“What is it, Eren? What came to mind?” Valkyrie had once told her that calling people by their first name made them feel more comfortable in unfamiliar surroundings. She figured what the hell, it couldn’t hurt. Unless it could?
She appealed to Caleb for help, but he merely winked at her. It must be encouragement, right?
“Nothing. Almost certainly nothing. An anarch acquaintance of mine once claimed an agent had successfully broken into a Galactic Divisional Machim Hub. But they were caught inside and suicided rather than be tortured and give up anarch secrets.”
“Well, they reported back on what they’d accomplished after they underwent your ‘regenesis’ procedure, didn’t they?” It had taken some work on Mesme’s part to convince her of the legitimacy of this notable Amaranthean technology. The proposition that the Anadens had achieved practical immortality…she was still skeptical. Cloning, she’d give them—but complete consciousness transfer? Soul transfer?
Eren shook his head with a solemnity not displayed before now, and she put aside her musings on the nature of life and death. “No. The agent wasn’t Anaden. He was Novoloume.”
They’d spent weeks receiving the worst info dump imaginable from Mesme, both before and after they’d traversed the master portal to Amaranthe. History, species, customs, tech, security procedures and endlessly so on. She’d had no hope of remembering it all, so it was a damn good thing Valkyrie was around to catalogue it.
Any help for me?
The Novoloume are a humanoid Accepted Species considered by most to be extraordinarily beautiful, elegant and refined. Their role is diplomacy, public affairs and other formalized social interactions. In close proximity, they secrete pheromones that most mammals find highly sexually arousing.
Oh, good lord. You can insulate me from the effect, can’t you?
I can. I cannot, however, do the same for Caleb.
She smiled to herself, as the mood wasn’t suited to public smiling. I think he’ll manage. He has skills.
For instance, he was currently giving Eren a positively earnest look. “To die to protect one’s allies is a very honorable act—one of the most honorable there is. The anarchs are serious about their cause, then?”
Eren leveled an impressively steely stare at Caleb in return. “You’re asking me if my Zeus-be-damned attitude betrays an abundance of conviction or masks it?”
Caleb idly raised an eyebrow. But he seemed impressed, even if he didn’t want to be.
“I suspect whatever my answer were to be, it wouldn’t convince you. So you’ll simply have to judge for yourself.” Eren tipped up his glass and emptied it. “Thank you. This drink of yours is surprisingly satisfying. I will delve into what, if anything, can be done to get you closer to your insane request—after I complete the mission I’m presently on.”
Eren produced a small slab from a hidden pocket in his pants and rolled it around in his palm. “While I enjoy a great deal of freedom in how I go about my business, I also have an obligation to my superiors and my comrades, something I…” he studied Caleb “…suspect you understand.”
Caleb threw his hands in the air, but it was a mild gesture. Of course he did understand. “All we’re asking for is good-faith assistance. I’d say ‘we’re not asking you to die for us,’ but it doesn’t sound as if that’s a good measure of your commitment.”
Eren laughed lightly. Somewhere in the passing of the evening, the Anaden had relaxed around Caleb. God, her husband did have a way with people. Aliens, too.
“Not so long as the anarch posts remain safely hidden from the Directorate—” Panic flared in Eren’s expression. “Which I really shouldn’t be talking about. What’s in this ‘wine’?”
“Truth serum.”
Caleb maintained a flawless poker face, but the distress on Eren’s grew so severe Alex hurriedly intervened. “He’s kidding. It’s not any likelier to induce truth-telling than any other alcohol.” She motioned to the slab in his hand. “Is that your mission?”
“It contains the information I need to complete my mission…and you don’t know what this is, do you?”
She shook her head.
“How in the name of sanity do you not know what a Reor slab is…never mind, I don’t care. It’s encrypted data storage.”
