The Fortress at the End of Time

by Joe M. McDermott

  “Ninety-three?”

  “More than that, I mean. Terran time. Gravity is low; time runs slow on this edge of the Laika. I was born before the war, Captain. I was in the ship when it was fighting. I was in the last battle, shooting rail guns and mines at enemy ships. This was before ansibles could be used to clone anything. We survived out here in a ruined hull long enough to build the technology that saved our butts and let us crawl to the nearest habitable world. I was just a raw recruit, but I survived and I promoted up and out. There are seven of me out there. The ansible is the most important thing in the world, and the military hoards it while the colony flounders. Brother Pleo knows what I am talking about. The colony is the key. Suicides go down if the colony is a haven for wayward souls. We have discussed this a lot.”

  “We have not, Admiral.”

  She nodded. “Of course, of course. I’m just an old fool. Don’t mind me, young man.”

  “You have fresh food and water; we have the ansible. I am stuck down here while Obasanjo negotiates contentiously without any other source of food. I am not political. I do my duty.”

  “The colony is more important than the station,” said the admiral. “You have to see that.”

  “Like I said, I am not political, Admiral. Brother Pleo said I could come here and see my lost corporal. I want to try to convince her to come home, face the music, so to speak.”

  “Good luck with that. She will be here soon. I was looking over your service record. Don’t bother asking how I got it, because I have it. You aren’t going to promote out. You understand? The military will never promote you out. This is it, for you. HR is not impressed. At least, your commanding officers have always said bad things about you, and HR doesn’t care if you deserve it or not. There is no appeal out here. The Garcia boy, you are with Jeremy?”

  “Amanda,” I said.

  “She’s post-op?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Good kid. Smart kid. Smarter than you. Hard worker. Right. You like being quartermaster?”

  “It doesn’t matter what I like,” I said. “I serve. I obey. In a decade, maybe, I can retire and build a beautiful house like yours and live in peace.”

  “You don’t like it. You want to fly a warship. Not with your record. No, not with your record. You’re lucky to get supply runs. Death and desertion on your watch. Lower suicide rate, though, since those three or four out the airlock, and you have been trying to improve morale. Picking up extra shifts with your staff sergeant so you don’t blow out the staff. You seem nice enough. Detkarn says you try to help the women survive the men. Q is no leader. He’s just a technician in over his head, writing to the Terran council like he knows what is important here, quoting scripture at bureaucrats like a fool. HR keeps pestering this old lady. I knew what was important. I didn’t waste their time. Well, let’s go find your lost corporal.”

  Her tea and sandwich untouched, she directed her chair with a switch to lead the way deeper into the complex. The chair was surprisingly quick, and I had to walk fast to keep up. Brother Pleo stayed behind to eat the sandwich and drink the tea. He waved to me and smiled.

  “I am going to accept command, you know,” she said. “When you finish laying cables, I go up with you to take over for Obasanjo and Q.” The halls were cool and dark, with low-energy lighting along the floor. There were too many rooms to count. “Q’s transcending because he has a good blood type. It will make the retirement order sting less. Good technician, terrible admiral. Obasanjo has got to go. He’s worse than Q. Okay, here’s the nursery.”

  A door opened without warning, sliding gently away from me. Inside, it stank of talcum powder. There were seven cradles, with seven babies sleeping in them, all under plastic oxygen hoods, hooked up to machines. “We lost one. Orhan died the first week. The rest are going to make it. These are my children, Captain. These are what I am leaving behind to go clean up the mess you officers are making of the station and the precious ansible.”

  The corporal was there, watching over the babes. She was visibly pregnant, though not so far along.

  “You came to get me,” she said, to me.

  “It is my duty to try and recover you to the station for justice. Come home, Corporal.”

  Jensen pointed at the babies. “Two of these are my girls,” she said. “Go jump in a lake, Ensign.”

