“Captain,” Okuda whispered. “Look at this.” She passed a tablet over to Susan’s waiting hands. The 3D screen showed a false-color image of their approach to the Chusexx. It was big, but they’d already known that. Still, witnessing it from this close was different from sensor estimates on a plot. Size wasn’t everything, but Susan was suddenly very relieved her enemy broke of its own accord instead of her people having to fight it out with the leviathan.
The ship’s details were softer, her lines more graceful than the Ansari, whose designers still held to a more faceted approach to stealth, due in no small part to the ease, cost, and speed of manufacture and repair. The CCDF had been born of desperation, converting cargo-haulers and colony ships into battle wagons in months when the first war broke out. “That’ll do” was still an overriding attitude among the legacy engineers, and corporate budget considerations still played their role in warship development, although the economic austerity was nothing compared to the fleet’s early days.
The fundamental physics of the universe, biology, and their relatively parallel lines of technological development dictated that the Chusexx didn’t differ all that greatly from her human-designed counterparts, at least externally. There was still a large habitable section at the front of the ship that housed the crew the majority of the time, as well as most of the sensor platforms mounted as far away from the interference from the fusion engines at the back of the ship as possible, an engineering section in the middle where most of the important moving parts lived along with their Alcubierre rings, although the Chusexx mounted a fully-redundant set of four rings more like a CCDF Space Supremacy Ship or Planetary Assault Carrier than a three-ringed cruiser.
The rings caught Susan’s attention. She froze the image and zoomed in. Xre ships were distinctive in that they mounted oval rings instead of circular. The intel people thought it was to reduce their radar/lidar return in the side aspect. The engineering obstacle of regulating negative matter flow as it raced at varying speeds around the oval rings had prevented the adoption of the design among human vessels so far, but it wasn’t what had grabbed Susan’s attention.
“So you see it, then?” Okuda asked.
“What the hell are those?” She pointed at small, secondary rings built into the inside surface of the outer edge of each of the four main rings, right at the apex of the ovals.
“That’s what I wanted you to see, mum. Trim rings? Some way to fine-tune their bubble? Maybe even steer it?”
Now that was an unsettling thought. Since the dawn of Alcubierre drive, it had been taken as an immutable law of physics that bubbles, once set in motion, could only travel in an arrow-straight line through space until they were popped. That line would be distorted by sufficiently massive gravity wells just like anything traveling through the fabric of spacetime, but once a bearing was set, it couldn’t be altered.
But if the Xre had found a way to make midcourse corrections from inside their bubble …
Susan wasn’t an engineer. She could only stab wildly in the dark for answers to the mystery. “There’s no point speculating. Tell Ansari to whisker laser this footage back to the skip drone just in case something happens to us. The R&D kids back at fleet will have a field day chewing this over.”
“Aye, mum.”
Before long, the fight deck was chattering away with the final approach as they navigated the shuttle through the morass of instructions coming from the Xre’s version of a space boss, filtered both coming and going through an imperfect language translation matrix. Docking between two objects moving independently through open space was harrowing enough when everyone spoke the same language, had trained on the same protocols, and used the same equipment. Injecting variables into all three was nothing short of a nightmare, but through patience and professionalism, the shuttle’s flight crew soon had them in position for a clean capture.
“My compliments to the chefs,” Susan shouted from her seat.
“Thank you, mum,” the pilot called back. “That was … interesting.”
“Do they have a treaty seal?”
“Yeah, they’re still fuckin’ around trying to get it in position. Might be a couple of minutes yet before we’re green.”
Susan nodded. As part of the treaty settlement after the Intersection War, it had been decreed that all ships, of both the human and Xre navies, would carry an adaptor that would make their docking rings compatible with the standards of the other in case of emergency or a sudden need for face-to-face diplomacy. They’d been nicknamed “treaty seals,” and coordinating their development had been a three-year experience in pulling teeth. For seventy years, they’d acted as ballast collecting dust and burning up reactant mass. Today was, to anyone’s knowledge, the first time any of the thousands of them had been put to its intended use.
Lot of firsts today, Susan thought.
“I’m taking point,” Okuda said quietly from Susan’s shoulder.
“The hell you are.”
“I need to secure a perimeter to ensure your safety.”
Susan rubbed her eyes. “Staff Sergeant. I respect your dedication, I really do. But if they mean me harm, there’s not a good goddamned thing you or anyone can do to stop them from killing every last one of us. And then a very cross lieutenant will kill every last one of them in the time it takes to push a button. That’s where we are. That’s where I’ve placed us on the board. We’re here based on the trust we’re trying to build. If you walk out there to do a security sweep, it looks like I don’t trust them, in their own home. It’s an insult. If I walk out first, I honor them and put another block in this foundation. Do you understand?”
Okuda cringed. “I do, but I don’t like it, mum.”
