Hero of the Republic: (The Parasite Initiative, Book 1)

by Britt Ringel

  “I’m so proud of you,” Covington said earnestly.

  Aoife squeezed hard and whispered into his ear, “Thanks, Dad. I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t convinced Mum. I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused you.”

  Covington released her and looked up at his daughter with a smile. He felt very small. “You just needed to find your calling, Aoife. I always knew that when you did, you’d make our family proud.” He clenched his jaw and willed away the tears forming in his eyes. The last bird in the nest had truly flown away, carried by the jet-black uniform of a Seshafian marine private. Relief and gratitude flooded through him; his petulant, disorderly daughter had discovered her path and he had been granted the time by providence to see it.

  “Dad,” Aoife said with a trembling voice, “when they told me, I almost quit boot camp to come home.” She looked down at her father with remorse. “Maybe I should have,” she muttered while wiping at her face.

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” Covington replied quickly. “Aoife, my darling, this is simply the natural course of things.” He formed a brave smile for his daughter. “There’s no reason for grief.”

  Aoife blinked rapidly and turned away, unwilling to show such doubt in the face of such courage.

  “Just use the next five years on the research facility as best you can and make us proud,” the patriarch said, changing the subject. “I believe in you.”

  Aoife nodded before turning to face him again. “I will. I promise.” She looked around the small circle that comprised her family. “I’m already a warfare specialist and I’ve decided that I’m going to try for AWS.” She ginned openly.

  “Aoife,” her mother scolded.

  “Alternative Warfare School,” her brother said, tacking on a whistle. “They don’t play around, sis.”

  “Neither does your sister, Clayton,” their father replied. “If anyone in this family can do it, she can.”

  * * *

  “As you can see here, Madam Minister,” Brewer continued, “the finance schedule has been built for the next half decade. Need will dictate how much money is allocated but as long as you can keep the spigot open, we’ll be almost fully funded for the entire research and development phase. The strategy equation will be covered through the standard military black operations fund.”

  He tapped his datapad and the large wall screen split in half to reveal a byzantine diagram of metrics. “Pied Piper is lining up nicely and should culminate in five to six years.”

  “I have three Perception Management teams working in conjunction with local anti-authority,” Fane interjected. “I can slow or speed their pace as required.” She pointed toward the left half of the enormous wall screen. “You’ve exceeded expectations with the division of research, Sebastian,” she complimented. “Using five different universities for the advanced weapons programs and then four other ones for this new technology you’re raving about cleverly dilutes the truth.”

  Brewer nodded happily. “It also opened up financing through our domestic education budget, not to mention grants from private businesses inside the Republic.” He entered new commands and the screen changed once again. For the first time in months, every bottom number was green. “You’ve done it, Adira. I admit that I had my doubts.”

  Emerald eyes shone as their owner smiled. “Never doubt the need for hope, Sebastian. It is a simple matter to direct our people’s vision toward the future, especially when that future is wrapped in an appealing package. By understanding the people’s needs, we can give the Republic what it truly deserves: justice.”

  “Speaking of my misguided doubts, Madam Minister,” Brewer segued, “is James Wright a prudent choice to help oversee the financial complexities?”

  Fane exhaled slowly before moving her eyes from the wall screen to her subordinate. “He’s a master at finance and truly gifted in hiding monies.”

  “But is he reliable? I don’t believe for a second that excuse regarding the Templeton program.”

  She pursed her thin lips in consideration. “As head of Internal Security, I demand a certain skepticism from you, Sebastian. As a loyal compatriot for over forty years, I demand your trust. I’ll leave it to you to decide when each is appropriate.”

  Brewer gave a single nod. “Moving on to research and development,” he stated matter-of-factly. “I’ve moved efforts away from the Parasite bio-gel recovered by Kite. There might be potential for sizeable advances in biomechanics from studying it but its applicability to our military goals is a dead end.” He shook his head sadly. “It seems that humans just aren’t built to interface with the gel.”