  “I see my persuasion techniques are ineffective. It will be hanging over your head your whole life. Any military person could swoop in and take you up to face court martial. It isn’t a serious charge, and it won’t be if you have a good friend in the admiral. Come up and get a clean slate,” I said.

  “My wife won’t be facing court martial,” said the admiral. “She’s going to be more mother to my own children than I will ever be, at my age. I will be just a memory to these darling babes. I was lucky to find a willing womb in need of shelter. Jenny, be a dear and harvest more greens before you come up. I can’t touch the damn sandwich. Too heavy.”

  “Sure thing, Ahn,” she said.

  “Does HR know about this?”

  “Does HR care about one damn desertion? I can pardon her as soon as I have official stationery. And I will. You have seen her. I have seen you. This meeting is over. We will talk again when you fly me up to take command.”

  “I have no reason to disbelieve you, Admiral, but at the moment, I am going to have to call Obasanjo and Wong and file a report and set the location.”

  “Your duty,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I was beginning to like you a little. Now, I think you’re the idiot Wong says you are. You won’t have a signal this low. Go on up top. There’s an elevator at the end of the hall that will take you to the green roof. I will open the door for you.”

  Up and up, then, and in the green, I walked among trees and plants in a climate-controlled dome, cool and refreshing in the shade with such terrible heat outside on the dunes. I couldn’t imagine a world full of green if I tried. I had seen nothing but gunmetal corridors and sand dunes and rocks. To imagine a future of green grass, green trees, a breathing, vibrant world, was to imagine a fantasy.

  Still, the ice meteor was coming. I logged in while I waited to estimate the cost of this very domicile, and it must have been built slowly, top level first, and it must have been too expensive in energy and exchanged food to sweep out the sand that was burying the entryway on the other side of the dune.

  I messaged Obasanjo and told him that I met the old admiral, and she seemed to think she was coming back on duty. He didn’t know what I was talking about and thanked me for the news. I think he forgot about it. He didn’t mention it later on.

  Brother Pleo came up with a sandwich and a thermos of tea for me. I ate in the Osprey.

  “What a strange woman,” I said.

  “She is very influential. I am not surprised she isn’t mentioned much on the station. It wouldn’t suit her goals to be so overt.”

  “Maybe she should be talked about more.”

  “I thought you weren’t political. Do you take a side in the ongoing battle for the ansible between us and the station?”

  “No, I don’t care who is on top. It seems pointless as long as we all survive and the enemy doesn’t come to make war on us.”

  Back at the monastery, I had two more nights to lay cables and sweat and scrape against the sand on the outer walls, and then everything stopped for the Easter festival.

  Much of the festival, I was with Amanda and her father.

  There were booths with foods I had never had before, most of which did not compare to my memories of Earth, but they were better than I was accustomed to on the station. I was polite about it. There was a drum circle for a while, and dancing in the spotlights. There was a swimming pool in the center of the monastery. It was shallow, but it was cool and refreshing and we could all just jump in and wade into the water to our knees, splash and dance to the drums. That night, with Amanda, I fell asleep in her arms, and for just a moment, a fleeting feeling that burned away in waking
, I thought I could be happy on the Citadel. Three days of high mass started on a Friday, and half the day was spent listening to music and stories from the pews, of all the chanting and storytelling of the monks. Christ is risen, alleluia, etc. The other faith traditions among the monks injected their variations, but it all revolved around a risen Christ. I fell asleep during two of the ceremonies. The first time, I was kicked awake by someone behind me. The second, I was allowed to sleep in the back of the room, and I woke up alone in the dark, confused and sore. I stumbled around until I realized where I was, and why there was no light. I found my way back into the main hall, then, and found a brother who could direct me to a place to get some food. Afterward, all the stalls and shops and music faded into the dust, and tired people went back to work surviving. I don’t know what to think about the festival. I had too much to think about. Amanda enjoyed it, and I was happy to make her happy for a little while.

