Invasion (Contact Book 1)

by David Ryker

  “Saito,” he said. “I need to ask you something. Be honest.”

  The man sobbed and tried to hide from himself. The darkness of the room moved in closer.

  “What happened during the election, Saito?” Hess’s words were breathless, scared to say it out loud. “Was it fixed? Did I ever have a chance?”

  The sobbing stopped and the president raised his head. He dabbed at a tear in the corner of an eye.

  “Did you have a chance? To be president?”

  He burst into laughter, almost falling off his chair. A drawn out, scathing and maniacal laugh. In that moment, Hess remembered perfectly why he wanted to stab this man square between his shoulders. The kind of hatred no amount of pity would fix. When Saito dies, he thought, I’ll happily burn it all to the ground. But he’s got to die first.

  “Thank you.” Saito was awkwardly straightening his collar. “I needed that.”

  Hess nodded his head and hid his fury. He had learned a lot. Now, all that was left was to leave. He felt compelled to tell Alison, to have her help him construct a plan. There was plenty to work with. He turned to leave.

  “Acton.” The voice was pathetic again. “Wait.”

  Hess halted.

  “You’ve done good work,” Saito went on. “Showed a good head under pressure.”

  “Just my duty, sir.” Hess wanted to get out.

  “But there’s one more… thing. One more thing I wanted to ask you.”

  Hess’s mind raced, trying to think of what it might be.

  “I want you to get me something. This. See, we’ve been away from Earth so long and I’m… unable to obtain my typical… composure without it.”

  The president’s hand stretched out, balled into a tight fist. Hess reached out and Saito opened his fingers, allowing a scrap of silk to waft down.

  Hess took it, feeling the softness against his skin. He peeled open the cloth, unfolding it to find words scratched into the fabric. He read it and was shocked.

  “This is illegal in every system,” he noted. “If anyone caught me…”

  “You’re a resourceful man, Hess.”

  “I don’t know whether–”

  “You’ll find a way, Hess. Let’s just say that I would consider it a great favor.”

  “The generals, they can’t…”

  “Oh, they must never know. I don’t have my normal people out here. Only me and you. Please, Hess,” the president pleaded. “Please, Acton.”

  There was a longing in the man’s eyes. A wretched and pitiful glimmer. Now, Hess knew, it was just addiction manifesting itself. Narcotics could do that. He could only stare at the president. He wants me to fetch him drugs. On a hostile world. While he’s dealing with the biggest crisis the Federation has ever faced. It would be a death sentence for the species.

  But then, Hess’s internal dialectics raged, he does look tired. Stressed. Strung out. He’s been drinking already. Maybe this is good for him.

  He needs a clear head though.

  But, the devil in Hess suggested, get this and he’ll be yours forever. A level of control, something to wrestle him away from Van Liden. The power would be immeasurable. The quickest way to the top. Win his trust and chemically convince him.

  “Please, Hess,” Saito intruded. “I need it. I really, really need it.”

  Hess looked the man up and down. He hated Saito like nothing else in the universe. He hated him with the fury and force of a collapsing star. And—importantly—Hess wanted, desperately, to win the war. There was only one way forward.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  28

  Loreto

  “I said wait for it, Hertz.”

  He was fretting, and the rapid flickering back and forth bothered Loreto.

  “But sir–”

  “But nothing. We wait.”

  The admiral leaned over the edge of his pulpit, wiped a bead of cold sweat from his forehead, and heard his officer humming to himself, worried. They were all petrified, he knew. He was as well. But he had to gamble.

  “We wait,” he repeated, reassuring himself as much as anyone.

  They’d made record time through the trace gates. Disgustingly good time, he knew. No one liked that. The engines should have overheated. The shields should have overpowered and swallowed them up. Yeats and Eliot had warned him about the worrying flood of network activity. He’d drowned out all Cavs’s complaints about the guns. They were making time; he couldn’t afford to listen.

