The Eternity War: Dominion

by Jamie Sawyer

  “I’m fine with the ‘lot’ part, sir, but not so much the ‘awful’.”

  I’d meant that as a joke, but Mendelsohn took it seriously. “It was a mixed review, shall we say.”

  “In the circumstances,” Lopez chimed in, “we’ll take that as a positive.”

  “Take a seat,” Secretary Lopez said, indicating one of the plush leather chairs opposite the sofa.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said.

  Lopez had already done the same. How Gabriella Lopez—my Lopez—was able to slide so effortlessly between the two personas of line trooper and politician’s daughter was beyond me. This place—the Destiny—felt as though it had a different atmosphere, a mix of gases that wasn’t breathable for a grunt like me.

  “Help yourselves to the whiskey,” Lopez said. An aide appeared from nowhere and produced two glass tumblers. “It’s Proximan, a real taste of home. I might have American citizenship, but the Proxima Colony national creed is very different from that of any other planet in the Alliance. We have our own identity, and we like things our own way—whether that be our alcohol, or our politics.”

  “So I hear.”

  The Secretary shot a sideways glance at his daughter, as she slid a glass across the table in my direction. I took it, and sipped at the whiskey. It was good, likely expensive.

  “The Director and I were just discussing the Kronstadt situation,” said Secretary Lopez. “Your intelligence from the dying days of the star system has been invaluable in understanding what happened there.”

  “Several systems have fallen to the Harbinger virus,” Mendelsohn said, “but we haven’t had assets in-system at the time of their loss. Kronstadt was different. We’ve pored over the data-stacks from your ship, the Firebird.”

  “There wasn’t much left of her,” Lopez said. “I’d be surprised if you got anything.”

  “More than you might think,” said Mendelsohn. “And every scrap of intelligence allows us to understand more about this threat, and what we’re up against.”

  “There has been a… development,” said Secretary Lopez. He leaned forward, into the light of the holo-projections, his glass held in his hands between his knees. His expression hardened. “We’d like your observations on something.”

  My gut tightened. This, I realised, was no social call.

  Lopez nodded at Mendelsohn. Secretary to Director.

  “Take a look at these pictures,” said the Director.

  I focused on the swirling tri-D projections from the smart-table. Images of planets in the clutch of the Harbinger virus. Of diseased Krell bio-ships in orbit, around moons. Scattered through an asteroid field. Black, spiralling matter that polluted the space between worlds…

  “They were taken by a spy-asset in the Mu-98 system,” explained Mendelsohn. “We sent probes back into Kronstadt’s space, using your course trajectory. The images show the system in its current condition. As you will note, it has undergone certain changes.”

  “I can see that,” I said.

  “We’re especially interested in this material here,” said Mendelsohn, pointing out a particular image. “Science Division is calling it ‘shadow matter’. It is produced, we believe, by the virus.”

  “How?”

  “Harbinger is consuming worlds,” said Secretary Lopez. “Every time a Krell colony falls to the virus, it consumes biological material. It refashions—if that is the right word—this material, into something else.”

  “Kronstadt wasn’t a Krell world.”

  “Correct,” said Secretary Lopez. “But this is the catch.”

  “Harbinger is not really a virus at all,” Mendelsohn said. “It’s a highly effective and very complicated nanophage.”

  “What’s that?”

  “On a cellular level, Harbinger is composed of nanomachines. At a preliminary stage, these nanites behave like a regular virus. When a subject is infected, the virus attacks the central nervous system. It acts with a singular purpose, and usurps the patient’s free will. The Krell thralls are the result.”

  “I’ve seen enough of those,” I said.

  “But that is only the first objective of the virus,” Mendelsohn explained. “We believe that its real purpose is something else. You see, Harbinger’s true threat is that it is capable of self-replication. With each new host it infects, it adapts. Mutates. The nanotech adopts certain patterns and changes behaviour. Once it reaches a certain level of mutation, the ‘virus’ breaks out. At that stage, it can consume all biological material.”

