The Eternity War: Dominion

by Jamie Sawyer

The Jackals filed out of the room and I waited behind. Once the squad was gone, I allowed myself to relax. Rolled my head around my neck. General Draven glanced down at the old-fashioned brown paper envelope on the corner of his desk.

  “I don’t have to accept that,” he said. “I could veto it.”

  “We’re not at war any more,” I argued. “I served out my service commitment a long time ago.”

  “I’d like to formally request that the lieutenant reconsiders her position,” said Captain Heinrich. “You’re a damned good officer, Jenkins. It’ll be the Alliance Army’s loss.”

  “There’s still a lot to do,” General Draven explained. “Those Shard ships need to be accounted for, and the Gates need to be properly secured.”

  “They’re under Alliance control,” I countered. “And the Shard warships were destroyed by the Aeon.”

  “Let’s not even get started on the Aeon,” General Draven said. “High Command wants to send a task force to secure the Aeon’s assistance in case something like this happens again.”

  Captain Heinrich nodded. “Our head is above the parapet, Lieutenant,” he said. “The Shard know that humanity is out here. We need to be ready if they ever come back.”

  “The best defence is offence, right?” said Ving. “They’re talking about sending an expedition beyond the Shard Gates. We can take the war to them.”

  I’d heard those rumours; discussions about assembling another battlegroup, dedicated to exploring other star systems beyond the Milky Way, and seeking out Shard territories for a retaliatory strike. Hot on the heels of the victory at Ithaca, many troopers were excited about the prospect of another conflict.

  But it wasn’t for me. “I’ve thought about this a lot,” I said. “I’m not interested.”

  “I know that I’ve given you a hard time,” Ving said, more sympathetically than he’d ever spoken to me before. “I’m sorry for that, but you’re made for this job.”

  “Don’t worry, Ving,” I said. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you. In the end, I’m kind of glad you didn’t die.”

  Ving smiled. “You too, Jenkins.”

  “I don’t think that we’re going to change her mind, Captain,” said Draven. He reached for the envelope, and unsealed it. Printed in red along the header were the words FORMAL LETTER OF RESIGNATION. My thumbprint marked a box at the bottom of the sheet.

  “Last chance to change your mind,” said Captain Heinrich.

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  “We can arrange for the data-ports to be removed if you’d like,” General Draven offered.

  I thought about that for a moment, but shook my head. “No,” I said. “I’ll keep them. Never know when they might be useful.”

  The ports didn’t ache like they used to, not any more. They were more like dead metal in my arms, in my thighs and neck. Inert.

  “What will you do?” Captain Heinrich enquired.

  “I have another job.”

  “Really?” asked General Draven, as he formally signed off the paperwork. “And where might that be?”

  “Nowhere you’d know, sir.”

  EPILOGUE

  Six months had passed since the disaster at Ithaca, and former Secretary Rodrigo Lopez had felt every week, every day, every hour.

  The thing about going into hiding, Lopez thought to himself, was that it was inconvenient. Damned inconvenient. There were places he had to be, things he had to do. But he could do none of them holed up in his Gaia-forsaken shithole on the edge of occupied space.

  The hotel room was always too cold, not the way Proximans liked it at all. The air-conditioning never worked properly, and the humidity was all wrong. It was disgraceful that the place even dared to call itself a five-star resort. The Three Trees on Reigel-3 would be getting a piece of Lopez’s mind, once he cleared his name. Reigel-3, it had to be said, wasn’t known for its opulence, and Lopez had been slumming it for too long.

  “What’s the hold-up?” Lopez asked, angrily, as his bodyguard searched the apartment.

  “It’s a big suite, sir,” said the guard. His name was either Dimitri, or Demiter. Or maybe that was the last bodyguard. “I have to check every room.”

  “Can you do it any faster?”

  The bodyguard stared at Lopez levelly. The man was barrel-chested and tall, the beneficiary of a powered subdermal endo-skeleton. When Lopez had hired him for close protection work, the man’s stat-sheet had read more like the report on a walking firearm. The pistol in his left hand never seemed to leave it, mainly because it was bio-grafted to the tissue of his palm.

