but it was foolish.”
She nodded. “You’re one to talk, Tim. But yes, I know. Rayna managed to talk some sense into me. Listen. I’ve just received word that the Swarm ship is at the planet you discovered, where you found the first manuscript. It’s currently in a battle with the robotic sentinels in orbit.”
“Oh? Maybe we get the robots to do our dirty work for us?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s that simple. One of my former officers, who I believe has somehow reconnected himself with the Valarisi, is also there on a ship, fighting on the same side as the robots. It’s . . . odd, to say the least. Something just feels strange about it. I can’t even pin down in words what misgivings I have. But I wanted to see what you thought about it before we go to help. Do you have any more memories of those things? The robots? The Findiri? The Quiassi? Anything?”
Granger turned to Qwerty. “Well, Commander? What else do I remember? What does the manuscript say?”
“Well, Cap’n, ma’am, the computations are slowing down like a mule through molasses, but I’ve managed to confirm Commander Rice’s theory about the Quiassi. They’re slow doppelgängers. They need contact with a target body to assimilate some DNA, and then, slowly, over the course of weeks, they reconfigure their own DNA, cells, and body structure to match the target. You made them to control the Findiri and channel their destructive tendencies towards productive goals, though it didn’t turn out quite the way you planned, as several of the Quiassi had ideas of their own. That’s when you pulled the plug on the whole project and set out in a different direction that resulted in the Granger moons and all that.”
“Great. Wonderful. But what else? The robots?”
Qwerty shook his head. “Not much. Just that they were one of your first attempts to stop the Swarm. They self replicate and have rudimentary AI and minimal consciousness. But it didn’t work out, and like with the Findiri, you pulled the plug.”
Granger was murmuring. “Self replicating. Minimal consciousness.” He glanced up at Proctor. “Sorry, Shelby, nothing’s ringing a bell. Just . . . be careful. If the Swarm ship has an interest in those things, and came back from trillions of years in the future just for them, well . . .” He shrugged, as if she could figure out the rest.
“That’s not nothing, Tim. It confirms a few things. I fear that we’ve got a Quiassi as the president of United Earth right now, who also has a very coincidental connection to former President Barbara Avery, who is presumed dead, but, you know, no body. And same for Curiel.” She started to turn back to the shuttle, but paused. “Actually, there is one more thing.” Proctor went and stood in front of Emphatic. “We’ve met before. Unt-unt-wa.” She held out both arms and fists.
“Unt-unt-wa,” repeated Emphatic.
“We are one, yes. But are we really?” she looked at Varioosh, who started relaying the information to Emphatic.
“She says, of course we are. Why do you question?”
Proctor lowered both arms. “I ask not because I doubt your people, but because I doubt mine. We must form an alliance against the powers that would destroy us. More than an alliance. A government. A group with common laws and goals and defense. But I fear that none of us will ever fully trust each other.”
Emphatic nodded after Varioosh’s translation, and responded. “She agrees, but has deep misgivings committing her people to being governed by a human, or any other alien,” said the Trit. “And, Companion-to-Old-man-et-cetera, I must say the Itharans will say the same.”
Proctor breathed deep, tired, but feeling in her bones that the solution was just out of reach. Or just within reach, if she could only say the right words, the right way, in the right order, at the right time. “So we agree on the need. But we don’t agree on the implementation. That’s a start. Can we all talk? All of us? Human, Eru, Itharan, Dolmasi, Skiohra, and Valarisi? We can meet and negotiate a framework. Please. We’re running out of time. I don’t need an answer now—the Independence must go face the Swarm ship immediately, before it can cause any more destruction. But soon. Do we have an agreement?”
The Eru and the Trit both turned to Granger. “If it is recommended by Old-man-et-cetera, then we will come, and make every effort to accomplish the framework. To form this . . . government, as you call it.”
And just then, Proctor had the insight that would solve the whole problem. Curiel’s power maneuvering, the Russian’s, the mistrust of the Eru and the Trits. It all had one solution in common. She smiled at Granger. “Good luck at Earth. Wish I could join you.”
“You too,” he said. Then, watching her more closely, he added, “What? What are you looking at me like that for?”
“I’ll tell you later.” She inclined her head toward the aliens. “When we all meet next time, everyone together. I’ll tell you then. Okay?”
“Cryptic, but okay, fine. Time’s a wasting.” He shook her hand. “Good luck, Admiral.”
She grasped his hand with both of hers. “You too, Captain.”
Proctor departed, just minutes after she’d arrived. Qwerty tapped his handheld and read something. “Uh, Captain, Shin-Wentworth is back. The Findiri ships had started to pursue him, but they broke off and q-jumped suddenly away. I told him you’re heading to Earth, and he replied that the Volz is at your disposal.” Qwerty glanced up at the aliens. “No need to grab a ride from a pilot we can’t talk to, which is probably for the best, sir, as interesting as that might be.”
