by Webb, Nick
Proctor shrugged. “It’s just speculation at this point, ma’am.”
“And they could be playing us,” said Granger. “This still gives me a bad feeling.”
“Playing us?” Zingano shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “They destroyed five carriers before the Swarm high-tailed it out of there. Doesn’t sound like a particularly effective strategy—feign friendship and destroy Swarm carriers? Look out, here come the humans! Quick, let’s pretend to be their friends while we blast our real allies to hell?” He sniffed. “Cynical cloak-and-dagger false flag tactics like that work great in novels, but in real-life military strategy? I’m not buying it.”
Proctor shook her head. “You’re forgetting that the allies of the Swarm are not independent individuals,” she said with a glance at Granger. He knew what she was insinuating, consciously or not, and it grated on him. Even if his annoyance was unfair. “The Dolmasi, before they managed to throw off Swarm control, were completely and utterly controlled by the Swarm. Likewise with the fighter pilot we recovered. Fishtail. She is Swarm. Same with Doc Wyatt and Colonel Hanrahan. They weren’t Swarm allies, they were Swarm. So saying it doesn’t make sense for the Skiohra to shoot up a few Swarm carriers to pretend to be our friends is missing the point.”
“And the point, Commander?” Zingano looked impatient.
“The point, is if they are playing us, it’s not the Skiohra who are playing us, it’s the Swarm. Assuming the Skiohra haven’t broken Swarm control over themselves. Every action they take is not their action, it’s Swarm action.”
Avery nodded in agreement. “And the implications of that? What do you think, Shelby?”
Proctor shrugged heavily. “Just that as we try to decipher the Skiohra’s motivations, we can’t look at it from their point of view. We still need to look at this from the Swarm’s vantage point. They certainly could be capable of executing a false-flag attack on their own ships if they think it could give them a strategic advantage over us in the long haul.”
Granger shook his head. “The Swarm has overwhelming firepower and numbers. In all our battles they’ve never relied on anything but sheer blunt force. Their tactics have been, shall we say, lackluster. They’re slow to adapt to quickly-changing orbital battle conditions. It’s like they have two modes: attack with overwhelming force when they think they can win, or retreat when it looks like defeat is imminent.”
Zingano nodded. “You’re right. I don’t buy it. This is totally out of character for them. My experience with them matches yours, Tim. Why would they suddenly use subterfuge in a misdirection like this?”
President Avery glanced at them all in turn before pursing her lips. “Right. So we take the Skiohra at their word. At least until we have reason to believe otherwise. But in the meantime, be careful, gentlemen. Just as with the Dolmasi, we do not share intelligence about fleet movements or capabilities. By the way,” she turned to Granger, “how big is their fleet?”
“Ah yes, that’s another interesting point. According to Vice Imperator Krull, the only ship the Skiohra deploy is the super dreadnought, and they have six of them. Up until yesterday, that number stood at seven. And we were just moments away from destroying a second one before it q-jumped away.”
Avery nodded. “Brilliant work, by the way. Those dreadnoughts out-power you, what, two hundred to one? And you took it out within a minute? Brilliant.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“And putting your own life on the line to do it, shielding the rest of your fleet. Very admirable, Mr. Granger. There are those who toss brick-laden epithets your way”—her eyes darted to General Norton, whose frown stiffened—“but I think you’ve shown you’re willing to throw your own life away to stop these bastards. You’ve got a spine. You have my full confidence, in spite of recent events.”
Her eyes moved around the room again, laying her eyes on the assembled admirals, generals, and captains. Her meaning was clear. Ever since the fighter pilot, Volz, had reappeared with Fishtail, claiming that a Swarm-controlled Granger was on the other side of the singularity they’d traversed, it seemed the top brass trusted Granger even less than they did before, Admiral Zingano being the lone exception. Some days it seemed that if Zingano were gone, Granger would find himself in a solitary cell deep inside CENTCOM Intel, or worse, airlocked.