  “There are lots of people who want you dead right now, sir,” said the bodyguard. That was what he called himself, but Lopez knew that in reality he wasn’t much more than a mercenary. “Including your daughter, if I recall correctly. Now please stand aside and let me search every room.”

  “Fine. Just get on with it.”

  The main chamber was all chrome and glass, overlooking the blue-red jungles that encroached on the perimeter of Reigel-3’s main city. Lopez had the penthouse suite. During his time in government, he’d acquired dirty materials that gave him leverage on certain parties. The owner of the Three Trees Hotel chain happened to be such a person. The man probably considered Rodrigo Lopez a friend, and thought that he was doing him some great service by allowing him to use the penthouse. To Lopez, this was just another step back into government.

  “Suite is secure,” said the bodyguard.

  “About time,” said Lopez.

  He slung his attaché case down on the black-glass smart-table. Opened it with his palm print, and pulled up a chair. The case housed a complicated tachyon-relay station—about the only safe way Lopez could communicate with those off-world—and it immediately booted up. Tri-D waveforms danced across the table’s surface as the case made uplink. A face formed out of green light, and eventually resolved from static into something more distinct.

  “Is that you, Rodrigo?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Good to hear from you.”

  “I wish I could say the same to you.”

  Director Yarric Mendelsohn’s image fluttered in and out of existence. The tachyon-relay used an enormous amount of power, bouncing its signal across half the Alliance, then back again. It was virtually untraceable, much safer than the hotel’s open comms-channels.

  “I’m taking a huge risk by speaking to you,” said Mendelsohn.

  “I think that we can agree the risk to my safety is far greater,” Lopez snarled. “If my sources are correct, most of Military Intelligence, as well as a good deal of the Secret Service, are looking for me.”

  Mendelsohn’s jowls twitched. “It’s true.”

  “Have they interrogated you yet?” Lopez asked.

  “Not yet. I’ve been careful.”

  “How careful?”

  “Very. The Warlord Project has been deleted. Not just local data, but everything from Delta Primus as well.”

  “Good.” Lopez sat back in his chair, and looked at his polished nails. “I’m considering handing myself in, once we’re satisfied I’m out of the loop. Living like this isn’t living at all.”

  Mendelsohn paused, as though he wasn’t quite sure how he was expected to react to that, but then said, “It is probably infinitely better than jail time, sir.”

  “I know that,” said Lopez, “but if you’ve done your job properly and the data is deleted, there will be nothing to link me back to the Warlord Project. It’ll be the word of an insane terrorist against mine.”

  Mendelsohn nodded. “I can promise it’s been deleted. There’s nothing left to link you to the programme.”

  “Good. Excellent. When I get back on the horse, Mendelsohn, there will be a place for you in government. I’m sure of it.”

  “I hope so, sir.”

  There was a sudden thunk from the next chamber. Lopez’s face crumpled in annoyance. Bodyguards were noisy, messy individuals.

  “Please, do keep quiet! I’m tryi
ng to conduct a call in here.”

  No answer.

  Did his skin prickle with fear? I wondered. I hoped so.

  “Dimitri?” he asked. “Did you hear me?”

  The tachyon-relay died, the link cut. The chamber was plunged into silence; not even the noise from the street outside threatened the penthouse suite. This was a series of chambers fit for politicians, for rulers. Silenced glass and room access were a must. Features that were supposed to be positive suddenly became anything but.

  In his expensive Proximan loafers and thousand-credit slacks, Rodrigo Lopez padded through to the next chamber. There was a bed in there, made up with the finest Proximan spider-silk sheets. His eye followed the curve of the bed frame, and he gasped.

  Dimitri’s gun. No longer in his hand.

  “Who’s in here?”

