by Webb, Nick
A cheer came back at him.
“Well, cut it the fuck out.”
That did it. There was a sudden silence.
“Get mad. Remember the way you grew up. Remember what it was like to see Earth and have to leave again. Remember every single person they took from us, and get mad. You see that destroyer hiding back there? We’re its worst goddamned nightmare. They came to take our planet, send our kids to die in the stations. Hell, our generation is dying to take back Earth. You think for a second we should have had to do that? It was our goddamned planet!”
Silence echoed down the line at him.
“Well, they’ve just learned how hard it is to watch their ships cut down like they’re nothing, and I say we teach them a few more lessons right now. You heard Walker. We took out their capital ships, and now we’re going to take down the rest so there’s nothing left of theirs to make it back to Earth. So if you’re with me, get out there and hunt them down—and do it for the people you lost, do it because the owe us this fucking much, not because it’s some sort of victory. This day should never have happened.”
He pushed the yoke forward without even waiting for a response, and his craft leapt forward like it was a part of him. These new ships were works of art, almost a seamless piece of the pilot. It seemed to obey his very wishes as it ducked a spiraling piece of debris, shot under a vented chunk of the Telestine carrier, rooms gaping open into the black, and came up in an arc over the twisting, severed stem of the carrier, nose down, to fire along the top of the destroyer. Bullets streaked away in tiny bursts of light and lit up the hull as they drilled down. A quick glance showed Princess at his side, repeating the maneuver with a whoop.
Tocks came next, and she didn’t hold back: her cannons shuddered and a guided missile launched toward the bridge of the destroyer. “For Woof!”
One of the first lost at Jupiter. McAllister remembered his careless smile, the way he’d had a thing for one of the mechanics. Lost without a goodbye.
“For the Juno,” McAllister echoed as he flipped his ship nose up and began to climb toward the next target.
“For Whiskey,” Princess added.
A barrage from one of the Exile carriers hit home on a nearby destroyer, and a hoarse cheer told him that the Telestine ship was crippled, but the remembrances did not stop as they made for their next target.
“For Mama.” Whose voice it was, he didn’t know, but it broke on the words. He finally recognized it as Twister.
“For Jeremy.” Boracho let loose a stream of bullets to take out the one of the fighters as it came back in.
“For Beatriz.”
The hair was standing up on McAllister’s arms when the proximity alerts lit up red. He snapped out of the daze of the whispered requiem. “You want payback for them? We have fighters inbound. Everyone to starboard.”
They were laser focused now, his crew. The whispers continued, mostly indistinguishable as Telestine fighters burst apart.
But he had never seen their fighters like this, either. They had an edge to them now, they were swerving desperately as they fired, and something he could have sworn was a nuke missed McAllister’s fighter by scant meters.
“Jesus!”
What the hell was going on here? A few seconds before, the Telestine fleet had been caught unawares, it had been crippled. Now they were sending in nukes?
And then he understood. “Listen up, fighters—these bastards have nowhere to go home to, they know this is the end and they want to make us hurt. Well, screw them. They came to our home. Be careful, stay frosty, and take them out.”
“Anyone want to start up a count?” Princess had a way of rallying newbies. He gave a satisfied laugh. “I’m at four.”
“Three,” Twister chimed in. She stayed true to her name by spiraling around a Telestine fighter’s stream of bullets as she arrowed in, and she shot through the cloud of debris with a triumphant yell. “Four now. You gonna let me break away?”
“You got yourself a bet, newbie. You lose, you drink a whole mug of my beer and compliment it when you’re done.”
“I wouldn’t worry about the compliment,” Tocks chimed in. “Four. Five. Six. Get in the game! Anyway, she’ll be dead by the time she’s done with that swill.”
“Hey! It doesn’t count if you knock one into another,” said Boracho.
“That absolutely counts,” Princess weighed in. “Chief?”
“I’ll allow it.” McAllister squinted as one of their fighters kept dancing out of his line of sight. “Come on, fugger, come on.” It darted around a piece of debris and he was right on its tail. The second time, he was ready for it, spinning his ship at the same time that he turned. It was blown into another chunk of the carrier as it tried to right itself and make another turn, and he gave a little hiss of pleasure. “One.”
“Late to the game, chief.” Princess waggled his wings.
“If anyone can make it up, it’s the CAG,” Tocks argued. “Seven. Although all of you are falling behind as we speak. Eight.”
“Look at the Santa Maria!” Twister’s voice was awestruck.
McAllister took his next target down before turning end over end to look, and his jaw dropped open. The Santa Maria was forging through the battlefield, all batteries firing. A ship that big should not be so nimble, but the helmsmen of the Exile Fleet had trained on shoddy cargo haulers and fuel tankers, and watching them maneuver new ships was a thing of beauty. As McAllister watched, the Exile Fleet pierced through the wall of the broken Telestine formation, blowing a cloud of debris before it. The sight took the breath from his lungs.
Victory. He’d never thought he would live to see something like that.
His radio crackled. “—man ships—down—human sh—”
“Does anyone else hear that?” Newbie Four.
“I’ve got it,” Tocks called.