She fixated on the slab, admiring its subtle beauty while the quantum processes behind her irises analyzed it. It was a solid, translucent onyx mineral, but thousands of fibers rich jade in color ran through its interior in ordered rows at right angles to one another. The proportions of the object were a precise four by nine by twenty-five millimeters.
They are the squares of the first three Fibonacci primes.
True, but don’t get excited—three numbers aren’t much of a pattern.
They are when the filaments’ relationship to one another follow it as well.
Okay, now you have my attention.
“Can I hold it?”
He shrugged. “Sure. You can’t get to the data, and there are billions more where this one came from.”
She accepted it from him, balanced it on her palm and ran a fingertip over the surface. It felt chilled and as perfectly smooth as its dimensions were precise. “Are they all the same shape?”
“The same proportions, yes. Any other shape and the data degrades—something to do with how the data’s stored.”
It’s extradimensional, isn’t it, Valkyrie? That’s how the encryption occurs?
Likely so, but I am unable to fully analyze the mechanism at work. We have seen functioning six-dimensional devices. I believe this object delves into more.
She narrowed her focus to a small section of the interweaving filaments, searching for the patterns folding in on themselves….
A hum, so faint she wasn’t positive it was real, pulsated against her palm—or in her head.
Am I imagining this, Valkyrie?
No. It is likely the quantum-level oscillation of the quanta storing the data, no matter the form they take.
Which would, it seemed, be something she could sense. The surreal quality of her life these days still occasionally took her by surprise.
The jade filaments began to shift their color in ripples across the spectrum.
Eren reached for the slab. “What did you do? It only changes colors when it’s encoding data.”
“Nothing. I just touched it.” She reluctantly handed it back to him. “Thank you.”
Caleb was regarding her intently, but she ignored his inquiring gaze. She’d explain later—or explain how she couldn’t explain it. “Where does the material come from?”
Eren scrutinized the slab closely as the filaments returned to a stable jade, then slipped it back in his pocket. “Originally, some planet out in the Tyche galaxy. They grow it in labs now.”
“ ‘They’?”
“The Directorate, of course. Reor production is one of the few truly multi-Dynasty enterprises. None of them can accomplish it alone, and the material’s too important not to mass produce.”
A corner of Caleb’s mouth quirked upward as he redirected his attention to their guest. He lifted his glass to his lips. “What is your mission?”
Eren snorted. “Sorry, no. I do appreciate the timely save and the ride, and this has all been most lovely. The food was a fair bit odd, but the wine’s exquisite. Nevertheless, we are neither cohorts nor comrades, and we are certainly not friends. The anarch resistance survives on secrecy. It exists every day a single security breach away from annihilation, and I will not be the one to commit that breach.”
PART II:
SINGULARITY SHADOW
“It is difficult to say what is impossible, for the dream of yesterday is the hope of today and the reality of tomorrow.”
— Dr. Robert H. Goddard
AURORA
YEAR 2323 AD
7
SPACE, NORTH-CENTRAL QUADRANT
ARCADIA STELLAR SYSTEM
* * *
THE MONSTROUS TWO-HEADED DINOSAUR droppe
d dead to the desert floor with a thundering wallop that shook the ground beneath Bob’s feet.
Beside him, the lavender-skinned young woman gasped in relief and swooned into his arms. “You saved me from the monster, stranger. What mystical weapon do you wield to fell the mighty beast so swiftly?”
He glanced at his Daemon before holstering it. “It’s not important—what’s important is that you’re safe now.”
She gazed up at him, wide, innocent lavender eyes matching the color palette of her skin. “I must repay you for this kindness. It is our custom to do so.” She took a step back. “I know nothing of your ways, stranger, but allow me to give you pleasure as best I can.” Her hands went to the hem of her skimpy, sleeveless leather top and began lifting it up—
‘Alert: I am detecting a signal 0.8 megameters distant at N 23° -8° z W. It appears to be a disabled and adrift vessel.’
He held up a finger as the material reached the tantalizing curve of her sumptuous breasts. “Hold on one second, would you?”