  “A pity,” Fane declared. She made a rapid motion on her own datapad. “What of this F-Two enhancer Kite’s engineer theorized upon?”

  Brewer shook his head again. “It’s also a dead end. Heskan was never able to recover a working model of the Parasite field generation technology. Our scientists have nothing more to go on other than it’s possible to generate some kind of field that affects the law of equal and opposite reactions.” He shrugged. “At least, that’s what we believe their F-Two enhancer technology does. All we really know is that this field permits their attack ships to ram enemies without being utterly annihilated and that the ramming ship can then use its field to decrease the thrust generated by its adversary’s drives.”

  Muscles tensed in Fane’s jaw. “And so our scientists give us nothing we can use?”

  Brewer raised a hand in contention. “Not quite. I’ve arranged a short presentation. Professor Vaughan is waiting outside to discuss the core of theoretical transmittance technology with you.” He flashed a preliminary outline to Fane’s datapad.

  The minister leaned back in her chair as she reviewed the data. After several minutes, she placed the datapad on her desk and said, “Bring him in.”

  Brewer compliantly typed new commands into his datapad. Shortly after, a stocky man entered the oversized office hesitantly. The professor was not an elderly man. In fact, the apparent youth of the gentleman in an ill-fitting suit conflicted with Fane’s expectations.

  “You are Duncan Vaughan,” Fane stated.

  “Uh, yes, ma’am,” Vaughan answered fearfully. He shot a timid look toward Brewer.

  “Proceed with your presentation, Professor,” Brewer coached.

  Vaughan moved toward the wall screen and cleared his throat nervously before he began. “Madam Minister, the Department of Theoretical Physics at the University of Despina has efforted practical, long-range space detection for decades. My group, in conjunction with the University of Le Verrier in the Solarian Federation, was tasked to work backwards on the problem with the focus of light projection fields—”

  “In English, Professor,” Brewer interrupted. “I remind you that the minister’s time is limited, as is her patience.”

  Vaughan pulled at the collar of his shirt before continuing. “I was given the job of theorizing an improved method for detecting starships. More specifically, I was asked to approach the problem in reverse. The rationale being that if we can determine the greatest impediments to detection, we’d have insight as to how to increase our capabilities.” He paused to type a command into his datapad.

  The wall screen flickered and a generic star system plot appeared. Two starships moved slowly across the map, 21lm from each other.

  “As you know, every starship uses cosmic radiation as their primary detection vessel. Active emissions detection devices on starships are essentially worthless given the desired detection distances and the expanse of space. Because of this, we are forced to use naturally occurring cosmic radiation; mostly non-ionizing radiation, or visible light, microwaves and radio waves.”

  The professor changed the position of the in-system ship to eclipse the system’s star. The in-system starship’s “shadow” fell over the distant ship. “Every starship takes multiple, static samples of its field of view each second and then compares the most recent sample picture to the former to analyze subtle variations in radiation. Now
most, if not all, of these variations are caused by the varying output levels of radiation every star or element in the universe naturally experiences.” He raised a finger. “However, the difference in radiation received by the starship is significantly different when something in its field of view passes in front of a distant star in the background. It’s that tiny disparity of light between the previous pictures when compared to the current picture that is the basis for starship long-range detection.”

  Vaughan gestured to the wall screen. “This example is as rudimentary as it is extreme because the detected vessel is actually eclipsing the local star. However, we can detect even the miniscule differences of radiation if it had passed in front of a more distant star.” The professor glanced away from the wall screen to the minister for a nonverbal cue. Impassive eyes stared back at him.

  He cleared his throat. “Now, you see, my grant for the last three years was to go about this in reverse. What makes detection so difficult? What would make it harder or even impossible? Unfortunately, our research was unfruitful in providing insight for extending current detection capabilities.” He smiled despite himself. “Standard detection ranges for almost every known starship remains roughly twenty light-minutes.” He raised a finger high into the air and raised his voice as if lecturing a roomful of students on an important lesson. “However, my work theorizes that this detection radius could be minimized substantially through transmittance technology.”