  It wasn’t the Vela any more, Loreto knew. The affects were visible. The codex fused to the desk had turned gray, draining the color from surrounding objects. He’d closed the door and stayed on the bridge. The infection had spread anyway, along electrical conduits and vents. Every weld and rivet along that hallway now seemed sticky and organic.

  It was everywhere, slowly reshaping the ship in the Exiles’ image. But Loreto had never known his ship to be this powerful. That’s when he’d dragged Hertz and Kelch into his office and demanded that they help him. The hangar man, wary of being too many decks up, treated the alien device with frosty suspicion. The captain treated the codex like it had threatened his child.

  “Remove it,” Loreto told Kelch and the man grinned a crooked grin.

  They watched him at work.

  “He’s an artist,” Loreto had said.

  “We don’t need an artist,” Hertz whispered. “We need an exorcist.”

  They were through the third trace gate, outstripping the rest of the Fleet by almost a day, when Kelch finally pried the device free. As it bobbled loosely around the desk, Loreto skewered it on his ancestor’s dagger, destroying the circuit boards inside.

  He wanted the aliens out of the network, Loreto told his friend. He didn’t want the Exiles listening in. He had a plan. The one way they could ensure that the Exiles would fight on their side. Or, at the very least, that they would help eradicate the Symbiot. The hours he’d spent debating the problem had come to only a slim conclusion: they had no other option.

  They’d entered the Spartan system and Loreto sensed the tension in his crew. Even stepping onto the bridge was like trying to push through a thick, rotten swamp. Their thoughts were heavy with dread and they were his responsibility. So he had told them his plan.

  But first, he made sure, they had to locate the Symbiot ships on a map. It would take at least another day to pass through the system and reach Sparta, but the enemy had a head start. He dispatched the Sirens to move out ahead and to find any trace of their quarry.

  They’d worked beautifully, tracking down a straggling Symbiot fighter and stalking it from behind a local moon. Loreto dispatched his Wisps and had them capture the vessel, dragging it back to the Vela as though it were a scavenger ship. It rested beside the trace gate and waited for the arrival of the rest of the First Fleet. It was their first chance to test the infected vessel and she passed, just about.

  Loreto had held up the ruined alien codex on the point of his knife. Almost the entire crew were packed into the bridge, watching him. The air was thick and sweaty, people stood on their tiptoes for a better view.

  “This is the problem,” he announced. “This is the cause behind the changes in the ship. I know you’ve all noticed.”

  They grumbled and watched. He’d lifted the lights especially; he wanted to see them.

  “It’s a codex, simple enough. Full of data. It included the tracking program we used to find the enemy on Olmec and to track down the ship the Wisps are pulling in now. But it’s more than that.”

  Loreto didn’t trust the Exiles. They simply didn’t have as much skin in the game.

  “So what kind of ally infects an enemy ship with a virus or whatever the hell this is, right? I might say that whatever technology contained inside this device has made inconceivably wonderful modifications to our ship. So much that it doesn’t feel like home any more. Would I be right?”

  They didn’t have to say, but some shouted out their agreement anyway. They loved thei
r admiral.

  “An ally of ours, infecting our ship. Downloading our data. Learning from us. Plundering our history. They’re better at our language than Hertz is, I can tell you that!”

  They actually laughed; Loreto felt relieved. The whole thing was a risk but what he valued most was his crew. As long as they were still behind him, he was happy. The laughter was a good sign.

  “So they know us. They brought us this problem. But where are they?”

  “Nowhere!” Someone shouted. People cursed and swore in agreement.

  “Pretty much,” Loreto agreed. “Pretty much.”

  He held up a fist and opened it, turning his palm to the curious crowd. Inside were the three Exile codices.

  “But what’s good for the goose is good for the gander, right?”

  He slipped two into his pocket and then held one up in the air.

  “We’re going to install this on the captured Symbiot ship. Connect the aliens. Lock them together. Look how our ship had learned from their tech, look how it’s improved! Those Exiles, sitting pretty by the Pale, what if we make it so that they have to come here and help?”

  The noise had died down. They were processing the plan. Loreto didn’t want them to think too long. He had to keep the momentum up.