“Less listening to the radios, more revenge,” McAllister called. A guided missile took out one of the fighters banking back toward the Intrepid, and he flipped to direct a stream of bullets at one of the ones trying to take the underside of the Santa Maria. He was turning again when he realized that the fighters seemed to be turning en masse to head back through the field of debris, and only after he’d taken another down did he notice the unusual silence on the channel.
He’d been so focused on the crippled hulk of the capital ship that he’d failed to notice anything beyond it, and he hadn’t paid any attention to the red dot on his map, but when he glimpsed it his stomach flipped so hard he thought he might be sick.
A new Telestine carrier, a massive ship that brought to mind the desperate fight at Mercury. How it was here so suddenly, he did not know. All he knew was that it was there, and it was broadcasting in a tinny mechanical voice.
“Human ships stand down. Move out of the line of fire. Human ships stand down. Move out of the line of fire.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Vesta
VFS Santa Maria
Bridge
“Human ships stand down. Move out of the line of fire. Human ships stand down. Move out of the line of fire.”
“And there’s the missing puzzle piece,” Delaney murmured. The whole bridge was staring at the screens in horror.
The carrier was so big that it did not even fit in their field of view. It glided through the outer edge of the wreckage cloud, broadcasting its strange message. Its cannons were heating, Walker saw—and with a strange clarity, she saw that they were not pointing at any ship in the fleet. They were pointing at Vesta.
“Get ready to take this one down,” she murmured to Delaney.
“Don’t you think we should wait—”
“No. Until further notice, a Telestine warship is fair game.” She picked up the comm unit, and stopped dead as another voice came over the main channels.
“Exile Fleet, this is Secretary General Essa, broadcasting from the Anchor. Good evening to all of you in the fleet.” The carrier disappeared from the viewscreens, and was repl
aced by a different image: Essa on the bridge of the Anchor, smiling beatifically on the screen. He was in full Jupiter’s Sword mode: his old fleet sash tied across his chest, bars clearly displayed atop his UN uniform. He wasn’t letting them forget where he started.
A murmur rose up around the room, and Walker experienced the strong urge to put her fist through the viewscreen. The hand holding her comm unit dropped slowly away from her mouth.
“He can’t leave well enough alone, can he?” Delaney asked in a murmur.
“Apparently not.”
“You are all no doubt wondering why I have decided to join the fleet at Vesta.” Essa smiled.
Behind him, Morgan and the rest of the crew pretended to be very busy planning a battle. Their movements were wooden, and Walker could perfectly imagine the scene that must have played out earlier that day, Essa’s voice directing a practice run of the current pantomime: you should definitely move some models around on the table. Morgan, pretend to explain something. Feinstein, look as if you’re thinking.
“The morale of our fleet has been low, and so it is important for me to show my trust in you by coming here tonight to oversee this battle and shift the tides of war in our favor.”
“If he can do that,” Walker whispered to Delaney, “I’m fine having him along for the ride. Think he can manage it?”
His shoulders shook in a silent laugh.
“You have won the first stage of this battle,” Essa told them, “and I applaud your effort. You have ever stood ready to protect humanity. Vesta holds nearly a million inhabitants, and is indispensable to the stations.”
“However, I must ask something different of you now.” Essa’s hands were folded in his lap. “I have just now finished speaking with Tel’rabim, the commander of the Telestine forces.”
Walker gripped the table, her mouth falling open in horror.
No. It was impossible. She shook her head, trying to banish this nightmare from the screen.
But Essa’s voice did not stop. “It is becoming clear that certain factions in Telestine society may be a threat not only to the Telestine government, but to all humanity. For this urgent purpose, Tel’rabim and I will meet soon to discuss a joint effort against these common enemies. For now, I must ask you all to stand down.”
“What the hell is he talking about?” Walker stared at Delaney. “Get him off the comms, I don’t care what you have to do, call their communications officer—”
She broke off as something caught her eye in the back of the shot: a man moving purposefully, too thin and wearing an ill-fitting uniform, but with a deferential sense of calm that would almost certainly cause people’s eyes to skip over him. In point of fact, she could not tell why she’d noticed him at all.
Delaney had paused with the comm unit up to his ear. “What is it?”
“Jack, do you know that man?” She pointed.
“Can’t say I do.” Delaney shrugged. “Why?”
And then she remembered, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach.
Larsen appeared at her shoulder a moment later. “Ma’am, there’s a private call for you from Mr. Tang, he says it’s an urgent matter about the ships on Mars.”
She took the headset, fumbling with suddenly-clammy hands.
“Walker?”
“Nhean, I need to speak with Parees. Now.”
“Parees? What—Walker, please. The bombs are gone. They were never here. Only one bomb was sent to Mars. And I think the rest are headed your way.”
“No. No. … No.” Her lips were numb. “Something is wrong on the Anchor.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Mars, High Orbit
Koh Rong
“Something is wrong on the Anchor.”
Nhean saw it in the same moment she spoke the words, and he sat bolt upright. It wasn’t Parees, he told himself. It couldn’t possibly be Parees, because Parees was being treated in an infirmary.
Walker must have relayed the video feed through the FTL comm right then, because the image appeared on his screen.