  Work on the wires went slow, by myself. Detkarn returned from the old admiral’s house in the dunes. She helped me, then, finishing the task at hand. We laid wires and cables, which were thick and strong against the winds and dunes, a technology older and sturdier against the storms than the wireless connections that kept dropping in and out with the sand and strong winds.

  I told Obasanjo that I was almost done, when I had about a day left of laying wires.

  “Good news: We got a new admiral coming in. I don’t know all the details, but watch your orders. Q is pretty freaked out, but I guess retiring early is weird. I’ve already shipped him out up the ansible. Apparently our metrics still suck, so they’re retiring him, and they’re bringing in someone else, even though he did well enough to transcend? I don’t know. HR never makes sense.”

  “It’s not his fault. Anybody could be in charge and metrics would suck.”

  “Whatever’s going on, nobody likes it. Have you heard anything?”

  “Maybe, but I don’t really know what’s going on. I’ve been crawling all over the monastery putting wires in every room.”

  “You’re useless to me, Ronaldo. I hope you had some fun. How was Easter?”

  “I slept through most of it. I was tired. The music was nice.”

  “What a wild boy. I hope the colony survived your shenanigans.”

  “I found our deserter. I’ve got the report ready, but I don’t want to send it to Wong.”

  “Corporal . . . What was her name? The woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why bother?”

  “She needs to be brought to justice.”

  “Not really, though. If she comes back, sure, but who cares? I’m just glad she didn’t kill herself. Go AWOL if you can secure a hiding place. It’s not a bad idea.”

  “You’re on a recorded line, Lieutenant Commander.”

  “Who’s listening? Wong? He doesn’t care. HR has heard me say worse to their faces. I’ve got to go. Orders came down and we’re really opening up the ansible to the colony. Ice meteor’s coming. They need things. Lots of things. No one cares about us, floating in space, watching for the return of the enemy. I don’t even care about us, and I’m the ExO.”

  “I find your casual attitude upsetting to my morale. I’m hanging up now, in protest of your terrible attitude. I have faith in my superiors. Hooray for the mission.”

  “Bye!”

  I hung up on him.

  When the orders came, I was genuinely surprised to see them, even though I had an early warning. The retired admiral I had met was going to be our permanent interim commander, set to replace Q’s interim.

  She was in a wheelchair, and needed regular treatments for her kidneys, but she was not cowed in her old age. Later, when she came to me in my little cell, she was not cowed. She only came to me once after my great crime against the ansible network. She said one word to me, with such disgust in her voice. Shithead. Then, she left me to wait for justice in my cell.

  * * *

  Flying up, the first thing that happened was Q was angry for no apparent reason, and Captain Wong remained in uniform, taking over as both quartermaster and security, with staff sergeants to do the heavy lifting for his dual role. Obasanjo, smirking and amused by the situation, was retired early. He would go to the planet surface on the next available transport. In his stead, I was promoted to ExO over Wong and Nguyen, the last remaining officers. The new admiral explained to me that in this role, I would mostly be overseeing ansible transfers, and that negotiations with the surface would be done by her, directly. She had better relationships with the monastery, anyway, and I did not disagree with that, nor had I any desire to take over the contracts with the monastery. The ansible transfers were challenging enough to a newcomer, like me. I also was put in charge of overseeing most personnel issues, as a sort of backup officer to mediate between officers and their subordinates, and making suggestions for promotions. In that role, I only actually performed one task: I received the official resignation letter of Wong from the role of quartermaster, within weeks of his expanded duties, and I suggested replacing him with Sergeant Anderson in full, promoting her to a warrant officer sergeant to hold the budget down during the transition to the ice comet’s arrival. This suggestion was approved, despite Sergeant Anderson’s stated discomfort with the role. She was the best person for the job, and she had no choice.