  “Not just Krell?” I queried.

  “No,” said Mendelsohn. “Although, because the Krell are so reliant on bio-technology, their worlds are especially prone to infection and subsequent repurposing.”

  “Show her,” Secretary Lopez said, sipping at his whiskey.

  Another image popped into existence between us. The air instantly felt colder, and my spine stiffened.

  “What the fuck is that?” Lopez whispered.

  Black and angular and warped, I knew exactly what it was. The vessel seemed to absorb light, draining the stars around it, visible only as an absence. Empty planes, angles that were all wrong. It was a floating monstrosity, a slab of dark matter.

  “It’s a Shard starship,” I said.

  Director Mendelsohn gave a tight nod in what could’ve been approval. “That was what we suspected, but your confirmation is helpful. What else can you tell us about these ships?”

  “Not much,” I truthfully answered. “I’ve only ever seen one Shard starship, and that was one too many.” I swallowed. “It destroyed a whole planet, or its technology did, during the Second Krell War.”

  “We’ve reviewed your account,” Secretary Lopez said. “This was during your service with the Lazarus Legion, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right.”

  The Shard were a machine-species that had left behind artefacts of their technology after a war that had once ravaged the Milky Way. The Black Spiral were clearly intent on bringing them back, one way or another, but their connection to the Shard wasn’t clear. The Shard were responsible for the Harbinger virus, and that was what had brought the Maelstrom to its knees.

  “Experience of a single xeno ship of this type is more than most operators can boast,” Mendelsohn said. “Very few have first-hand experience of operational Shard technology. Did you see anything like this on Kronstadt, during the Harbinger invasion?”

  “No,” I said, which was also the truth. “You’ve read my file, no doubt.”

  “Of course,” said Secretary Lopez. “I’ve read yours, and my daughter’s too. But sometimes things can be left out.”

  I pulled an unconvinced face. “I haven’t heard of that happening before. A hypno-debrief is pretty extensive, usually.”

  Except that I knew my debrief hadn’t been complete. I’d managed to somehow hide information from my handler; in particular, the mind-link with P. The Secretary and the Director regarded me coolly, and I suspected that they knew I was hiding something. But they obviously had no proof, and therefore Mendelsohn moved on.

  “You’ll notice that the ship appears incomplete.” He highlighted aspects of one image, which appeared to show the bare bones of the vessel’s hull, its underside open to the void. Every completed plane of the ship’s frame was etched with glyphs; machine-text that shimmered uncomfortably. “This is the best-quality image we have, and we’re almost certain that the ship is under construction.”

  “Those could be weapon-emplacements,” I offered, pointing out spire-like eruptions. “But I’m not really sure.”

  “Do you have any idea what sort of weaponry a Shard ship might employ?” Mendelsohn probed.

  I shrugged. “If it’s anything like the rest of their technology, it’ll be brutally effective.”

  “You’re talking about the Shard Reapers, I take it?” Secretary Lopez suggested.

  “That’s right. It’s about the only Shard weapons tech I’ve witnessed, up close.”

  Shard Reape
rs were constructs developed to act as soldiers and guardians, sometimes posted on artefacts. Composed of millions of nanites acting together, Reapers were capable of adapting their shape and size as required, as well as forming bladed weaponry from their liquid metal skins. They could absorb plasma blasts, even at close range, reforming to repair damage. In combination, those abilities made them murder machines.

  “The Reapers are nano-tech based too,” Mendelsohn agreed. “Harbinger is an evolution of the technology. We hypothesise that most, if not all, Shard weaponry is based around a similar blueprint. Planetary invasions could be conducted by larger machines responsible for ‘harvesting’ bio-matter.”

  “The Reapers are bad enough,” I said. “How is this shadow matter, and the ship construction, linked to the virus?”

