Invasion (Contact Book 1)

by David Ryker

  “We are walking through the Alcázar, Alison. The seat of Federation power. The very embodiment of everything it means to govern over the colonies. And you think we’re here to drag it down from the inside?”

  “Well—” Alison caught up. “It’s not as though you’re going to be here much longer…”

  The campaign had lasted two years. To become President of the Senate, one had to put in the work. So Acton Hess had devoted every waking second to winning. Fighting tooth and nail, scratching and clawing and dragging and bribing and struggling his way to the very top. No kid from the colonies had ever been president. He was determined to be the first. But he had lost.

  Now, inside the Alcázar, he was putting the pennies on the eyes of his dead dreams. The last few acts before he resigned and retired into the shameful shadows.

  “Alison, I have a meeting with Saito.”

  “You didn’t answer me.”

  Those brown eyes glowed. They had stopped together in a cavernous hall. A grandiose void, saying everything with nothingness.

  “You asked me to hire you, Alison. I took the meeting out of gratitude to your generous father. I thought you were another loose end to tie up...”

  “You still haven’t–”

  Hess held a slim finger to his lips.

  “Not here.”

  His voice echoed softly through the halls like a breeze.

  “But–”

  Over his shoulder, Hess saw the door to the Star Chamber. The president’s assembly of advisors, where the universe was governed.

  “I’ve been summoned to this meeting. There, Saito will offer me a job. It’s another tradition, one which I am meant to demurely decline, you understand?”

  “I don’t see what–”

  “Quiet, please.” Hess reached an arm around Alison. “Listen, you wanted a job. But first, I have to take this meeting. Come inside. See the world as it really is.”

  Alison nodded.

  “Excellent.”

  Hess strode toward the chamber. An enormous pair of antique doors separated him from Saito, the man he loathed most. He took hold of the lion’s head handle and hauled it open. The Chamber was crowded. A wide room arranged around an ageless stone table, the ceiling was two stories high, engraved with a flat map of the Federation made from diamonds.

  The Refusal was an age-old custom, a chance for a new president to appear magnanimous. It was designed to be politely declined. As Hess represented billions of colony brats, this ceremonial healing of wounds seemed important. They didn’t come much more Earthbound than Dominic Saito and the man had no idea how much he was loathed.

  I’d sharpen his olive branch and stab him through the eye, thought Hess. He passed the generals and caught the attention of Van Liden, who looked away in disgust. He thinks I’m a simpering colony rat, but I know my fair share of his secrets. In Providence, information was almost as valuable as space.

  Saito wanted to do this in front of everyone, Hess knew. Turn it into blood sport. He felt a surge in his negative emotions. Ever since the election, he’d felt vengeful. The failure had become all-consuming, eating away at him like cancer. Saito had stolen everything.

  The girl was right. He had wanted to change the Senate from the inside, to dismantle the system of privileges and advantages available only to those from Earth. He had wanted to pull back the cataracts from the colonial population and to show them that they were just as valuable as those who were left behind.

  But he had failed. Saito had won. All the imagined violence in the universe could not change cold, hard facts, however noble their intentions.

  For weeks, he’d agonized over every excruciating detail in the campaign, desperate to know why he’d lost. He’d bribed every senator, called in every favor, brokered every shadowy secret amassed during a lifetime in politics. He’d even reached out to the Spartans. All for nothing. The office of the presidency, it seemed, was reserved only for the Earthbound. And now, Saito was going to rub salt in his open wounds.

  Hess saw Saito sitting at the head of the long table. The meeting had begun, a holo-message beamed into the air ahead of the president. All around, there was laughter.

  “And then he told me to ready the Fleets, as though there were actually any kind of danger.”

  Hess recognized the voice. The slimy, polished Earthbound intonations of Salem Fletcher, chief of operations of the Federation’s military. He and Saito went way back, enjoying the same schools and social sets. They shared a joke and the rest of the room laughed along – sycophants all.

  “You think he’s serious?” Saito had his feet up on the table. “How do you plan to react?”

  The chuckling died down.

