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The Eternity War: Dominion

Page 11

by Jamie Sawyer


  More silence, and Novak seemed to sober up even more. Eventually, he said, “He tell me he can get into grid. I pay him money.”

  “You paid this guy money to search for her?”

  “Yes. To search for her.” Novak swallowed. “To search for Major Mish Vasnev.”

  And there was the truth. Where this name was concerned, I knew that Novak wouldn’t—couldn’t—lie. It meant too much to him.

  “I paid tech to give me information,” he explained, slowly. “This is something I cannot do on own, you understand, but something I need to know. He do search, say finds nothing. I am angry at this.”

  “You can’t keep doing this,” I said. “That name—that individual—is a known Black Spiral sympathiser, if not a full-blown accomplice.” I looked over my shoulder again, without any conscious thought. “Military Intelligence, the Secret Service, whoever: they’re looking for these people.”

  “So?”

  “So I told Zero to keep an alert on that search-string,” I explained. “And every time you do this, I get called down here—or wherever else you’ve dragged your sorry ass—and have to dig you out. If I know you’re doing this, then Mili-Intel probably knows it as well.”

  “I need to find out everything about Major Vasnev,” Novak said, as though that was some sort of explanation. He seemed desperate to make me understand this, to spell it out for me. “I hunt her, yes? I find her.”

  “No.”

  “We must find ship,” he said. “We must find Vasnev, and I will kill her. There are refugees from Mu-98 still out there.”

  “We’ve been through this before.” Too many times, I resisted adding. “Your duty is to the Alliance, Novak. You’re an indentured, licensed prison operator, not a free agent.”

  Novak’s features cycled through a variety of expressions as he struggled with the urge to argue with me.

  “She was not real major, you know,” he said, sourly. “Was never in Army.”

  “I kind of guessed that.”

  “Was very high-ranking bratva. Was godmother of whole city, of Norilsk. Did terrible things.”

  “I’ll bet. But that isn’t the point.”

  “She get name from killing real Army major. He go to Norilsk to finish gangs, to make city safe.”

  “Martial law?”

  Novak nodded. “Yes. She find him, she kill him. Sons of Balash rise up, take back city. She cut this major’s head. Plant on a stick in city square, to send message. She make everyone know this is her, that police, army—no one can stop her. Then, no one ever come again. Is bad place. Vasnev, she gets this name, this rank—‘major’—and everyone understands that she is in charge.”

  “It’s a long way for an Old Earth crime lord to come,” I said. “I guess that Warlord is paying her well.”

  “Distance for Russians is nothing,” Novak argued. “Where money calls, we go. Is way of life. All I know is her. When I sleep, she is there. In my head.”

  Novak had no way of knowing how much I understood that. The Russian took the vodka bottle, but continued waving his arms, trying to explain himself.

  “I cannot think of anything except her,” he said. “I must find her. I must.”

  This was eating Novak alive. Becoming an obsession. Killing him. It was all he was now. Like finding Riggs is killing you, huh? my conscience taunted me.

  “I prefer the knife, the blade,” Novak went on. “Because it is quiet, is silent. I know this. When I find Vasnev, I will be ready.”

  He swigged from the bottle again, but there was no pleasure in the action. The anger was building up in his shoulders, across his face.

  “We’ve talked about this already,” I said. “You need to park it, Novak. You need to turn this anger—this rage—and use it.”

  Novak grimaced. “I know,” he muttered.

  “We might never find her. This Vasnev is elusive, right?”

  Novak shrugged, not understanding the word.

  “She hides?” I said.

  “Yes,” he agreed. He waved at the data-terminal. “I search all database. No one know about her. Only small informations. Sighting on this planet, rumour on that moon.”

  “We may never find her,” I repeated. “But you’re a Jackal. I need you to be sharp. Can you do that for me?”

  Novak slowly nodded. It wasn’t a very persuasive response, but I knew that it was the best I was going to get out of him. A pep-talk from me wasn’t going to stop Novak. Not permanently, anyway.

  “Sharp as a knife,” he muttered.