  “We infect the enemy.” His voice boomed through the bridge. “We give the Symbiot all the information they need about the Exiles. We open a bridge between the two species. One that goes both ways. We give the Exiles the same. That locks them in. All three of us, in a fight to the death. The Exiles and us versus the enemy.”

  Someone stood up and shouted down that the Symbiot ship was being brought into the hangar.

  “I’m going to take this codex, right now.” Loreto climbed down from his pulpit. “I’m taking it and I’m installing it. If I’m right, it’ll send a message out over two networks. The Symbiot’s and the Exile’s both. There will be no more bystanders.”

  Looking up at the people of the bridge, his crew, Loreto felt a pang of fear and of pride. They weren’t cheering but Loreto felt the mood change. Not hope; they were still too close to death to entertain hope. But, rather, resolve. The very fact of having a plan helped.

  He marched below to the hangar and made sure people saw him. He made sure they saw his determined face as the lifeless body of a corrupted human pilot was dragged free and sent to the morgue. He made sure Kelch was standing nearby when he stood outside the captured Symbiot fighter and said out loud, “This is for Olmec, you goddamn sons of bitches,” and stepped inside. He knew the hangar man would spread a salacious rumor and it would sear through the ship like untamed fire riding the coattails of a long dry summer.

  It was a Wisp, an updated model. A two-man ship, a bomber. Loreto closed himself in the cockpit and tried not to touch anything. Just like the dead on Olmec, the corruption was manifest. Black latching and lattice crawled over surfaces, spreading like rot over a dead dog. The way it infected machines and organic lifeforms seemed different, as though it couldn’t cross-contaminate. But he was still hesitant about touching anything.

  But at least it had been human, once. Loreto knew how the craft functioned. He flicked switches and felt the power surge. The copied codex wasn’t the smoothly engineered perfection of the one he’d destroyed. This one had been made quickly, part of a batch. But it still felt strange and alien and powerful. Do I do it? he asked himself. Endanger an entire race to save my own?

  By their own telling, the Exiles had been running for centuries. Hell, the Symbiot might already have infected an Exile ship. But this would give the enemy their location, it would tell the Symbiot exactly where they were. God only knew what else it would tell them. God only knew how quickly they’d notice, how quickly they’d be able to stop the infection before it spread too far.

  But that’s not my problem, Loreto told himself. I need them to be involved. I need them to have a stake in this. It’s their lives or mine and I know who I swore my oath to.

  It might not even work. The thought nagged away at the back of his brain. And the Symbiot were so close to Sparta. You’ve left it short, old man. One gamble. You better hope it pays off. If this doesn’t work, you’re on your own.

  He thrust the codex down onto the console and closed his eyes. Nothing happened. No power surge. No rumble of the ship. Opening his eyes, he looked out through the window of the Wisp. Kelch was watching him, curiously. Oh hell, Loreto thought. It hasn’t worked. I got the entire crew riled up for nothing. A dead end.

  Already, his mind was racing, excuses competing to cross the line. I could tell them that the Exiles didn’t care. I could tell them that it worked anyway. I could tell them the truth. None of the options felt right. I’ll have to tell them that it’s worked, that the Exiles are coming and I’ll lie right up to the moment one of those aliens’ ships blasts me out of the sky and ends my failure forever.

  Then, the shaking began. The snap and the fizz of the console, the codex heating up the whole cabin. Loreto was quick, programming the autopilot of the ship. It rocked, moving his fingers all wrong. He pressed in the code, flung open the cockpit and leapt out.

  The Wisp rose up of its own accord, still shaking. It made for the hangar airlock, picking up speed.

  “Where’s she going, sir?” Kelch shouted.

  “I don’t care,” Loreto shouted back. “Far away.”

  And then he ran back to the bridge. The Wisp came to rest in the outer orbit of a minor moon. The Vela parked herself half a parsec away and watched, the Sirens singing out and painting their sounds on the holo-plate.