  “I’m sure it’s just his antique ship again. We have this trouble with Red Hand. Do you remember when he insisted on running those drills near Olmec?”

  “Cost a fortune.”

  “Indeed. He’s a competent man, but he really does have a strange manner. I only pass along the message as protocol dictates. And I thought you might enjoy the man’s latest attempts at relevance.”

  Saito laughed. Hess nudged his way to the front.

  If ever there had been a man genetically engineered to shake hands and smile on cue, it was Saito. A marketable face with nothing behind his eyes. A man of astoundingly average intelligence, bred for office. Beneath the pointed cheekbones and his large ears, he puckered his lips, as he did whenever some half-tricky thought crossed his mind. He wore his expensive haircut like a crown.

  Hess had never hated a person more.

  “Well, do what you please, Fletcher,” the president laughed. “I think we will all be interested in how this latest of Loreto’s follies comes to pass. If nothing else, it should help with the First Fleet’s decommissioning.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  “When’s his pension date? Someone did say. Perhaps we’ll dismiss him ever-so-slightly before, when this all turns out to be nonsense?”

  The room erupted with laughter. Fletcher’s grin threatened to break free from his cheeks.

  “I will take great pleasure passing along the message. Over and out.”

  The transmission ended. Saito looked through the crowd and found Hess. Whatever base cunning and delighted schadenfreude lurked behind the president’s eyes, he never hid it well.

  “Acton, my friend.” He smiled.

  Hess nodded. He didn’t want to give Saito the satisfaction of a real response.

  “You missed an interesting call. Fletcher tells me Loreto is up to his old tricks. Some nonsense out near the Pale, you hear?”

  Hess nodded again, noting their contemptuous tone for anyone not lashed so tightly to Earth and her machinations.

  “Then I think we’re done here.” Saito stood up. “Unless there’s any other business?”

  Hess recognized the plan. Saito wanted him to raise the topic of the Refusal, to make it look like he was begging. Another petty way to revel in his victory. Behind, he could feel Alison watching. He didn’t want to give anything away.

  “Oh, my. Please, everyone. Wait.” Saito settled on Hess. “I nearly forgot. Acton Hess—my recently unsuccessful opponent—is here. I believe there is something of a tradition to be completed.”

  Saito’s cronies smelled blood. Hess felt their greedy eyes.

  “Hess, as the losing candidate, I am here to extend you an offer.” Saito employed his theatrical campaigning voice, full of flourishes. “Please, Acton, join my chamber. Provide me with your advice, such as it is. Your…ahem, mind… would be most useful. Will you serve with us?”

  There was no feeling in Hess’s legs; he was aware of the eyes staring at him. An entire lifetime, desperate to be the president, and this sniveling fool was delighting in his misery.

  The olive branch had been offered. The Refusal was all that remained. Then Hess would be free to leave the world of politics forever, abandoning his dreams. All he had to do was politely decline.

  “I accept.”

&
nbsp; Saito froze, mid-laugh.

  “What?”

  The crowd hushed. Centuries of tradition and protocol, thrown out the window. A defenestration of everything it meant to be a losing candidate.

  “I accept your offer, Mr. President.” Hess even began to bow. “It would be an honor to work with you.”

  Straightening up, Hess saw the president’s puckered lips curl into a cruel smile.

  “Interesting, Hess.” Saito wagged a finger. “Interesting. You are all dismissed.”

  Shooting Hess a final spiteful sneer, Saito twisted around from the table and exited through a rear door, disappearing into the presidential quarters. Others departed until only Alison remained.

  “What the hell was that?” The incredulity was clear in her voice.

  Hess had no answer. He didn’t really know himself. He hadn’t wanted to play along with Saito’s stupid game any longer. In the moment, Hess had seen a hundred thousand futures. In almost all, he had followed tradition. None of them involved him ever holding office or changing anything. Apart from one.

  “I tried something.” Hess straightened out his collar. “He wasn’t expecting that.”

  “No one was.” Alison dusted his shoulder. “But now you have to work for him. He’s going to torture you. He’s a child.”