  “This ends here. You aren’t to do this any more. No more searching for Vasnev, no more obsessing about her. The research, the asking questions: it’ll only get you into trouble.” I sighed. “Or more trouble, at least.”

  Don’t get me wrong: Novak was one ugly bastard. From his over-tattooed forehead, to his broken teeth, all the way down to the nerve-studs drilled into his temple, Novak wasn’t anyone’s conventional idea of a hero. But in that moment, as he sat there, in the dank and dirty bar, the look on his face was heartbreaking. His eyes were dark, eager. Sure, he wanted to find and kill someone, but he wanted to do it for a good reason. I could sympathise with that.

  “You need to get cleaned up,” I directed. “Something big is happening.”

  “Something involving Black Spiral?” Novak queried, hope rising in his voice.

  “I can’t talk about it here,” I said. “But it’s happening soon. Like hours away.” I waved over the bartender with another credit chip. “We’ll take a detox tab. Make it double-strength.”

  The meds would sober Novak up more or less immediately.

  “I am not drunk,” Novak protested.

  I swiped the vodka bottle from him. I noticed that it was triple-K brewed: Kronstadt-quality alcohol. The smell of the open bottle alone made my eyes water. There was very little of the bottle left; Novak had drunk almost all of it.

  “You most definitely are,” I said. “And how can you drink this stuff?”

  “It is Russian.”

  “It’s shit.”

  I slid off the stool and pressed down my fatigues. Just being in the bar made me feel kind of dirty.

  “If you don’t quit this, and soon, Captain Heinrich will get wind of it. He’ll assign you a surveillance drone again.”

  As part of his service contract, Novak had once been accompanied everywhere by a surveillance drone. However, Novak had used it as a makeshift weapon, and it had met a rather unfortunate end on North Star Station. Since our return from Kronstadt, no one had bothered to reimpose the restriction on his liberty.

  “Understood,” Novak snorted.

  I glanced down at the thick network of self-harm scars on his forearm. The blade marks criss-crossed his tattoos, and were partly healed. There were so many scars there that I couldn’t even count them. Novak marked himself every time we made a transition, as a reminder of the discount to his sentence.

  “How many years do you have left on your sentence, Novak?”

  Novak pursed his lips. “Do not worry about it. I am not going anywhere yet.”

  That sort of information—how long Novak had left on his sentence—was only available to senior Command. Heinrich probably knew, but I doubted that he would tell me.

  “You don’t get to kill as many people as me and walk away from it,” Novak continued. “Not even if you join Sim Ops.”

  “You’re good at what you do, and I need you on the squad. Just take those meds, and get sober.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Novak took the two pills from the tender, and dry-swallowed them. His timing couldn’t have been better. The bar seemed to freeze as a station-wide alert sounded. My wrist-computer chimed.

  NEW ORDERS, said the screen. ATTEND BRIEFING ROOM 93 AT FOURTEEN HUNDRED HOURS, SHIP TIME. ALL SIMULANT OPERATIONS PERSONNEL GRADE 3 AND ABOVE. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.

  Novak’s wrist-comp lit with the same message. He grinned a vacant, slightly psychotic smile.

  “Who wants to liv
e for ever?” he asked.

  “You’ve been saying that a lot lately,” I replied. “Come on. We’ve got a place to be.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A PERFECT STORM

  Briefing Room 93 was Sanctuary’s largest auditorium, capable of seating hundreds of attendees. It was a horseshoe-shaped chamber, with a raised podium at the front of the room, which was backed by an enormous Alliance badge; the infamous stars and stripes of the thirteen territories.

  The chamber was crammed with troopers and intelligence handlers, with admin staff struggling to get personnel seated. Everyone who was anyone was here: from Ving and Phoenix Squad, to the Executioners, to Walker’s Dead—“Grade 3” personnel meant pretty much anyone with combat experience. The Jackals settled into a line of chairs a few tiers back from the front.

  “It’s a full house,” Feng said. “P is down there.”

  “Hey, fish!” yelled Novak, with a wave.

  Flanked by two Mili-Pol guards, P stood on the main podium. The xeno nodded up at us in recognition, and I felt its presence at the back of my head. Not much, but enough to tell me that P was doing okay. It looked in good shape, at least. Dr Saito also milled around the podium, trying to keep out of the way.