  On the bridge, Loreto pulled himself up into the pulpit and saw the eager eyes all looking down at him. He examined the projection and zoomed right in on the infected Wisp as it floated dead in space.

  Loreto refused to sit, to eat, and to sleep. He’d just tried to lock two species in a suicide pact; he didn’t have time for minor urges. Hertz stood always at his side.

  “We wait,” Loreto repeated again, the mantra so worn out and ruined he could almost see through it.

  “It’s been hours, sir. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “It’s worth it, Hertz. We can’t win this war without them.”

  “But what if we’ve just made them angry?”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  As they waited, Loreto felt the tension emerging again, like a weed burrowing through the soil and cracking the foundations of his command. Time ticked away.

  “That may be, sir.” Hertz had the good grace to talk low. “But perhaps we should make a plan just in case…”

  “In case what, Hertz?”

  “In case they don’t come, sir. We can’t just leave that tech out there. It’s dangerous. We don’t know what it can do.”

  Hertz was right, but Loreto hadn’t thought that far ahead. Leaving powerful technology floating around in a contested system was a security risk. A stupid one.

  “We’ll shoot it down, then.”

  “That’s all we can do?”

  “Listen, Hertz.” Loreto was getting annoyed and his voice rose up in volume. “I’ll have it shot and blow it to hell and that’ll be that.”

  “Fine, sir, but–”

  “Don’t give me buts, Hertz, I don’t care. This is my goddamn mission. My plan. If it’s not working, I’ll shoot down this ship and then I’ll shoot down a hundred more. Screw the Exiles. The cowards.”

  Hertz was about to interject. He looked down at Loreto’s hand. It shook violently, juddering as he tried to jab an accusatory finger at his captain. Before the man could speak, the admiral shouted out to the entire bridge, snatching his hand back and thrusting it into his pocket.

  “Get me the guns. Cavs, call him for me now.”

  As they patched him through, Loreto leaned on the edge of his pulpit. I’m breaking up, he told himself, I’ve got absolutely nothing left. The weight of responsibility for saving an entire species rested on his shoulders and he didn’t know how much more he could take. The comms crackled
and saved him from his own despair.

  “Cavs, shoot down that Wisp.” Loreto barked the order hoarsely. He wasn’t stopping to think. He was too angry. It had been hours and his plan was in ruins.

  “The calibrations, sir, we’re still testing–”

  “Shoot it down right now, Cavs.”

  The officer didn’t argue again.

  “Firing first volley,” came the call from the bridge. The Vela swelled and shuddered. “Miss.”

  “Miss?” Loreto was indignant. “It’s well within range.”

  “Firing second volley.”

  Loreto stared at the star map. Red dots. Mocking him.

  “Miss again, sir.”

  Cavs had moaned about the calibrations for what seemed like an age. He couldn’t call the kid up now and chew him out. This is my call, Loreto told himself. I live or die by it.

  “Gunnery recalibrating, sir.”

  That Wisp had to die. When it died, he’d admit defeat. When it was blasted to smithereens, he’d lead his Fleet to Sparta and they’d die like soldiers, trying to abide by their oath.

  “Just make it quick,” Loreto said, despondent.

  “Target hit, sir.”

  “What?” Loreto hadn’t felt the Vela’s cannons firing.

  “Target destroyed,” the voice in the rafters confirmed.

  “Cavs did it?” Hertz asked.

  “Unsure, sir,” the voice echoed down.

  Loreto looked at the star map.

  “No,” he said. “It wasn’t us.”

  “Then who?”

  Loreto pointed to the projection. At the very edge, the Exile battleships flickered into life. They had shot ahead of themselves, their range far greater than any human gun. Grinding his teeth, Loreto tried not to cheer.

  The Exiles had arrived. Loreto prayed to any god that was listening. He prayed to the cold heart of empty space. I just hope they’re on our side.

  29

  Hess

  “He took it all?”

  They watched the President of the Federation, sitting at the most important meeting in recorded human history. He repeatedly rubbed his thumb against the inside of his first finger and pretended to read his notes.