  “But he’s also the president.”

  There’s only one way the universe will be changed, he told himself, and that’s with me at the helm.

  Alison stood back and examined Hess’s collar. It seemed straight enough.

  “I think you should stick around a little while longer, Alison.”

  She smiled. “So… I’m hired?”

  “I think so,” Hess whispered. “It’s easier to pull down a structure from the inside, you know?”

  As long as it doesn’t fall on top of you.

  6

  Loreto

  The fighting lasted five hours.

  Fighting wasn’t the right word for it, thought Loreto. This was surviving. He’d stationed the First Fleet on the edge of the Pale, creating a curved horizon, a battle line between humanity and whatever the hell had arrived. He dared the invaders to pass through to the vulnerable colonies behind.

  The Vela and her crew sat at the head of the defensive formation. The Puppis, a Hydra-class battlecruiser manned by a few hundred raw recruits, took up position at the far end of the line. Two Banshees, the Argo and the Suhail, lurked at the opposite end, one above the other. They patrolled the closest position to Olmec, clipping off any stragglers.

  The Sirens buzzed around the battle, beaming back information. The Wisps patrolled the artificial horizon, lashing out when Loreto demanded. The supply, medic, and engineering ships hid far below the Vela, out of harm’s way. All comms had failed. The First Fleet had already lost one pilot in this fight.

  “Wide port side!” he shouted. “One of the darts. Clip it.”

  They didn’t have names for the invaders. They called the aggressors darts, the fighters buzzing around the larger, more defensive ships. There were hundreds. A few less now, Loreto corrected himself.

  “Drawing power from the shields, sir,” Hertz announced from the admiral’s right hand. “Diverting it to the guns. Cavs says he doesn’t have the range, sir. Not if you want accuracy.”

  This Cavs kid had a swagger about him, Loreto thought. Combat did that to people. It changed them. Not that there had been an actual war in decades. Putting down colonial uprisings was good for nothing but medals and other dusty trinkets. The rebels were never strong enough to make it a fair fight. Many of the crew were tasting battle for the first time.

  “Take it from the shields and engines, Hertz. We’re not going anywhere.”

  The conflict dragged closer to the Vela, moving them within range of the invaders’ guns. But the human ships remained unnoticed.

  “Sir, any less power to the shields and… we’ll be exposed, sir,” Menels moaned from the darkness. “We’re operating at thirty percent already… and that’s after taking a hit.”

  “Do it,” Loreto commanded. “We need the big guys to notice. Better it happens soon and they see which side we’re on. When they come closer, we’ll power up the shields.”

  Loreto hurried from the pulpit to the dais. The battle drew itself around him, updating every second with the latest intelligence.

  “Guns here, Vela. Target.” Loreto pointed at one of the darts as it looped close to the Pale.

  “Copy,” the bridge chorused.

  The dart, hardly larger than Loreto’s thumb, slipped through the battle and Loreto stepped forward to follow it around. He heard the clanging of the pipes and the hissing of steam as the ship struggled to cope. Beneath his feet, he felt the rattle and hum of the Vela’s guns. The cobalt dart crumpled and turned red.

  “How many now, Hertz?”

  “More than forty, sir, between the whole Fleet.”

  Surrounded by the shadows, Loreto knelt and looked up into the frail brightness of the melee.

  “It’s not enough,” he growled. “It’s not changing anything.”

  Two more darts broke free and moved toward the Argo and Suhail. A brother and sister duo, Coen and Lyor, captained the two ships. Loreto trusted them with the Banshees and they moved as one.

  As the darts threatened to break through Loreto’s imagined barrier, Coen’s ship sprang into action. It dropped down guardedly, allowing the fighter to pass above before unleashing a flurry of cannon fire. At the same time, Lyor plunged forward. She was the more front-footed of the two, always happy to take the initiative.

  “Too fast, girl.” Loreto chewed the words. “Don’t get involved.”