  A schematic of a ship replaced the star map. The unusual design appeared to be a standard, schooner-sized vessel that had enormous, curved plates attached to each side of the ship. The plates connected to the ship’s sides with thin support structures to give the impression of Schurzen side-skirts used by ancient tanks of Terra.

  “I’m not talking about spatial cloaking or event cloaking,” Vaughan stated dramatically. “Such technology is out of the reach of human hands for centuries to come. I’m talking about a stealth through transmittance.”

  Brewer looked at his chronometer. “Put more concisely, Madam Minister, Professor Vaughan’s team has theorized a method for determining the amount of electromagnetic and particle radiation one side of a ship is absorbing or reflecting from any given direction and then transmitting an equal amount on the opposite side of the ship.”

  Vaughan nodded emphatically. “Not stealth but t-stealth. The T is for transmittance!”

  Brewer darkened the wall screen with the press of a button.

  “There’s more,” Vaughan insisted.

  “You’ve presented quite enough,” Brewer stated. “I can fill the minister in on the details. You’re excused, Professor.”

  “We appreciate your consideration,” Vaughan said, thanking his benefactors. He paused briefly before stating, “I’m hoping that the Republic recognizes the value of my research and offers additional grants to continue pursuing this promising technology.” He quickly shuffled toward the door and out of the office.

  “This could solve many difficulties,” Fane said softly.

  “It could,” Brewer agreed. “However, it’s not as simple as sticking pulsing light bulbs on the side of our ships. Vaughan was about to lecture us on static light coefficients, interstellar mediums and the three-phase model followed by the luminous field that he believes he could create if given enough funding.”

  Fane looked dryly at Brewer.

  “He’s a professor,” Brewer acknowledged. “Lecturing is what he does.” He looked down with a faint smile. “I decided to spare you the sermon and him the aftermath but I can address the significant points.” He extended a finger. “First, this t-stealth is only viable for short periods. The generator that produces the t-stealth field creates vast amounts of waste heat that prevents a starship from using it for more than a few hours at a time.”

  A second finger jutted toward the ceiling. “Second, Vaughan’s design will surely suffer as it’s scaled up. He’s working with schooners. He admitted that he would be hard pressed to get significant t-stealth in anything larger than a frigate.”

  “And finally,” Brewer stretched out a third finger, “the side-skirts you saw on his schematic would severely inhibit weapons placement.”

  “Then these ships would make perfect scouts,” Fane summarized.

  “I believe that is exactly the case to be made for pursuing this technology, Madam Minister. We may not want an entire fleet of these ships but having one or two to blaze the trail into Parasite space for the main fleet could be invaluable.”

  Chapter 33

  “Sergeant Covington? A-Ofie Covington?” The maître d’ looked anxiously around the crowded vestibule.

  A pale, slender hand wrapped around his arm before he could speak again. “Please, stop butchering my name.” The woman’s tone held a mixture of amusement tinged with a little annoyance. “It’s pronounced ‘Ee-fa.’ Didn’t my brother tell you?”

  The host of Ideleos lowered his gaze to the red-haired woman’s face. His eyes widened in recognition. “You’re Aoife Covington? Baron Covington’s sister?” He pronounced her given name correctly this time but placed most of the emphasis on her surname.

  “Yeah,” she answered with a nod. The restaurant’s dim lighting reflected faintly off very pale, celadon eyes. “I’m guessing you didn’t mispronounce his name.”

  The man stuttered a bit before composing himself. He scanned the woman’s dress coat. “No, Sergeant. Or do you prefer Lady Covington?”

  “Nay, I hate that,” she answered with a dismissive wave. “I’m just Sergeant Covington or you can call me Aoife.”