Bob Patera paused the illusoire with a groan and yanked the interface off his neck. “Dammit, Barbie. You barged in on purpose!”
‘They say anticipation of the event is often better than the event itself.’
“No one says that. No one ever says that.” He stumbled out of the bed, located a somewhat clean shirt on the floor and pulled it over his head. “Now, what? Why are we picking up anything on scans? We’re supposed to be zipping toward Arcadia in a warp bubble.”
‘We are undergoing regularly scheduled cessation of superluminal travel to disperse the exotic particles created so we don’t kill everyone on Arcadia when we arrive. While traveling on impulse power, routine scans detected the vessel.’
He needed water. Or beer. After a few seconds of standing at the kitchen cubbyhole debating the relative benefits, he opted for the beer and carried it to the cockpit of the Blackbeard.
“So it’s a ship. In space. That’s where you usually find them. I assume it’s not actively attacking us, so what’s the deal?”
‘The vessel is a dead zone, so much so we almost ran over it before I realized it was there. It’s not transmitting any identification or other signals. Its engines are dormant, no shields are present and I’m detecting no life signs on board. It’s possible the crew abandoned ship at some point.’
Settling into the cockpit chair, he called up the visual images and immediately whistled. Crown-class hybrid transport, and fairly new by the look of it. A vessel like this would bring in a decent bounty, especially if what was wrong with it was easily repaired. “Abandoned ship, you say?”
‘That or the crew is dead inside.’
“Jesus, Barbie. Do you have to be so morbid?”
‘I haven’t decided yet. I am still becoming.’
“Great….” Barbarella was a shit Artificial, cobbled together from second-hand parts and sketchy code. He’d commissioned her because he needed an Artificial onboard if he hoped to continue to compete in the newly batty world of freelance scouting. So far she couldn’t do much more than add two and two on a good day, but she had personality. Sometimes too much of it.
He sipped on the beer and studied the vessel, weighing his options. He had a job delivery to make on Arcadia, a refrigerated capsule full of microbes from a comet orbiting Mu Cephei down in the cargo hold. They might be some previously undiscovered form of primordial life birthed out in the void—or they might just be ordinary microbes. Hell if he knew. The scientists at Zwicky Research were paying him to bring them in so they could find out, which was enough for him.
But he had another week to make good on the contract, and the microbes were fine in the refrigeration unit. This wouldn’t take long, either; he’d stick a beacon on the ship to claim it then arrange for a tug to tow it in.
On the other hand, it could be carrying cargo worth more than the ship’s salvage value. Play it right, and he could cash in on both.
He rubbed at his jaw. A spacewalk was a pain in the ass, but he guessed every now and then he did have to work a little bit for a payoff.
He chucked the empty beer into the recycler and stood. “All right. I’m going to go see what she’s carrying.”
“You’re sure it’s lost all power? If I have to go back for det charges, I’m docking your pay.”
‘My math skills are admittedly subpar—as you frequently point out—but I believe any fraction of zero is still zero, much like my current pay. Yes, I’m sure. The magnetic seals should release with the application of minimal force.’
Bob fired his suit thrusters and accelerated toward the ship. Its dark metal—not adiamene, unfortunately, as that would have quadrupled its salvage value—loomed dim and shadowy against the void, like a ghost ship. A pirate ghost ship? He snickered.
The hull filled his vision soon enough, and shortly thereafter he banged into the side with a rough thud. He picked his way over to the outer hatch, retrieved a chisel from his pack and stuck the flat end into the tiny seam. A little muscle applied, and the hatch popped open.
There was no hiss of escaping air, but it wasn’t a surprise. Hatch chambers were only pressurized in advance of opening the inner hatch—something he now needed to do. He reached around and hefted the outer hatch closed…then stopped.