Susan snorted through her nose. “I’m not a huge fan of it myself, but it weighs the dice in our favor, if only a milligram or two. You and your squad will stack up right behind me. Make a show of it, the gracious captain at the head of her brave warriors.”
“And if they shoot you for your generosity?”
“Then you’ll have a mad minute to return their hospitality before Warner drops the hammer.”
“Out in a blaze of glory, huh?”
“I thought that’s what you grunts lived for.”
“We prefer to do it where there’s camera drones to record our kicking posterior for posterity.”
Susan smirked as the pressure indicator on the hatch clicked over from red to green.
“We have a green seal, mum. Ready when you are,” the pilot called back.
Susan stood and straightened her flight suit, then pulled her top cover from the loop over her right shoulder and fitted it neatly, securing it in place with a discreet bobby pin. “Sergeant, would you get the door for me, please?”
Okuda spun the hatch and swung it open. Susan floated inside the airlock, guiding herself along the handrails. Her squad of marines filled in the space behind her like racehorses being led into their chutes, all tension and muscle balanced on a hair trigger.
“Easy, folks,” Susan cooed at them. “We’re all friends here until I say otherwise. Now, big smiles, everybody. Let’s meet the neighbors.” She hit the release button with a fist. The outer door pushed out, then slid to the side in a flash. The transfer tube beyond was just different enough to give her a moment’s pause. Centuries of alien invasion movies had prepared her for organic, sticky-looking construction that screamed extraterrestrial compared to the familiar, angular, manufactured aesthetic of human creations.
Instead, the tube could have been made of the same flexible, transparent polymer as the one in Ansari’s boat bay. The only noticeable differences were that it was about half a meter wider in diameter, and instead of segmented reinforcing rings, the structure was supported by a coil of rigid material that spiraled through the clear plastic like a Slinky. It could easily have been built by a different contractor instead of a different species. There were even handholds built into the coils, although their spacing and thickness spoke to users with a
larger wingspan and hands than her own.
Susan floated through the tunnel, heart pounding in her ears like a rock concert. Behind her, a flock of black-clad marines glided on the wing like birds of prey scouring the horizon for their next meal. Their presence reassured her, even as she admitted they were about as useful as a peacock’s feathers in this context. Still, impressive displays had been diffusing violence for millions of years. It was worth a shot.
Much like on the Ansari, the Chusexx’s boat bay had a large viewing gallery with panoramic windows. Unlike the Ansari, those windows were filled with two-meter-tall monsters that looked like the offspring of an ill-conceived union of a wasp and an Alaskan king crab.
A deeply seated part of Susan’s lizard brain recoiled at the sight. She’d seen images of the Xre before, of course. She’d done fully immersive VR boarding/counter-boarding exercises back in C school in haptic-suit simulations until she had bedsores. But no matter how exacting those renderings were, no matter how well the environmentals were captured, it was still the difference between watching porn and losing your virginity.
Susan beat back the terror and bile threatening to storm the back of her throat and willed the women and men behind her to do the same. So close to the enemy she’d dedicated her life to holding back, it was easy to forget that she held the ultimate trump card. Even in the micro gravity, Susan was acutely aware of the mass of the Glock strapped to her hip. Through conscious effort, she didn’t reach for it, not even to check that it was properly seated in its holster. Any movement that could be misconstrued as hostile might prove as deadly as a bullet.
She reached the lockout. With a pneumatic hiss and a slight metallic screech, the outer door opened like a flower with pedals made of scimitars.
Okay, that’s a little different, Susan allowed nervously. The space beyond was smaller than the airlock on the shuttle. Not everyone was going to fit in one go. “Okuda?”
“I see it, mum,” the sergeant answered. “Break up into fire teams,” she called back to her squad. “Gibson, Panaka, Valerian, on me. Keep those hallway brooms tight to your chests unless I say otherwise.”
Susan stuck a thumb at the closet in front of them. “You think all five of us will fit in there at once?”
“Think skinny, mum. And exhale fully.”
Somehow, everyone fit, with enough room that no one needed to stop breathing. Although if their hosts didn’t open the inner door soon, the oxygen would run out in a hurry. Fortunately, they didn’t have long to wait before the outer door sealed and the lockout cycled through whatever safety checks its programing mandated and the inner door obliged them.
The smell was the first thing to reach Susan. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was complex, strong, and utterly unfamiliar. Metallic and earthy at the same time, like someone decided to farm mushrooms inside a foundry. Not wanting to seem timid, Susan grabbed the last handhold and pushed herself forward into the observation gallery and the reception that had been prepared for them.