“Speaking of recent events,” Proctor began, “has IDF Science come to any conclusions about Volz’s trip?”
Avery glanced at a man seated next to her. The head of IDF Science, Commander Rome, cleared his throat. “As far as we can tell, Volz’s fighter was gone for about half an hour, judging from his shipboard computer. We can detect no tampering with the records. From the Warrior’s perspective, he was gone for less than an hour. So whatever time dilation was present with The Event is markedly less in Volz’s case,” he said, using the more neutral The Event for Granger’s disappearance rather than Vacation, as everyone else called it behind Granger’s back.
Rome continued, “However, Lieutenant Miller had been gone, from our perspective, for over two months. Obviously, we don’t have access to her fighter, but we analyzed her DNA, looking at telomere length and a few other markers, compared it to her last physical, and came to a rather remarkable conclusion—from her perspective, she’d only been gone a few minutes at most.”
Proctor nodded knowingly. The others looked perplexed. “Strange,” she said, connecting the dots for the rest of them. “Tim was gone for fifteen seconds, which for him was three days. Volz was gone for half an hour, and from what we can tell that’s how long he thinks he was gone for. But Fishtail was gone for two months, and for her the time dilation wasn’t stretched, but instead it was compressed somehow, since for her she was gone only a few minutes.” She turned to the chief scientist. “Has IDF Science run any more simulations of matter traveling through a micro-singularity connected wormhole?”
“Nonstop,” he said. “Of course, we know little about them, other than the fact that we’ve indirectly observed their existence not once but three times now. But in all our simulations we’ve run up against the hard truth that in essence we are physical matter, which is governed by quantum mechanics. And inside the event horizon of a singularity—even an artificial micro-singularity—the rules are set by general relativity. All our models break down and we’re left with guesswork. I mean, it’s a miracle the three of them came out in one piece and not creamed into a soup of atomic particles.”
Avery cleared her throat. “Shelby? You look like you’re hiding a secret. Spill it. What do you think is going on with these trips through the singularities?”
“Oh, nothing certain. But the timing of those three singularity events seems to suggest one of two things. Either the time dilation component is completely random, or it’s being precisely controlled. From the other end.”
General Norton rolled his eyes. “Precisely controlled? How would whoever is on the other end know where and when to send everyone back if they’re in the past?”
Commander Rome held his hand up. “Or the future. Honestly, until four months ago I would have thought if time travel was possible, the only direction one may travel is into the future. Although, I concede that based upon what Vishgane Kharsa has told us, along with Commander Proctor’s groundbreaking work on Swarm detection through blood test, it’s undeniable that Granger went to some point the past during The Event. I mean, he clearly has blood markers for former Swarm influence.”
Granger tried to stifle a grimace at the reminder that he was once under Swarm control, but Proctor only nodded again, seeming to catch more of the chief scientist’s meaning than Granger did. He made a note to ask her about it later—perhaps it had to do with her secret Swarm matter research she’d been conducting with her new team when time allowed. She had said she’d made a minor breakthrough, though since the battle yesterday he hadn’t had time to bathe, much less grill her on the results.
Silence fell around the table as everyone was reminded about the possibility
that Granger could still somehow be under the influence of the Swarm.
“So now what?” said Avery. “I want a plan. We’ve been on defense ever since the Volari Three incident. For now we can count on not having to fight the super dreadnoughts, at least. But the Swarm has pulled out all the stops and we’re getting our asses handed to us. Bad. Give me something, gentlemen. Something audacious. Something bold.”
Zingano shook his head. “We still, after four months, have no idea where their real homeworld is.”
“What about the Skiohra captain. What’s her name, Vice Imperator Krill—
“Krull,” corrected Proctor.
“Whatever. Did you ask her if she knew the location of the homeworld, Tim?”
Granger shook his head. “We only talked for about five minutes. It didn’t come up. But we established a schedule for regular communications and decided on a location in open space where we’d meet two days from now and discuss matters further.”