Shit. If it wouldn’t seal, when he opened the inner door the outer one was going to blow open and depressurize the cabin, which was almost always a bad idea. He could glue it shut with some epoxy, but then he wouldn’t be able to get back out.
‘Simply leave through the cargo hold, dumbass.’
He sighed. “I’d yell at you for insulting me, but you’re spot on. I am a dumbass. Gluing the hatch shut.”
The process took less than thirty seconds. Once he finished he turned to the inner hatch and prepared himself for the influx of atmosphere before prying it open.
It slid open as soon as the chisel made contact—and nothing happened. “Hell. The cabin’s already depressurized. I hope anything valuable was tied down.”
His mag boots kept him grounded and upright as he stepped into the dark cabin. The light from his headlamp created an arc of brightness in front of him, but since crap was sure to be floating everywhere, he moved cautiously.
He was swatting away a broken shard of glass when something heavy bumped into him from the left. His arm swung around to shove it off as he spun toward it. The light caught dark material then—
—Bob gasped and stumbled backward, feeling for the wall. His hand found something squishy instead; in his panicking state he swore it clawed at him. He dropped to the floor and crawled for the airlock. “Fuck shit holy mother of!”
‘Your suit systems indicate you are in extreme distress, as does your language. What is wrong?’
He tried to breathe normally, but acid clogged his throat. “You were fucking right, Barbie. Damn you, you thought you were being funny, but you were right. The crew didn’t abandon ship. They’re all dead.”
‘Oh, my.’
He reached the airlock chamber and huddled against the wall, trying not to hyperventilate as a third body floated limply across the shaking arc of light.
It didn’t make sense. Ship systems didn’t fail all at once, not catastrophically—not without an external force causing the failure. But there was no sign the ship had been attacked. The crew should have had time to get into their environment suits, or at least put on breather masks. But they hadn’t done so. What in the hell had killed them?
“Barbie, contact SENTRI. Tell them they may have a massacre on their hands. Then figure out how to get this hatch I just glued shut open, because I’m not making it to the cargo hold.”
8
PRESIDIO
GALACTIC COMMON DEFENSE ACCORD (GCDA) HEADQUARTERS
* * *
MIRIAM SOLOVY HADN’T ASKED FOR a three-sixty view of a sweeping array of warship assembly lines, nor of the void beyond them.
The constant activity dancing at the edges of her vision was frankly distracting
. She’d considered getting opaque filters for the windows installed on several occasions. But every time she started to place the order, she’d glance outside, think about how much David would have adored the view, how Alex had exclaimed in delight on seeing it the day before she left, and put the decision off another day.
The view and the office providing it had come with the space station, which had come courtesy of Ronaldo Espahn. The business mogul had built the facility intending for it to serve as a new hub for his commercial ship production. Then, during the reign of former Prime Minister Winslow, Espahn’s Prevo daughter was attacked by a mob of OTS sympathizers in Madrid. The attackers were detained at the scene but released after a determination Espahn’s daughter was in violation of the anti-Prevo BANIA law.
Despite the man’s wealth and influence, his daughter was sentenced to prison while she lay in a hospital bed with a crushed spine and internal injuries.
In the aftermath of engineering the toppling of Winslow and repeal of BANIA, Miriam had seen to it charges were dropped against all Prevos who hadn’t committed other crimes. Freed of the specter of criminal prosecution, medical biosynth specialists were able to treat Espahn’s daughter and help her recover.
The man expressed his appreciation to the Volnosti campaign and to Miriam personally by donating his nearly complete station to the GCDA the day the Accord was announced.
She’d have preferred to refuse the ostentatious gift, but in an environment where every day brought an Anaden attack closer, they didn’t have time to build a new station from scratch. And this one came with extensive offices, labs, storage space, flexible multi-purpose rooms and reasonable lodging. Most importantly, it came with the lattice framework required for large-scale zero-g ship manufacturing.
Relativity: Aurora Resonant Book One (Aurora Rhapsody 7) Page 5