  Lopez bolted for the exit door. There was an emergency security console on the wall, DNA and palm-print encoded. He could use that, call in security. This sort of thing really wasn’t good enough for a five-star resort…

  He swiped his palm over the reader. Resolve and determination hardening. He was Secretary of Defence for the entire fucking Alliance!

  “Uh, uh,” I said.

  Lopez froze with his palm still on the reader. It didn’t matter, anyway, because the security feed had been cut.

  “No one’s coming,” I said, leaning in so close that he could feel my lip against his earlobe. He still smelt of that expensive cologne, but now it reminded me of corruption more than power. “You’re on your own, Lopez.”

  I wedged the muzzle of my pistol into his neck, at the top of his spine. He released a high-pitched gasp.

  “Who are you?”

  “You don’t even remember who I am?” I asked. “Turn around, and let’s see if that jogs your memory.”

  He did as ordered, hands up at all times. I stood there, wearing a black bodysuit, laced with tools of my new trade. Pouches for security readers. A grapnel-head. A portal null-shield generator. I have to say, the new suit fitted me pretty well. It was figure-hugging in all the right places. Lopez, however, didn’t look particularly impressed.

  “You were my daughter’s commanding officer,” he said. “I… I can’t remember your name.”

  “Jenkins,” I said. “Keira Jenkins.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Putting right an injustice,” I answered.

  The gun in my hand was matte black, fixed with an electronic silencer.

  “Whatever happens in this room is between us,” I said.

  “And what is going to happen?”

  I aimed the gun at his chest. “As I said, I’m putting right a wrong.”

  “You’re a soldier, Jenkins, not an executioner.”

  “Ithaca changed all of that.”

  “If you think I did wrong, then call it in,” Lopez said. His hands lowered, fractionally. His face sort of shifted as well, the twitch of a smile at the corners of his lips. “See what Military Intelligence think of it. If you have evidence, then fine, let me see it.”

  The pistol still pointed at Lopez, I reached over and activated the local recorder on my wrist-computer. A voice drifted out of the unit’s small speaker.

  “… if you’ve done your job properly and the data is deleted, there will be nothing to link me back to the Warlord Project. It’ll be the word of an insane terrorist against mine…”

  Lopez’s smile cracked.

  “That isn’t how it sounds,” he insisted.

  “I still have a copy of that data. I know what you did. I know that you endorsed the Barain-11 mission. I know that you approved Science Division’s work on Clade Cooper.”

  “That was Director Mendelsohn—”

  “It was you. It was always you. And when the project got out of hand, you tried to burn it.”

  “Listen, to yourself. This is crazy!”

  “No, you listen,” I said. “Hear these names: Captain Miriam Carmine, of the UAS Sante Fe. Commander Vie Dieter, of the UAS Valkyrie.” I tried to remain calm, tried to do this as professionally and coldly as I could, but my voice still broke. “Private Leon Novak, of the Jackals. Pariah.”

  “That last one isn’t on me,” Lopez argued. “It was a fish, a science project gone wrong. You can’t expect—”

  When the pistol fired, it was whisper-quiet. The round went straight through Lopez’s chest, and out the other side of his body. Embedded in the wall behind him. Just for good measure, I fired twice more. One in the body, one in the head.

  Rodrigo Lopez fell to the floor.

  I breathed out and stood over his body for a long moment.

  “Watch One,” I finally said, using my throat communicator. “This is Watch Two. Mission accomplished.”

  A familiar voice answered. “Well done, Watch Two. Pick-up inbound in two minutes.”

  “That’s too long. Can’t you get here any sooner?”

  “Some days there’s no pleasing you, Watch Two,” came the Detroit-accented reply. “I’m getting too old for this.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As ever, I’d like to thank friends and family for helping me create this book. I couldn’t have done it without you all!

  Louise has provided me with invaluable feedback and been there through the many drafts of this book.

  I’d like to express my gratitude to my agent Rob Dinsdale, as well as Anna Jackson, James Long, Priyanka Krishnan, Joanna Kramer and Nick Fawcett from Orbit.