  P was soon joined by several military officers. I recognised General Draven, wearing full military uniform, with his peaked cap, salted moustache and tired eyes. Alongside him was Director Mendelsohn, as well as Secretary Lopez. The Secret Service agents hung back, scanning the auditorium for threats, but unwilling to completely discount P as a potential either. Other faces filtered into the room. Every senior officer aboard Sanctuary was present, occupying the first tier of the auditorium’s seating. They were a mix of nationalities and planetary allegiances, from a variety of limbs of military service: Navy, Army, Marines, Military Intelligence. Whatever was happening, it was clearly going to be a combined arms operation.

  “Some of these guys look like they’ve been dragged out of retirement,” Feng said, nudging Zero.

  She gave a shrug. “That sounds about right. I read that Admiral Vester was reactivated last month.”

  “He isn’t the only one,” I said. “Anyone with command experience is being recalled.”

  “That’s great,” drawled Novak. “So now they put old men in charge?”

  “I guess they know more about running a war than you do, Novak,” Lopez said.

  Captain Heinrich prowled the ranked troopers. “Simmer down, people! Simmer down! Let’s get this briefing done, so you can get back to doing what you do: killing Spiral and catching fish!”

  General Draven stood to address the auditorium, and the chamber fell quiet.

  “Let me begin by welcoming Secretary of Defence Lopez to this briefing,” Draven said, his voice low and gravelly. The exhaustion of running this war showed heavily on his expression, in the hang of his shoulders. “I’d like to thank him for his attendance on-station. As you will all have noticed, there are several—”

  What followed obviously wasn’t part of the plan, but Secretary Lopez couldn’t contain himself. He stood in front of the Alliance seal, perfectly framed by it. A surveillance drone hovered in front of him, recording his message.

  “Thank you for the introduction, General Draven,” Lopez said. “I see many, many brave faces here. I see good faces. But mostly, I see Alliance faces.”

  He walked the length and breadth of the podium, nodding slightly as his gaze met that of every participant in the meeting. General Draven entertained the intrusion, but he didn’t look particularly impressed by it.

  Secretary Lopez continued. “I’ve travelled a lot during my time as Secretary of Defence. I’ve seen the refugee fleets. I’ve seen the survivors. It doesn’t matter whether they’re from the Outer Colonies, from Barnard’s World, from Kei Tripoli. Each and every one of them, to a man, woman and child, is grateful for what you’re doing out here. I want you all to know that.

  “What you are about to hear is the product of months of planning. It represents the efforts of all the Alliance military forces. We are striking back, friends. We are taking the stars back from the Krell, and from the Black Spiral. It’s happening now, because of you.”

  The mood in the room became almost jubilant. Cheering spread like wildfire. Some more senior officers had even joined in. I shot a sideways glance at Novak, who noisily slammed a hand against the seat in front of him.

  “What?” he said. “Is contagious, yes?”

  “Don’t buy into it,” said Lopez. She was the least persuaded of the Jackals; appearing almost embarrassed by her father’s performance.

  “What’s up, Lopez?” I asked. “You don’t believe him?”

  “I’ve seen Daddy do his thing too many times before,” she answered. She sort of squirmed in her chair, uncomfortable. “The subject is different, but the presentation is always the same.”

  Zero leaned into me. “He’s quite the showman,” she said.

  “Isn’t he just,” I replied.

  Secretary Lopez was riding a wave of approval, and loving it. The crowd eventually settled down, and he smiled broadly, turning to the wall behind him. He tapped a remote control in his hand, pointing it at the bulkhead as he addressed the audience again.

  “We have custody of a live Krell warden-form. The boys down in R&D tell me that they have made a breakthrough, as a result of the operation on Vektah Minor. They’ve done what we once thought was impossible.”

  A hitch formed in my throat. Lopez bit her lip.

  “We’ve done it, troopers. We’ve created a cure for the Harbinger virus.”

  That sent the audience into overdrive. Troopers stood, yelling, cheering. Officers clapped, although surely they must’ve known what was coming. The Secretary’s words lit the fuse, and the bomb positively exploded.