Avery locked him in her gaze. “If they’ve been slaves of the Swarm for thousands of years as they say, I can’t see how they’d not know the location of the homeworld, especially if they’re the Swarm’s shipbuilders. How can you build a fleet for your masters and not know where they’re filling it with all that Swarm shit goo? Get that information, Tim. Even if you have to blast your way onto her ship and rip the information from her computer yourself. Hell, we’ve got twenty million marines just itching for their chance at real combat. I’m afraid all this space warfare has them a bit disappointed and restless. Got cabin fever, all of them. A little close quarters hand-to-hand combat with these midget douche-weasel Skiohra folks might be just the way to blow off the steam that they need.” She chuckled a dark laugh.
“I don’t think a hostile takeover of one of their ships would be prudent at this—” began Zingano.
“Kidding, Admiral. But only half kidding. Prudent my ass—if they don’t cooperate with us, we treat them like the enemy they are, and use them as a war asset. Don’t kid yourselves, gentlemen, until we win this war, the Skiohra, the Dolmasi, the Russians—hell, especially the Russians—are our enemies, no matter how much we pretend we’re still one big happy family.”
She turned to General Norton, who’d been whispering furiously with an aide that had tapped him on the shoulder. “General? Something wrong?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ve received a meta-space distress call from the planetary defense command on York in the Britannia Sector. York is under attack.”
Chapter Sixteen
Wellington Shipyards
Gas Giant Calais, Britannia System
When the order came, Rear Admiral Littlefield wasn’t expecting it, of course. Such orders are never anticipated. One never plans for them. All he knew was that one moment he was signing requisition orders for fifty-three new q-jump engine manifolds from the industrial center on Novo Janeiro, and the next moment, he had a moment of clarity.
These ships are all faulty. They need to be restarted from scratch.
Littlefield paused, shaking his head. What an odd thought. He stretched his back from the customary hunched-over position he always adopted while in his cramped office chair, and craned his neck to look out the window. Over sixty gleaming new heavy cruisers floated nearby, perched against the umbilicals coming off the shipyard nacelles, scaffolding still enclosing about half of them, all waiting for their freshly commissioned and conscripted crews.
And all of them were faulty, somehow. How did he know that? He shook his head, and made a mental note to himself: get more sleep. Drink less coffee. Maybe, just maybe, start that exercise regimen ordered by his doctor. Ok, maybe he wasn’t all that bad—if things got worse he’d resort to such desperate measures. But definitely the sleep and the coffee.
These ships are all faulty. They need to be restarted from scratch.
The thought was stronger this time, and he nearly jolted out of his chair. What the hell?
And yet, on the other hand, it made perfect sense. He’d been forced to cut some corners recently. The war against the Swarm was getting desperate. There was no time for the usual six-hundred-point long safety checklist that had been the standard before the war. He’d cut that down to the essentials. Basically, make sure the damn things don’t explode at the first q-jump. Explode on the two hundredth q-jump? That wasn’t as critical. Most of these ships weren’t expected to make it past their fiftieth q-jump. The life expectancy of an average ship was about one month from launch. Such were the times.
These ships are all faulty. They need to be restarted from scratch. Not only that, the shipyards itself could use a refit.
He stood up and paced his small, narrow office. He was a rear admiral. An entire career of ship-shape cleanliness, meticulous adherence to orders, and occasional, strategic ass-kissing had led him to this, the pinnacle of his career, and here he was, in a tiny closet that had been refurnished into an office, in an orbital installation floating over the god-forsaken gas giant in the Britannia solar system that should have been mothballed last century. Wherever the thought had come from, he was right. This place was downright obsolete.
Out the window, the red and orange sulphur dioxide and ammonia clouds swirled almost imperceptibly on Calais, the gas giant below. The upper atmosphere was a veritable gold-mine of helium-3, which was necessary for a properly functioning q-jump drive, so it made sense to him why the Wellington shipyards had been originally located here.