“Agreed, Mr. Qwerty.”
It took them another ten minutes to board the Eru shuttle and be ferried over to the ISS Volz, but when it was done, he sat down in a chair near the command station and waved Shin-Wentworth forward to the captain’s chair. “I’m not here to replace you, son. Just hitching a ride. Earth, please. And step on it.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Il Nido Sector
Far Side of Paradiso’s Moon
ISS Volz
Captain’s quarters
Zivic held the bottle of bourbon in one hand, the ring clutched in his other. Jerusha’s quarters were dark, and he could barely see the gold color, but he slipped it off and on and off
and on a finger, around the tip of which it could barely fit.
“I promised I’d be back. And I did. I’m here. I’m so sorry I’m late, babe.”
He downed another swallow. He was technically on duty, but he didn’t care. Who the hell was going to reprimand him. Ace? Shin-Wentworth? He swore to God if that bastard even thought about getting in his face it would be the last thing he did.
The video records were empty. No log existed of what happened in that physics lab where the medical team found Jeru’s body. Heart ripped out and lying in liters of blood. Had the cameras malfunctioned? Or had someone erased them?
Of course he’d erased them. Shin-Wentworth was smart, and would cover his tracks perfectly. All records, all sensor data, all video files, all physical evidence would have been addressed, no box unchecked, no t uncrossed, no i undotted.
But. There was a chance.
Shin-Wentworth could manipulate physical data and evidence with ease. Manipulate people? Not as easy. The man was something of an oaf. A slippery, treacherous, murderous oaf.
He stumbled to his feet and opened the door. Where are you, Wiggum, you little sneaky bastard? He shook his head and tried to reign in his scattered thoughts. Focus, Ethan. Where would the scientist be at this hour? Off duty? Quarters? Maybe. He logged into the nearest computer terminal on the wall and dialed up the quarters directory. Guest quarters twenty-one nineteen. Good, he was already on deck twenty. Just one more deck.
He stumbled down the stairs to deck twenty-one, giving passing crew members a wide berth so as to not accidentally run into them, and then knocked on the door of room nineteen.
He knocked again.
And again.
Soon, he was pounding, letting out all his anger and frustration on that poor, innocent door.
After what seemed like a minute, he stopped and shook out his hand. It hurt, especially since he’d forgotten to pocket the ring.
“Okay, if I were an unwilling accomplice to a murder, and I wasn’t in my quarters, and I was feeling terrible about what had happened, where the hell would I be?”
He was banking a lot on the capacity of the man to feel remorse and regret, but he didn’t have mush else to go on.
Where would a tortured soul like him go? Ah. The fighter pilots’ lounge.
He ducked back into the stairwell and descended another three decks, down a hall, and into a large storage compartment with the sign outside that said Backwash Pub.
He entered.
“Sorry, Batshit, you look like you’ve had enough already. Why don’t you go sleep it off?”
He chuckled, trying hard to show how very not drunk he was. “Jerkwad. Jerkwad. Funny. Don’t worry, brought my own,” he held up the bottle. “Just need a place to wallow. And swallow. Get it? Hey, you heard about Jeru, right?” He sat down.
“Heard about Jeru? Man, you might want to slow down. Come on, hand it over.”
He pulled the bottle closer to his chest before Jerkwad could take it. “Hey, man, where’s the scientist?”
“The who?”
“You know, the scientist that Shin-Whackworth is always whispering with.”
Jerkwad nodded. “Oh. Over there. Table in the corner. Has been in here a lot the past few days whenever he’s not working.”
“Just like I thought. Thanks, Wad.”
He stumbled back to his feet and approached the table. “Mind if I sit?” He pulled the chair out before the man could even open his mouth to answer, and slumped in.
“Co— commander Zivic. I . . . I . . . I don’t believe we’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.”
“I know who you are.” He tipped the bottle back and downed another swallow. “Wiggly.”
“Wiggum.”
“Wiggly.” He chuckled. “Look, Wiggly. I need a favor. I’m running out of time. We’re about to head into a war zone, you see, and I may not make it out alive. Any of us, really.” He tipped the bottle back again.
“Does it matter anymore?” Wiggum finished off his own cocktail, and motioned to Jerkwad for another. “What the hell do I have to live for?”
“What do you mean?”
Here it comes. The confession. The tortured soul finally cries uncle and spills.
“That freighter. Baltimore.” Wiggum closed his eyes and stumbled over his words. “I . . . I . . . I . . . knew someone. Someone was on that f -f-freighter.” He could hardly form the words with his lips. Was he drunk?
No. He was crying.
Zivic leaned forward. “Who?”
“I c . . . c . . . can’t.” He pointed to his lips. His meaning was clear. He couldn’t even bring himself to say out loud who he’d lost.
“Someone special to you?”
Wiggum nodded quickly.
“Who? Tell me. You’ll feel better finally talking about it. Promise.”