  To support the Secretary’s claim, holographic projections winked into existence and filled the podium. A glowing representation of the Harbinger virus, warping and twisting Krell DNA. But on Secretary Lopez’s command, another strand of something—the presentation wasn’t specific—intervened, and neutralised the virus. The result, so the demonstration suggested, was a pristine cellular structure: good as new.

  It was hard not to be influenced by the Secretary’s enthusiasm, and Novak deliberately sat on his hands to avoid clapping. Lopez looked sullen. Zero was frowning, peering at the tri-D: no doubt trying to figure out how Science Division had done it. Feng was quiet, but I could tell that he was impressed.

  “But all of this,” Lopez said, waving a hand at the tri-D graphics, “doesn’t mean anything. Results: that’s what you really want to see, right?”

  The bulkhead behind Secretary Lopez shifted, and heavy blast doors retracted, revealing a concealed chamber. It was a starkly lit cell, divided from the briefing room by an armourglass wall. Inside, three medtechs in full hazmat suits tended to a bulkier figure.

  “It’s the warden-form,” Zero said.

  The enormous xeno was strapped to a medical table, buckled in place with mag-locks. Despite that, its chest rose and fell as it breathed. None of the physical signs of Harbinger infection were visible. There was anger on its battered face—reminders that it had been forcibly extracted from a Krell nest—but nothing like that the infected carried with them. Any doubt I had that the alien was truly cured was dispelled by a glance in P’s direction. I felt the alien’s emotions, knew what it knew.

  “Is this for real?” Feng said.

  “It’s real,” I muttered. “They’ve done it.”

  Troopers rose to their feet, craning necks to get a view of the cell. Everyone wanted to see the show. Secretary Lopez prowled the deck, standing scant metres from the alien captive, like it was his trophy. Here was mankind, triumphant over the Krell, bringing the very Shard to heel. Nothing can stop us, said the expression on Secretary Lopez’s face.

  General Draven stepped forward, and his iron gaze quietened the crowd immediately. Lopez took his cue. He nodded at Draven, stepping back from the podi
um.

  “If you’ve quite finished, Mr Secretary,” General Draven said, “we should get on with the briefing.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Secretary Lopez said. “My apologies for the intrusion, General.” The grin on his face suggested that he wasn’t sorry at all.

  “We have a lot to get through,” General Draven said.

  “We do,” Lopez agreed.

  General Draven called up some graphics on the holo beside him. P watched on, drinking in the data. From the other side of the glass wall, safely contained in the cell, the warden-form did the same.

  “This is a briefing on Operation Perfect Storm,” Draven commenced, pressing his hands into the podium’s command lectern. “I can, without hesitation, say that this is going to be the largest-scale mission into the Maelstrom that we have ever attempted. Operation Perfect Storm will involve sixteen hundred starships. Thousands of sailors and simulant operators. Hundreds of engineers, scientists and other support assets. Our objective will be the eye of the Maelstrom.”

  General Draven wasn’t one for theatre, and he wasn’t one for dramatics, but now he had my attention. I sat up a little straighter, listening more intently. The shift was subtle, but everyone around me seemed to do the same.

  “We will be deploying directly into the Reef Stars,” he declared. “We have ascertained the location of several reliable quantum-space jump points, which will allow us to deliver the fleet into the heart of Krell territory.”

  A tangle of stars, maybe six closely linked systems, appeared on the podium. A particular system, and its ring of planets, was highlighted. One world was emphasised; all blues and greens and swathes of dusky cloud.

  “This planet will be our target,” Draven said. “It has been designated ‘Ithaca Prime’, and we believe it to be the physical home of the Krell High Council, the so-called Deep Ones.”

  The Krell homeworld. Back when we had first been at war with the Krell, when I’d started my career in Simulant Operations, men and women had spilt real blood trying to obtain the location of the Krell homeworld. Over the years, many missions had been launched in an attempt to identify the planet. All had failed. Pariah had changed that situation: it had volunteered the information willingly. It hadn’t always known the homeworld’s location, but it had developed the knowledge. This was Deep-knowing, as P called it.

 

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