  Mendelsohn breathed in sharply. “The evolved version of the Harbinger virus breaks down biological matter, and reassembles it into shadow matter. The ships are the end result.”

  Ice trickled down my spine. “Ships?”

  “That’s correct,” said Secretary Lopez. “This isn’t an isolated event.”

  “There are ten of them,” said Mendelsohn. “Ten Shard warships.”

  A further scattering of images sprang from the table. Vessels in various states of completion, each undeniably of Shard construction. Tendrils of shadow matter danced around some; material flitting like flies about the unfinished ships. They were stripping planets, assembling ships from the remains. The sites were in several star systems spread across the Maelstrom.

  “As you can see, the ships aren’t finished yet,” said Secretary Lopez. “This process—automated construction—is fast by our standards, but still takes time.”

  “But by chance or design,” said Mendelsohn, “the Black Spiral now hold every identified Shard Gate in the Maelstrom. If these Shard ships reach completion, they will have access to the entire Shard Network. The Spiral—with their Shard allies—will be able to launch raids on Alliance and Krell territories with utter impunity.”

  “Well, that’s just great,” said Lopez. She noisily gulped down her whiskey, and reached for the bottle to pour herself another. “So you’re saying that we’re screwed?”

  Secretary Lopez gave a wilting glare in his daughter’s direction. I could almost read his thoughts: Shush, child. The grown-ups are speaking now.

  “The situation is not that bad,” said Mendelsohn. “Not yet, at least. We don’t know, for example, whether these ships are the actual Shard, or just some reconstruction of their technology.”

  “Does that make a difference?” I challenged.

  “It might,” Secretary Lopez countered.

  “So what are we going to do about this?” I said. “It has to be stopped.”

  “General Draven is about to call a briefing,” Secretary Lopez said. “I’m giving you advance warning of this development.” He looked at me levelly. “I wanted to forewarn you that the Jackals are going to be given a mission of great importance to the Alliance.”

  “Can you tell us what it is?”

  Secretary Lopez flashed an insincere smile. “I can’t share that information yet.”

  “You could if you wanted to,” said his daughter.

  “No, I couldn’t, Gabby.” He looked back at me. “I just wanted to inform you. This is my gift. For bringing Gabby back from Kronstadt, back to safety.”

  My heart had started to beat faster. Either the drink, or the excitement, was making me heady.

  A communicator chimed.

  Secretary Lopez’s face crumpled in irritation. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. Duty rarely considers convenience. I’ll just take this call—”

  “It isn’t you, sir,” I said. “It’s me.”

  My wrist-comp gave another urgent chime, and I glared down at it. I’d grown used to that particular tone, having set it up specifically, so that I was alerted when certain conditions were met. I stifled a sigh of annoyance as I read the text-only message that filled the screen. He’s doing it again, it said.

  “I’m very sorry, sir.”

  “Everything all right?” asked Secretary Lopez.

  “Fine,” I said. “But I’m afraid I have a situation to deal with.” I downed the remainder of my whiskey, and placed the glass back on the table. “It can’t wait, unfortunately.”

  “I understand,” said Secretary Lopez. “No doubt you have important military business to attend to?”

  “That’s overstating it somewhat.”

  “My agents will show you out. Remember what I said: the briefing will be soon.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for the drink.”

  Lopez said her goodbyes to her father, and Cambini and Butler walked us up the umbilical, watched us leave the private dock. Lopez said nothing until we were out of hearing range of the Secret Service agents.

  “You do know,” she said, with an amused smirk on her face, “that you are probably the first person ever to cut short a meeting with Daddy?”

  “Trust me; it wasn’t intentional,” I said, as we pushed through the crowded corridors.

  My wrist-comp continued to chime, with increasing urgency.

  “He’d have a fit if he really knew where you were going,” Lopez said. She knew what the problem was.

  “It’s not like I have a choice,” I said. “If I don’t see to this, you know what’ll happen.”

  Lopez nodded. “I get it.”

  Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time I’d had this particular alert.

