by Jamie Sawyer
“Dr. Locke was privy to some of that,” Senator Lopez said, continuing to circle the table, “and she was probably the preeminent expert on the Shard. She knew more about them than anyone I’d care to name.”
“She’s gone,” I said.
Senator Lopez looked up. “Oh, we know that sure enough.” He tapped the side of his head. “Your hypno-debrief was very useful in that respect. As General Draven says, coupled with the Firebird’s AI, we know what you know.”
Another image appeared on the smart-desk. It almost filled the room, and I struggled to repress my reaction.
An alien ship.
But not Krell, and not Shard. Something else.
“The Aeon,” I whispered.
Senator Lopez gave another impressed nod of his head. “Right again. You’re on a roll, Lieutenant. The ECS Hannover was tasked with searching for traces of this alien species. Command thought that they’d found something in the Gyre. Turns out that it wasn’t the Aeon after all, and we lost the Hannover as a result. Dr. Locke had already left Science Division by then—already taken her work underground. And so we were chasing our tails, following up any possible lead.”
“Why do you need the Aeon, sir?”
The Senator stared at me for a long moment. It was that same evaluating look—weighing me up, testing my worth—that I’d experienced many times since Draven had first sent us into the Gyre.
“We’re mounting a resistance, Lieutenant, and the Aeon are the key to finishing this war once and for all.”
It wasn’t until several hours later that I finally got to see the Jackals. I visited them on the Saratoga’s medical deck.
They sat together in one of the patient lounges: unguarded, except for a single Military Police officer on the hatch. I guess, after what we’d just been through, that was the least we could expect.
And there they were. The full team: Zero, Novak, Lopez, Feng. Even Pariah, coiled in one corner of the room. The xeno’s presence alone probably justified the guard on the door.
Novak stood first and hesitantly plucked at his uniform. “Do I need to change for prison overall?”
I swallowed and shook my head. “No, Novak. You don’t. None of you do. We’re … we’re going to be okay.”
“Really?” Novak asked, as though he couldn’t accept that.
“We have a supporter.”
“My father is onboard,” Lopez said. Her hair was freshly washed, and she looked a little more like the old Lopez: an air of nobility had returned to her features. “I tried to tell them we’d be all right, ma’am.”
“We had to hear it from you,” Zero said. “What are they going to do with us?”
“It seems that we’re being … well, I guess the word is reactivated.”
Feng sat in the corner of the lounge, looking the palest and most withdrawn of the group. He still had a medical monitor on his arm and wore a hospital gown rather than fatigues. As I looked at him, I realised what a poor choice of word that had been. According to General Draven and Senator Lopez, Feng’s return to the Alliance was because of his deactivation as a sleeper agent.
“Even me?” Feng asked. Hopefully.
“Even you,” I said. “Senator Lopez says that they’ve managed to remove the neural-implant.” I produced a small metal vial that the Senator had given me, and tossed it to Feng. He reached out and caught it, held it up to his face. There was a bright sliver of metal inside. “The Saratoga’s medical staff are the best around, apparently. You can keep that as a souvenir.”
Feng grimaced. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I … I didn’t know.” He struggled to find the words, the guilt painted across his young features. “I could’ve ruined everything.”
“But you didn’t,” I said. “And it’s my fault, not yours. Maberry found out about the metal in your head when we were on the Paladin. I didn’t tell you because there wasn’t anything we could do at the time. I’d hoped that it would come to nothing.”
“Guess you were wrong about that,” Lopez muttered.
“He’s back now,” Zero said. “That’s what counts.”
Feng looked away. “It was Surgeon-Major Tang, wasn’t it? She put that in my head as a fail-safe.”
“I think so,” I said, based on what Senator Lopez had told me. “But now it’s gone. You’re cleared for duty. Science Division says you’re in the green.”
Novak laughed. “That is what they say before, yes?”
“I think they mean it this time.”
“So I’m not a danger anymore?”
“Not to us,” I muttered.
“Have the Directorate issued a response, after what happened at Kronstadt?” Zero asked.
I shook my head. “The remaining Executive has denied any knowledge, and hardly any news got out of Mu-98 before the system went down. For all intents and purposes, the Directorate …” I shrugged. “Well, they’re out of the game.”
Again, we should’ve felt some relief at that. Should’ve felt some pride, for what it was worth. But it was hard to feel much, after what we had been through. I was overwhelmingly numb, and I could sense that the Jackals felt exactly the same.
“How did we get out of Mu-98, ma’am?” Lopez asked. “We’ve talked about it, and none of us remember. My father refused to discuss it.”
“From what I can piece together,” I answered, “the Firebird jumped out-system. We used the Q-point to take us to Indra. The relief force found us by pure chance.”
“Christo, that is lucky,” Zero said. “I mean, Indra isn’t a busy system.”