  “Very well, Sergeant, and on behalf of Ideleos, everyone here thanks you for your service.” The man spun gracefully away from the marine and beckoned, “If you would please follow me, I’ll take you to the baron.”

  She trailed the maître d’ who worked his way through the crowded restaurant. Preservation Day, the day commemorating AmyraCorp’s victory over IaCom’s hostile takeover attempt half a decade ago, had become a corporate holiday and was always busy for restaurants in the Seshafi star system.

  “Did you serve during the actual battle, Sergeant?” the man asked while pointing to a wall screen replaying old footage of the skirmish that ended the brief war. A handsome blonde media anchor was gushing about Seshafian bravery and the transformational corporate battle tactics employed that day.

  “How old do I look?” Covington asked indignantly. “I was just seventeen when Seshafi fought off IaCom’s takeover but, yes, that battle did have a major impact on why I enlisted.” Her eyes darted to the wall screen. Another blonde, a woman this time wearing a Seshafian commander’s naval uniform, was threatening to unleash the marines on any IaCom ship that overstayed its welcome. The corners of Covington’s mouth turned upward and her chest swelled with pride.

  “Your brother fought though.”

  “Yeah,” Covington answered with a touch of jealousy. “He was under the command of Admiral Heskan himself and then Commander Vernay after the admiral was wounded.”

  “Baron Covington was gravely wounded as well.” The maître d’ held open a door and motioned into the private room.

  “Aye, it took Clayton months to recover and by the time he was finally able to leave the hospital, our parents convinced him to medically retire and begin grooming for the corporate world.” She stepped into the much quieter room. In a corner booth, she saw her brother’s friendly wave.

  “Well,” her escort confided, “it’s nice to know another Covington will be assuming the CEO role soon. The Regency has done well over the last five years but the archduke was more than just a CEO.” The man lowered his voice respectfully while pressing a hand over his heart. “I hope I am not out of line when I say this but Archduke Joshua Covington was truly a father to all of us.” After a brief pause, he moved away from the door and walked toward Clayton’s booth, nodding to the seated gentleman. “Baron Covington, I deliver your sister.” He smiled and winked at the young woman before sauntering off toward his station at the
front of the restaurant.

  Aoife looked expectantly at her brother. “Where’s Mum?”

  “Busy avoiding you,” Clayton answered casually. He smiled again at his younger sibling. “Hiya, Sis.”

  “Don’t you ‘hiya’ me, Clayton,” she growled while sitting across the booth. “She pulled strings again, didn’t she?” Her eyes bored into him as she added, “And don’t you dare lie to me or I’ll reach down your throat and pull out the other half of that lung.”

  “Crikey,” Clayton answered as his smile widened. “That’s a bit cheeky, don’t you think?”

  “I’m tired of doing nothing, Clayton,” Aoife explained. Her emotions strengthened her accent. “Fourteen weeks in boot camp and four months of basic rifleman training, only to be assigned to guard a research facility at the outer gas giant?” She looked across the table with a furrowed brow. “You know who visits that orbital?”

  Clayton raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Who?”

  “Nobody!” She folded her arms across her chest. “But I accepted the assignment. I’d already thrown my fit to get permission to enlist into the marines—”

  “Because the navy wouldn’t have you,” Clayton teased his sister.

  Aoife’s eyes narrowed at the jab. “I was too young to join the navy.”

  Clayton bit down on his lower lip briefly at his sister’s attempt to rewrite history. “Sure. Your colorful childhood had nothing to do with it.”

  “So I quietly accepted my first assignment to the middle of nowhere,” she continued, ignoring him. “I didn’t want to make any more waves or ask the service for special treatment. I worked my arse off to gain admission into Alternative Warfare School and then survive the program. I think I stayed awake the entire time through Hell-week. I spent six months at Alternative Warfare School and then back to exile behind a desk, guarding some drought-resistant strain of rye that nobody cares about.”