But what he didn’t understand was the layout. The scale. In fact, every detail about the giant structure trailing off into the distance now made no sense to him. Why were there thirty separate scaffolding structures, each building an entire ship? It would be far more efficient to have a hundred smaller structures, or two hundred, or two thousand, each building the same component of a ship, and then piece the whole thing together on down the line. Ford was onto something seven hundred years ago—had they strayed so far?
The shipyards could use a refit. Why not start from scratch?
He weighed his options. It was a bold plan. Start from scratch. He’d be an innovator. A disruptor. The entire military needed a paradigm shift, he realized. And lowly Rear Admiral Littlefield was just the man to do it.
And his friends would reward him handsomely.
His friends? Who the hell were they? He had no friends. Just superiors who thought they knew more than him. Subordinates who grudgingly followed his orders, but he knew, just knew, that they secretly detested him. His real friends understood him. He was one with them. With the great family.
He shook his head again, and sat back down to approve more requisition orders. Seventy-two fusion power plants from Earth. Two thousand mag-rail turrets from Novo Janeiro, five hundred pallets of power conduit from Brunswick. Eight hundred and thirty-two tons of bonded—
He dropped the datapad and swiveled back to the window. It all didn’t matter. They were going to lose, unless he could revolutionize the ship-building enterprise here, and then replicate that success across the other five shipyards. If IDF didn’t double, or triple, its production rate, they were goners.
These ships are all faulty. They need to be restarted from scratch. The shipyards needs to be rebuilt from scratch. Only I can do this. Only I—only we can save humanity. The Adanasi cry out for our help. Our guidance. Our friendship and fellowship. They need us. Only we can save them.
It all made perfect sense to him now, where, just moments before, it had only been a fanciful thought.
We’ll fix this, he pledged. For a moment he wasn’t sure if that was his thought or our thought, but the next moment the confusion passed. My, I, we, us, our—it’s all the same. Whether by my own voice, or my servants, or my family, or my friends, it is the same.
His command terminal against the wall would do. It was connected to the secure network—only ten such terminals even existed, and two were in this very shipyard. He logged in, giving the appropriate security credentials, presenting his retina for a scan, and giving a verbal pass
phrase for a voice match. The Special Armaments Command System required rigorous security. Anything less was dangerous—they couldn’t risk the enemy ever getting access to antimatter armament control.
He scanned through the list. Not optimal—only half of the ships at Wellington were stocked with antimatter torpedoes. They were behind schedule. Avery had been insistent that every single ship be stocked with at least a thousand, even though the admiralty doubted they’d ever be used. Far too slow to be effective. But it would do for his purposes. Even one torpedo would do nicely.
As he entered the command, the thought crossed his mind, my mind, our mind—we will prevail, after all. None shall hurt, or fear, or make afraid, or divide. We will be one.
The command entered, confirmed, reconfirmed and locked, he swiveled back to the window. Ten second countdown.
Ten.
Nine.
This should be glorious, he thought. We’ll bring order.
We? What the hell...?
Eight.
Seven.
Why are we counting down? Why am I counting down?
Part of his mind was fuzzy. But he remembered clearly what was going on.
Six.
He jumped out of his chair and raced back to the terminal. There was still time. Still time.
Five.
Four.
He furiously brought up armament control, his fingers shaking.
“Abort. Authorization Littlefield alpha-omega-pi-zero-zero.”
Three.
Two.
The computer chimed in with a compassionless voice. “Authorization denied. Initiation process is locked.”
One.
He spun toward the window. Simultaneously, thirty ships exploded. The fire lasted just seconds, but the debris flung outward at terrifying speeds, engulfing the sections of the shipyard nacelles the former ships had been connected to. He squinted—dozens of kilometers away, the antimatter armament depot vanished in a haze of fire and wreckage.