“Our transponder was active.” I waved a hand in the air, indicating the ship around us. “The Saratoga happened to be in the area, and picked us up. Captain Lestrade must’ve activated it, just as we jumped.”
Zero nodded. She didn’t seem very pleased with that explanation, but didn’t question me further.
“Senator Lopez says that we’re heading to Sanctuary Station.”
“What’s happening there?” Lopez asked. She was rubbing her arms, where her data-ports were located.
“The Alliance is mounting a resistance. And, if we want, we’re going to be part of it.”
Lopez looked around the room, at the rest of the squad.
“I think we’d like that,” she said.
Pariah loomed over the squad, fluidly uncoiling itself from the corner of the room. Its pungent odour hung in the air, but it was strangely reassuring. None of the Jackals seemed to even notice it.
P stared at me. “We think that we would like that a lot.”
My squad talked late into the Saratoga’s night cycle, until eventually the medtechs insisted that Feng get some rest. The squad retired to their bunks, leaving Zero and me drinking bad coffee, watching space through the lounge’s open view-port.
“Something’s bothering me,” Zero said, being more direct than usual.
“If it’s just one thing, then in the circumstances I think you’re doing okay …”
Zero shook her head. “I get you. But this is serious.”
“Go on.”
She sighed. “You said that the Firebird was recovered in Indra-16, right?”
“That’s right.”
“And they found us because our transponder was switched on?”
That had been what General Draven and Senator Lopez had told me. “Correct.”
“Well, I was on the bridge just before we jumped. We all were, but I was on the navigation console.”
“And?”
“The Firebird’s transponder: it wasn’t activated. We were running dark in the Mu-98 system, remember?”
I’d ordered Captain Lestrade to deactivate the Firebird’s transponder. We had been trying to avoid Alliance forces …
“Maybe the captain turned it back on,” I suggested.
Zero didn’t look convinced. “When we first got aboard the Saratoga, Captain Lestrade had his own cabin. They sent him back to the Core.”
“So? He wasn’t military. I guess he’ll get his own
debrief.”
“I spoke with him, before he left.” Zero’s expression hardened. “He never mentioned turning on the transponder, or activating the mayday call, Jenk.”
“So what are you suggesting?”
“Someone, or something, did,” Zero said. “Maybe, maybe … we had some help out there.”
I gave a tired laugh. I could tell where this was heading. “You just won’t let this go, will you?”
“I think that someone was looking out for us.”
“And you think it’s him, right?”
She nodded. “I think it’s him.”
“Well, if that’s what you want to believe, then who am I to stop you?”
Zero sat back in her chair. She looked almost contented, having got that off her chest. “If it was him, I guess he’s gone back underground.”
“I guess so,” I said.
There was a cough behind me. The anonymous Military Intelligence officer, accompanied by Captain Ving, stood at the hatch.
“There will be time for discussion later,” he said, his tone patronising: that of a concerned uncle. “You should all rest now. There’s a lot to be done.”
EPILOGUE
A single armoured figure.
The background was indistinct: perhaps a starship, or maybe a space station. Nothing that could reliably identify the location of the broadcast. No, the speaker was too good for that. He knew that countless intelligence analysts would be poring over this footage, examining it in every detail. Looking for some precious morsel that could be used to track down the man himself …
And there he sat.
Wearing his trademark exo-suit, the armour scuffed and worn. Every dink and scratch and scrape a reminder of the Black Spiral’s war against the Alliance. Face encased within the skull-marked battle helmet, visor fully polarised so that no feature of the man inside could be seen.
“You know me,” he started. “I am the Warlord of the Drift.”
Voice wet, retchy. Damaged? He sounded sick.
“I am salvation. I am He Who Cares, and I urge you to take up arms. Your masters have traded your freedom for an alliance with the xenos. And where has that got them? Where has that got you?”
A dramatic pause.
“The border systems burn. Your so-called Quarantine Zone is in flames, and your defences are nothing to the alien fleets. There is no peace among these stars.”
He sighed. It was a weary, care-laden sound, somehow not the expression of a terrorist warmonger. His words were in contrast to that impression.
“There can be no negotiation. The xeno fleets will not be stopped, and you are not bargaining chips in a petty political game. Now is your time. If you have been forgotten, if you have been downtrodden, then the Spiral welcomes you.”
He extended a powered gauntlet towards the camera. Reaching out to anyone who was listening.
“Your war begins,” he said.
The broadcast ended as abruptly as it had begun.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing is said to be a solitary experience, and it really can be, but I’m lucky to be surrounded by many supportive people. Friends and family are important when you need a break from the frontline, just as the frontline is important when you need a break from reality.
As ever, I’m grateful to my wife Louise for her invaluable feedback and acting as beta-reader for early versions of the story.
Equally, I’m thankful for the continued support and assistance provided by my agent, Robert Dinsdale. Robert’s been with me from the start of my writing journey, and his advice and commentary on every book I’ve had published so far has been truly priceless.