  It was fast becoming an itch that I couldn’t scratch, and my sense of annoyance increased as I descended through Sanctuary Base’s sub-levels. I headed straight for Declan’s Drinking Hole.

  Sanctuary had many compartments and hidden sectors, lots of places in which to get lost, or to go off-grid. The opportunity for profit dwelt in those darker nooks. And what better way to make money on the largest military space station ever built than to sell alcohol. Declan’s Drinking Hole was neither licensed nor official, but it stayed in business because it fulfilled a need. You get enough soldiers and sailors in one location, a place like Declan’s becomes necessary. There’s only so much stress that a speedball court can relieve.

  If Declan’s had any chic about it at all, it was best described as “pseudo-industrial”. The walls were bare rock, and repurposed cargo crates made up most of the furniture. An improvised bar was stocked with a variety of alcoholic drinks, while a couple of holo-monitors fixed overhead silently replayed speedball matches from the Core. Glow-globes in the ceiling were set to minimum illumination, in an effort to avoid drawing attention to the fungus that grew on the walls. The place wasn’t busy, and most of the patrons didn’t even look up as I entered.

  I approached the bartender. We weren’t known to each other, except through this mess.

  “He’s over there,” he said, nodding to the back of the room.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I hope he wasn’t too much trouble.”

  “Not to me. But I think he broke the other guy’s jaw, and my data-terminal got caught in the middle of it.”

  “The other guy was lucky there were no knives around…” I muttered. I fished a universal credit chip out of my fatigue pocket and passed it to the tender. “Will that cover the damage and the inconvenience?”

  “Same as ever,” the tender said. “I won’t call the MPs.”

  “That’s decent of you.”

  “He needs help. He can’t keep coming down here and doing this, Lieutenant.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  Leon Novak sat at the end of the bar. He wore a vest that strained at his huge, tattooed shoulders, and had a bottle of Russian vodka in front of him. He rubbed his left hand with his right, where the knuckles were swollen and raw.

  I slipped onto the stool next to him. “What the fuck are you doing, Novak?”

  Novak’s eyes slid in my direction. “Oh. Is you.”

  “Yeah, it’s me. Your friendly neighbourhood commanding off
icer.”

  “This is no neighbourhood. Not any more.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “No, I am not. It would be in breach of life-contract, yes?”

  “You’re damn right it would.”

  In theory, Novak’s life-contract prohibited him from drinking alcohol. He was an indentured prisoner, on licence to the Alliance military. Breach of any one of his numerous conditions of release could result in recall to the gulag. Of course, that wasn’t going to happen. The war needed people like him. One more body in prison was one less body on the front line.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I got into fight. I punched other man. I win. Is simple.” Novak grabbed for the vodka bottle and swigged it noisily. “Is nothing else to say.”

  “Get rid of that bottle, trooper. I need you frosty.”

  “I’m tired. So tired.”

  “I know that you’re tired. I also know what you’ve been doing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t the fight that drew me down here,” I said.

  Novak paused, and something inside of him seemed to shift. He was most definitely drunk, but he either wasn’t anywhere near as inebriated as he appeared, or my words had an abruptly sobering effect on him.

  “I wasn’t doing anything,” he answered.

  “You’ve got to stop this, Novak. You’ve got to let this go.”

  “What do you mean?” he muttered.

  “Don’t play dumb with me, you son of a bitch.”

  There was a public data-terminal in the corner of the bar, an old-fashioned computer that could be used to access the local network. Nothing complicated, but in the right circumstances it was capable of hacking intel-feeds. This machine’s holo-screen was damaged, flickering erratically, and a bloody handprint marked the keyboard.

  “You were searching for her again, weren’t you?” I asked. “And I take it that’s why you got into a fight.”

  Novak was morose and silent for a moment, but answered, “No.”

  “Fine. Then I’ll ask the tender to tell me.”

  “Was only fight.”

  “Tell me what really happened.”