  Thanks to everyone who has bought and read my books—you guys are what really make this worthwhile, and you’re all great.

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  extras

  meet the author

  JAMIE SAWYER was born in 1979 in Newbury, Berkshire. He studied law at the University of East Anglia, Norwich, acquiring a master’s degree in human rights and surveillance law. Jamie is a full-time barrister, practising in criminal law. When he isn’t working in law or writing, Jamie enjoys spending time with his family in Essex. He is an enthusiastic reader of all types of SF, especially classic authors such as Heinlein and Haldeman.

  For a glossary of military terms used in this book, visit www.jamiesawyer.com.

  Find out more about Jamie Sawyer and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net.

  if you enjoyed

  THE ETERNITY WAR: DOMINION

  look out for

  VELOCITY WEAPON

  The Protectorate: Book One

  by

  Megan E. O’Keefe

  Dazzling space battles, intergalactic politics, and rogue AI collide in Velocity Weapon, the first book in this epic space opera trilogy by award-winning author Megan E. O’Keefe.

  Sanda and Biran Greeve were siblings destined for greatness. A high-flying sergeant, Sanda has the skills to take down any enemy combatant. Biran is a savvy politician who aims to use his new political position to prevent conflict from escalating to total destruction.

  However, on a routine maneuver, Sanda loses consciousness when her gunship is blown out of the sky. Instead of finding herself in friendly hands, she awakens 230 years later on a deserted enemy warship controlled by an AI who calls himself Bero. The war is lost. The star system is dead. Ada Prime and its rival Icarion have wiped each other from the universe.

  Now, separated by time and space, Sanda and Biran must fight to put things right.

  CHAPTER 1

  The Aftermath of the Battle of Dralee

  The first thing Sanda did after being resuscitated was vomit all over herself. The second thing she did was to vomit all over again. Her body shook, trembling with the remembered deceleration of her gunship breaking apart around her, stomach roiling as the preservation foam had encased her, shoved itself down her throat and nose and any other ready orifice. Her teeth jarred together, her fingers fumbled with tempo
rary palsy against the foam stuck to her face.

  Dios, she hoped the shaking was temporary. They told you this kind of thing happened in training, that the trembling would subside and the “explosive evacuation” cease. But it was a whole hell of a lot different to be shaking yourself senseless while emptying every drop of liquid from your body than to be looking at a cartoonish diagram with friendly letters claiming Mild Gastrointestinal Discomfort.

  It wasn’t foam covering her. She scrubbed, mind numb from coldsleep, struggling to figure out what encased her. It was slimy and goopy and—oh no. Sanda cracked a hesitant eyelid and peeked at her fingers. Thick, clear jelly with a slight bluish tinge coated her hands. The stuff was cold, making her trembling worse, and with a sinking gut she realized what it was. She’d joked about the stuff, in training with her fellow gunshippers. Snail snot. Gelatinous splooge. But its real name was MedAssist Incubatory NutriBath, and you only got dunked in it if you needed intensive care with a capital I.

  “Fuck,” she tried to say, but her throat rasped on unfamiliar air. How long had she been in here? Sanda opened both eyes, ignoring the cold gel running into them. She lay in a white enameled cocoon, the lid removed to reveal a matching white ceiling inset with true-white bulbs. The brightness made her blink.

  The NutriBath was draining, and now that her chest was exposed to air, the shaking redoubled. Gritting her teeth against the spasms, she felt around the cocoon, searching for a handhold.

  “Hey, medis,” she called, then hacked up a lump of gel. “Got a live one in here!”

  No response. Assholes were probably waiting to see if she could get out under her own power. Could she? She didn’t remember being injured in the battle. But the medis didn’t stick you in a bath for a laugh. She gave up her search for handholds and fumbled trembling hands over her body, seeking scars. The baths were good, but they wouldn’t have left a gunnery sergeant like her in the tub long enough to fix cosmetic damage. The gunk was only slightly less expensive than training a new gunner.