The same goes for my terrific editor, Anna Jackson. She has been my editor throughout the Lazarus War and the Eternity War, and I’m appreciative as ever for her efforts. The same goes to all of the Orbit team.
Finally, and most importantly, I’d like to thank my readers. I really could not have done this without you, especially those readers who have stayed with me throughout my first trilogy and read into my second. I hope you’ll stick with me into the next book and onto wherever my writing takes me next.
Until next time: over and out …
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: EXODUS
look out for
SPLINTERED SUNS
A Humanity’s Fire Novel
by
Michael Cobley
A speed of light space adventure novel of a treasure hunt that could unlock all the wonders of a vast and advanced civilization’s lost technologies.
For Pyke and his crew it should have been just another heist. Travel to a backwater desert planet, break into a museum, steal a tracking device, then use it to find a ship buried in the planet’s vast and trackless sandy wastes.
Except that the museum vault is a bio-engineered chamber, and the tracking device is sought after by another gang of treasure hunters led by an old adversary of Pyke’s, the devious Raven Kaligara. Also, the ship is a quarter of a million years old and about two kilometres long and somewhere aboard it is the Essavyr Key, a relic to unlock all the treasures and technologies of a lost civilization …
CHAPTER ONE
Dervla, the planet Ong, the city of Cawl-Vesh
“Damn it, Brannan Pyke,” she said. “Where the hell are you?”
Dervla was standing at the only window, hands resting on the sill as she stared out at a maze of dilapidated rooftops. The metal mesh fixed to the outside was rusty and dented but fine enough to give a decent view, and to let late afternoon sunlight into the horrible hot compartment they had been stuck in for more than four days. But this was the kind of spartan discomfort you had to put up with on a job like this, especially when your employer was the staggeringly wealthy Augustine Van Graes.
You’d think that he might have booked us into someplace a little more upmarket, rather than this shoebox, she thought. Something about not drawing attention to ourselves, apparently …
So here they were on a desert planet called Ong, so far off the beaten track that Earthsphere was unheard of and the mighty Sendrukan Hegemony was known as the semi-legendary Perpetual Empire. As for this stuffy rib-walled compartment, it was one of another two hundred stacked in a girder-and-platform structure situated in a down-at-heel quarter of Cawl-Vesh, a city suspended over a deep canyon by a catenary of titanic cables. Not what you’d call an exotic holiday destination. All they had to do was infiltrate the well-guarded Eminent District, break into a high-security museum and steal one specific thing from its vault. Except that inside the main vault was a bio-vault that only a bio-genetic key would open—which is why they were languishing, bored and baking, in this sun-trap, waiting for Pyke to show up with the key. And he was late.
For roughly the thousandth time Dervla wished she was aboard the Scarabus, enjoying privacy and a shower, but the ship was in orbit around Ong with dependable Oleg at the helm. Their only link with the ship was a chunky, scuffed and worn handset and it had been aggravatingly silent all this time … apart from the fourteen or fifteen calls Dervla had put in to the Scarabus, just to check on the current status.
She straightened and looked over her shoulder. Bunks jutted to either side while opposite the window was the door, made of the same scarred, stained metal as the walls. Kref and Moleg were off scor
ing provisions, but Ancil sat at the unsteady drum-table—made out of an actual old fuel drum—reading something on his factab. Black-haired and wiry, he had changed into some of the camoed fatigues found in Van Graes’ setup package that had been waiting for them on arrival, and somehow the new duds accentuated his skinny arms and narrow chest. Next to him on the table was a half-eaten bag of kelp-based snacks, a pack of cards and the handset. Dervla had barely taken a single step towards the drum-table when Ancil’s free hand snaked out and neatly swept the handset away. Without altering his seated posture, Ancil glanced up at her with a mischievous “Who, me?” expression.
Dervla met his gaze for a second, then leisurely held out her hand. “Give.”
“Won’t be any change in the ship status,” Ancil said. “Not in one hour.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” she said, snapping her fingers.
“And all this pestering will just make Oleg irascible.”
“Oleg? He’s a Kiskashin—he doesn’t get irascible; he doesn’t even get short-tempered. Peeved is about his limit, with occasional flickers of pique. Now, if you please …”
“Okay, look, Dervla—why not give it another hour? I know you can be patient if you want—”
“Better hand it over, Ans,” she said. “I’m starting to get irascible.”
By now her fist was clenched but Ancil was wearing that insolent smile, and about to come out with something guaranteed to pluck her very last nerve, when the door opened with a rough squeak and a diminutive cowled figure entered with a gun. The snouty features of an Izlak protruded from the hood and angry, beady eyes glared out as, with a raspy voice, the Ongian intruder said:
“Where is the stinking thief of precious things? The big walking stinkhill. Bring him out!”