Wiggum kept nodding vigorously. Finally, “My granddaughter.”
Zivic reached out and patted the man’s arm. “I’m sorry. Really. I’m so sorry.”
He let the man sob for a minute. The pain was all too familiar, but Zivic was a little jealous—he hadn’t even had the time to grieve like this man was doing. He needed a good cry. But all he’d done so far? Duty. The mission.
And revenge. No. Justice.
“Hey, Wiggum, look. I know exactly how you feel. Not just saying that. Here, look.” He held out his other hand and opened it, revealing the ring, which had dug a red impression into his palm. “It’s hers. My fianceé’s. I just lost her this week too.”
“I’m sorry, Commander.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Have you been engaged long? Had, I mean? I’m sorry, I’m not good at—”
“It’s okay. Yeah, we’d been engaged once, many years ago, then called it off because I was a stupid, arrogant show-off who thought only about himself. But then, over time, she rubbed off on me and I mellowed, and I proposed again.” He started chuckling. “Was supposed to get married by the end of the week, actually. But . . . when I got back . . . she was gone.”
Wiggum wiped his nose again, then paused, his arm still suspended halfway in the air. “Oh. Oh, I see.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry. Had no idea the captain was your . . .” He trailed off as he watched Zivic’s eyes.
“Wiggum, listen to me, and listen good. I promise, no matter what, you’ll be okay. Nothing will happen to you, at least from me. I just need the truth. I . . . have my suspicions, but I need them confirmed before I . . . act on them.”
“Act?”
“The video logs were all erased, Wiggum. All internal sensor data replaced by random shit. But I read the reports by the chief medical officer and the emergency response team. I know who was in that room.”
Wiggum nodded vigorously again. “Okay, yeah. Okay.”
“Wiggum, look at me.”
The scientist looked him in the eye.
“From one widower to another. Please. For closure. I need to know.”
“He did it.”
Zivic breathed deep. He felt something release in his chest. “Shin-Wentworth?”
“Yes. It was an accident, kinda, as far as I could tell. But not really. She was messing with his experiment, the one he wants to use to bring back his family, and, well, we both know what it feels like, what your brain goes through when you lose your family, and he . . . she died for it. By his hand.”
“Thank you, Wiggum.” He stood up. Left the bottle. But not the ring.
“Where are you going?”
“To the bridge,” he said with a calm, pleasant smile. “Unfinished business. Good luck, Wiggum. And, again, I’m truly sorry.”
He left Backwash Pub and made one last stop before the bridge. Luckily, the armory door code hadn’t changed since he’d left.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Poincaré Sector
World IXF-459, High Orbit
ISS Independence
Bridge
“Hold us steady right here, Ensign Destachio. I wa
nt to understand what we’re up against before we dive right in.”
Admiral Proctor stood at the front of the bridge, staring up at the main view screen. It was the Swarm ship all right, engaged in a surprisingly fierce battle with the sentinel drones that attacked Granger several days earlier. They were, ironically, swarming the huge ship, peppering it with purple anti-matter beams. Each was no match for the Swarm ship, but there were hundreds of them.
Dozens of turrets on the Swarm ship were targeting the robotic sentinels with streams of energy cannon fire, of a type Proctor had never seen before. Each pulsing round of energy was more than enough to snuff out a single robot.
But it seemed where one disappeared, two took its place.
“Where are they coming from, Mr. Urda?”
The XO was at the tactical station with the sensor crew, conferring with the tactical officer. “From underneath the planet’s surface, it appears, ma’am. There’s a steady stream of them rising up into the atmosphere towards the battle space.”
SHELBY YOU MUST HELP. NOW! PLEASE!
Why so urgent? She asked. It was peculiar. Her companion had never insisted so strenuously on a course of action before.
DECKER IS HERE. HIS COMPANION HAS BEEN RESTORED TO HIM AND HE’S ESCAPED FROM KYOTO THREE. AND HE MANAGED TO RESCUE MANY THOUSANDS OF OUR KIND AS WELL. HE IS THERE, IN THE FIGHT.
But why? What would compel him to get involved here?
WE HAD HEARD OF THIS ROBOTIC FLEET AND WANTED TO SEE FOR OURSELVES. AFTER OPPENHEIMER’S BETRAYAL, WE DISCOVERED THAT HIS PROMISES OF BUILDING US A FLEET OF OUR OWN WERE MORE LIES. SO WE TOOK IT UPON OURSELVES. WE WANT TO BE FREE. TO ROAM THE STARS AS WE WILL, WITHOUT DEPENDING ON BODIES WHO SO EASILY LIE AND BETRAY.
Fair enough, she supposed.
“Status of the freighter?” she said.
“It appears to have taken a few hits and sustained some damage, but it’s still in orbit. Luckily the Swarm ship seems pretty damn preoccupied with the robot fleet,” said Urda.
“Okay, let’s cut to the chase. Who’s winning?”