  Lyor’s Suhail moved closer, running the danger of inserting itself into the main battle. She wouldn’t stand a chance. Eddie Pale is dead, Loreto reminded himself. The first casualty in whatever war this is. I can’t lose another. But the dart ignored her. It swarmed after its friend, chasing toward Coen and the Argo, into human space.

  As it passed, Lyor swung around in a sluggish arc. The dart zipped away from her in a straight line. Lyor levelled her cannons into the path ahead and the projection caught, flickered, and vanished. A round of cheers hurried through the bridge.

  “Don’t cheer yet!” Loreto ordered. “Little kills don’t matter. We need the big guys to notice.”

  Nothing had changed in the battle, but it drifted closer. Loreto saw it clearly: a spherical war clustered around the colossal scimitars as fighters from both sides raced through the wreckage.

  “We’re running out of –”

  “I know, Hertz!”

  Time ticked away as the battle drifted relentlessly toward them. Loreto’s demarcation line between the fight and the Fleet shrank by the second. If the invaders got past the Vela and through to the trace gates, they could cross the Federation in a matter of days. Already, he felt the dread taking hold. I swore an oath, Loreto reminded himself.

  He’d made peace with his own mortality long ago, but a fear of being remembered badly plagued him. Red Hand, his ancestor, had been a victim of his own legend. The dead man’s reputation swallowed his actual achievements. Now, all people remembered were the lies about his failures. Loreto didn’t want to be the first person to fail to protect the Pale. He didn’t want to be on deck when the hordes broke through.

  The fear numbed the admiral’s fingers and dribbled cold sweat down his spine and wet his back. This worried him. All the rest was duty. Failure was a dirty word.

  He blinked. The bridge was alive. People hurried between banks of computers and instruments plastered along the walls, across two floors. All of them looked down on the holo-plate, the stage where Loreto composed his plans.

  “Admiral!” a disembodied voice shouted. “Incoming!”

  Loreto looked up. Two darts split from their dogfights, detached from the battle, and made for the Fleet.

  “Track them closely, Menels,” Loreto called out. “Time till they reach us?”

  They were headed st
raight for the Vela. Straight for the Pale.

  “Thirty seconds, sir.” Menels’s voice trembled with worry, even more than usual. “Damn… they’re… they’re fast, sir. Twenty-five seconds.”

  “This is it, people!” Loreto swung himself back up into the pulpit, looking down the length of the Vela as though it were the barrel of a gun. “I want them dead. Shoot them out of the stars. Make it obvious. Give me fireworks!”

  The first volley of shots thundered. Loreto could tell Cavs added extra spice. The boy was anxious to impress; he liked that.

  “Tracking… tracking…” Menels said. “Miss. Miss. Both misses, sir.”

  Loreto didn’t need the read-out. He saw the darts dodge, slinking to their side with ease, defying physics. The way they maneuvered, the way they could switch direction and accelerate, was like dawn light chasing the horizon.

  “Hit them again!” Loreto’s eyes narrowed. “Less force, Cavs. More finesse.”

  The Vela rumbled again, and he hoped she’d hold together. He heard the pulpit creak as he leaned forward, watching as both fighters peeled apart.

  “Tracking –”

  “Don’t track it, Menels!” Loreto interrupted. “They’ve missed. Warn the Navis. Get her moving, quick!”

  The two fighters flew around the Vela, one above, one below. Behind Loreto’s ship, the supply vessel Navis lurked, plump and vulnerable. An easy target for any pilot worth his salt, especially compared to a Kraken-class carrier.

  “Call in the Wisps!” Loreto shouted into the rafters. “Protect the Navis, protect the Carina! Get out, out, out!”

  The order ricocheted through the ship’s on-board comms.

  “Look, sir!” Hertz patted at Loreto’s arm, forcing his attention back to the projection.

  The spherical shape of the battle began to break. Collapsing, the farthest side of the fight fell apart. All of the darts mustered together in formation, folding up into a broad unit and aiming themselves at human space. The defensive side responded, the colossal scimitars circling round, ready to rout the fleeing enemy. Their largest guns moved into position, big enough to be picked up by the Sirens’ eyes.