  The last thing Q said to me when I got back to the station was this: “You keep telling everyone how you’re not political, and here you are, ExO right behind my back. I was starting to like you, Ronaldo. I was foolish enough to like you. Shows me, you selfish little turd.” We were in a brief staff meeting, where the admiral introduced herself, and announced her changes, and asked us if there was anything anybody wanted to say about them. Nobody had anything to say to her face. She rolled away, and we sat in silence for a moment, and then Q turned to me and told me off. I suspected his early retirement was going to be quieter than Obasanjo’s public fall from grace. But I was wrong. Obasanjo was as indifferent to dishonorable discharge as he was to the line rituals in the cafeteria. Obasanjo had been very political, apparently, and his side had lost. He took it gracefully, and with an easy smile.

  To the old admiral, the only thing that really mattered was the colony, not the war. If war ever returned to us, in the tiniest thimble of the tiniest galaxy, we would best be prepared with a robust local economy to support an independent army. The ice meteor was arriving in a matter of weeks, and the amount of life possible on the planet surface would only increase after the impact. Building up the colony, and improving it, was deemed the most important job for the ansible. We would be running on our old equipment, never upgrading. We would minimize the introduction of new staff members. We would focus, wholly and completely, on pulling in machinery and equipment to build up the infrastructure and agriculture on the world below.

  I still recall the very first thing I arranged in the network: six young olive trees. They came from the Proxima Centauri colony, a young installation carved into the side of a series of stitched-together asteroids and lesser moons, where a clear dome opens and closes daily in a locked orbit. I remember when I was taking tests with my cohort in boat school and reading about this colony, a technological marvel. I placed an order in the system, and heard word from their ansible administration team that they could deliver, if I could locate for them some ancient replacement parts. I arranged a quantum cloning of biotic-infused water to a new colony, which arranged a transfer of biota to another colony, which—in turn—set up a transfer of the replacement parts to Proxima Centauri. Every colony runs on the ansible network, and the data line is only so large. During a transfer, only colonies that take the transfer can have their line open. The vast amount of data clogs the network, slowing down everything. Negotiate and bribe and cheat and steal, then, to get what we need. It was enough to drive me mad, the daily quest to find what I needed in the network before someone else did, a raw and openly corrupt marketplace with extra seedstock and earth alcohol running underneath the surface. I did m
anage to get some whiskey, but it was too valuable to drink, and I brought it to the admiral, directly, without scheduling an appointment.

  “This isn’t a good time,” she said, looking up at me from her terminal. She had on video display three different men. I recognized one of the brothers from the monastery, and two men from different colonies with what appeared to me to be very strange hair on extra-ansible communications—lightspeed quickconnects that ran only as fast as light. Their responses were going to be very slow.

  I held up the whiskey. “From the ansible. It’s too valuable to drink.” I placed it on her desk.

  “What am I supposed to do with it, Captain?”

  I shrugged. “Hide it from the rest of us in case of emergency.”

  “What emergency requires whiskey?”

  “Supply emergencies,” I said. “This bottle can get you almost anything over the ansible quickly. Everybody wants good Earth whiskey.”

  She flipped off the monitors. “That’s new. Illegal, too. Think HR knows?”

  I shrugged. She took the whiskey and slipped it under her desk. I didn’t tell her about Admiral Diego. I’m sure she knew enough about him. If she ever found his secret stash, she never said anything.

  That night, I sat in the observatory, trying to unpack the noise in my head from all the shouting faces across the galaxies demanding things and calling, looking for things. Negotiations were handled primarily with lightspeed quickconnects, so it was all recorded messages being transmitted and frantically adapted around. Master Sergeant Anderson was there, by herself, waiting for me.

  “Hello, Chief.”

  She nodded. She looked pensive. Her hand was shaking. “Are you alone, Captain?”

  Confused, I looked around. “I am. Chief, I was asked not to speak about something, and I respect that request. I am not interested in getting involved in any personal issues, and defer to your preference on the matter.”

  “And his,” she said.

  “It was my understanding that it was your preference. Is it not? What do you want me to do?”