There he was, Parees, passing behind the communications officers and circling closer. The girl was frozen, one hand over her mouth, and Pike’s mouth had dropped open in shock.
“Jesus Christ. Get someone to stop him! Now!”
The girl scrambled up. Her hands were on the board. They clenched the jagged edges so tightly that blood began to seep across the slick white surface. Her eyes are locked on Parees and her lips were moving.
“He’s human,” Pike told her urgently. “He isn’t—”
She shook her head. Once, only once.
“He’s not human?” Pike asked. His mouth opened, and then closed, and with a rush of absolute terror, Nhean realized what he was about to say.
No. No, don’t say those words.
“Parees is a drone?” Pike asked. He looked at Nhean.
There was a moment of utter silence.
“Oh, my God.” The voice that came out of him didn’t sound like his. Nhean stared back up at the screen.
“What’s going on?” Walker’s voice.
“He’s a drone.” He heard his own voice as if from very far away. “Parees is a drone.”
“What?”
“You have to stop him.” He sounded far, far too calm.
And it was too late, in any case. Whatever was happening, they were never going to make it in time. He watched in horror as Parees leaned down to place a hand on Essa’s shoulder.
“Excuse me, sir.” His voice was as low and smooth as always, pleasant on the ear. “I have a message I need to deliver on this videocast.”
“Oh, no,” Nhean murmured.
“Who sent you? Walker?” Essa shook his head. “Tell her that now is neither the time nor the place for her grandstanding.”
Run, goddammit, run! The words were a silent scream across the distance.
The girl’s eyes were closed tight as she tried to force her will across millions of miles.
Parees was not deterred in the slightest by Essa’s icy politeness. “Sir, I really must insist.”
“No,” Essa said flatly. He gestured to the bridge. “Morgan. Get this man out of here.”
“I must be allowed to speak!” Parees looked panicked now.
“Security,” Essa growled.
Everything happened so fast that even Nhean didn’t catch it all. Morgan turned to gesture to the two military police at the doorway. The XO, quicker than the rest of the group, reached out to grab Parees by the arm; then there was yelling; and then there was a gun with the muzzle at the side of Essa’s head and Parees was white faced, shaking with effort as the crew on the bridge of the Anchor froze in horror. They had been ready for a battle, and then just before they left there had been a flurry of activity and the UN Secretary General boarded their ship, delaying their arrival. When they arrived at Vesta, the battle was well underway, and in the chaos, no one had thought to lock the bridge doors. No one had thought to account for a civilian aboard the carrier.
“I must be allowed to speak!” Parees was crying now. He gestured with the gun.
Essa, at least, did not descend into hysterics. He sat stoically, hands wrapped around the arms of the chair.
There was a stricken silence. Morgan was frozen with one hand on the comm, as if the problem with this situation was that not enough people knew about it. His XO still had her hands up, as if to assure Parees that he didn’t need to get spooked. The communications officers weren’t speaking, though Nhean imagined their headsets must be full of increasingly hysterical questions from the other ships.
Parees gave a shudder and his finger began to squeeze on the trigger. A yell burst out of him as he stared Essa down. He was panting now; Essa remained as still as a statue.
“I must be allowed to speak,” Parees gritted out. He did not look at the camera. “People have to know this. The fleet is … full of drones. Mechanics from Vesta. Some pilots. They’re—ah!” Pain seemed to wrack him. He forced the words out. “They�
��re—everywhere. Taking orders. If humans falter … drones take over. Sabotage. Drive us to war.”
Nhean’s eyes narrowed. He looked over at the girl. Was it her?
“They have orders. Ways to take down the stations. Ways to kill the cities. They have the orders, maybe don’t even know they have them. They wait—and then the trigger comes and they act. Airlock overrides. Assassinations.” His finger trembled on the trigger. “You’ll never know them. They learned. They integrated.”
Essa came to life for the first time. He turned his head very slowly to look up at Parees. He spoke gently, as a proud grandfather to a crying child. “You came to warn us about the drones?”
“Yes,” Parees whispered.
“You say there’s no way to know them, but surely there must be. We have to be able to find them. Do you think you can help me do that … what is your name?”
“Parees.” One lip had cracked, and was bleeding. Tears were starting again in Parees’s eyes. “I didn’t want to do it,” he pleaded.
“Do what, Parees?” The power behind Essa’s persona had never been more apparent. Even Nhean, watching in horror, felt the urge to spill his secrets to this man, seek his approval.
“Kill you. I had to come kill you. Got the orders—weeks ago.” He shuddered, and his entire body twisted under the strain.
With a rising horror, Nhean remembered his first interview with Parees. Then, Parees had been a skinny bundle of too-long teenaged limbs, shrugging his shoulders: Don’t know what a birth certificate is. Never got one.
And your father and mother?
He remembered the fear in Parees’s eyes. And he, Nhean, had been too young and stupid to realize that that could mean any number of things. He remembered the stations. He remembered the terror in some children’s eyes.
And, of course, like everyone, he’d known that drones were stupid and suggestible and not really human at all.
All these years…. Scrawny teenager to young man, miner’s brat to capable assistant. And Nhean had never once suspected the truth.