The gallery felt large, but most of that was probably owed to the fact it was a meter taller than the one on the Ansari, and the fact everyone was still in micro-grav. Susan slipped a toe into an oversized foot loop to anchor herself. Apparently, the damage to their power systems was such that they hadn’t been able to restore artificial gravity, not even on a low power setting. Things onboard the Chusexx were desperate indeed. But if they were panicked, the two dozen Xre before her showed no sign of it. Not that she had the least idea what to look for as far as body language or … facial expressions were concerned.
“Ah, hello.” It seemed as good a place to start as any. “I’m Captain Susan Kamala of the CCDF Ansari.” Susan took care to point at herself, to avoid any confusion. “My people and I come in peace and friendship to offer you whatever assistance we can give.”
For their part, the Xre appeared unmoved by the announcement. Neither hostile, nor cowering. They just stared back at her, through dozens of unblinking eyes and thousands of lenses. Even as her marines filled in behind her, they just kept … looking. For an interminably long moment, the two sides exchanged glances in utter silence. Only when the last marine had cycled through and taken their place did the crowd in front of her stir. It was then Susan realized her mistake. The Xre were intensely communal. Almost, but not quite, a hive organism. They’d been waiting until her entire cell, or hill, or whatever, was present, probably out of courtesy.
She’d jumped the gun.
Susan was just about to repeat her announcement when it began. It was low at first, a humming, but not coming from any of the mouths of the aliens before her. Instead, the sound appeared to be generated from their legs being gently rubbed against their bulbous abdomens.
Then, the harmony began. It wasn’t singing as Susan understood the concept. In place of voices, there were whistles, clicks, and pure notes as if played through woodwinds. It built, slowly at first, with subtle undertones rising and falling from prominence among the layers of complexity until defining themes evolved as if out of chaos. Wave after wave of music washed over her, like she was a buoy floating on a rhythmic ocean of sound in the middle of a hurricane.
Susan completely forgot where she was and what she was doing under the melodic massage, the aural elation of it all. Her eyes closed, and she felt her consciousness melt into the music. Were there words and meaning hidden among the sounds, or were the notes just the meaningless beauty she heard through her ignorant, virgin ears? She didn’t know. She didn’t care.
Then, the piece faded, until all that remained was an echo of the melody that had been the backbone of the performance. Then, even that disappeared. In the aftermath of such an unexpectedly transcendent experience, the silence that followed felt like an insult. An assault, even.
Susan opened her eyes to see a droplet of water floating in front of her face. It was only then she realized she’d been crying, the half-formed tears blurring her vision until she shook her head and cast them into her helmet. Among all the danger and death and fear they must have felt, her hosts had decided to greet their enemies with that. She wanted to say something, gush over the performance, compliment the singers, something to express the gratitude she felt pressing against the confines of her soul before she burst, but no worthy words presented themselves.
As she struggled, one of the Xre, a beta caste if she was any judge, swung forward on one of its larger upper arms and placed itself slightly ahead of the rest of the group, but not separate from it.
It spoke softly. A rough translation came from speakers built into the corners of the space where they would most efficiently fill the room with sound.
“Contrite, Susan Kamala,” the synthesized English voice said in the alien’s stead. “Short time preparation. Song inferior.”
It took a moment for Susan to realize what the creature was trying to say. It was actually apologizing for the quality of the performance she’d just witnessed.
“No.” She waved her hands and shook her head. “It was beautiful. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”
The Xre held out a claw and pointed it at Susan’s face. “But you leak. You not are upset?”
Susan sniffled. “Humans cry for many reasons. These were good tears. I promise. Thank you for sharing your voices with us. They were incredible.”
The Xre looked back to consult with two others for a moment; one was of the larger alpha caste with their thicker bodies, twin arms, and quad legs. The various Xre morphologies were well-studied from cadavers left over after several different engagements in the last war. But their social hierarchies and even military chains of command remained opaque. Indeed, no one really knew if the Xre even bothered to make a meaningful distinction between civilian and military.
The impromptu confab ended. “Not disappoint?” the same alien asked.
“Far from it,” Susan answered.
“This pleases. I am Thuk. We early sing.”
“Captain Thuk, I’m honored to meet you, and your cr
ew. I’m sorry your ship was damaged in the course of your duties. How can we help?”
Thuk conferred quietly with several other members of his crew before answering. “Rotting light corruption move through air tunnels. Trapped harmony. Wounded. Choke soon.”
Susan looked back at her people. “Anybody want to take a crack at that?”
“Rotting light…” a private first class ventured. Susan recognized him. He’d been blue a few weeks ago.
“Spit it out, PFC.”
“… well, ‘rotting light’ could mean hard radiation. Radiation is just higher-energy light further up the EM spectrum, right? Like the gamma leaking from their ass end. Radiation rots flesh, right? It’s probably contaminated their air handlers, so they had to lock down the life support in the affected areas. Anyone trapped in those compartments is running out of air with every breath.”
Susan nodded approvingly. “Very good, PFC. You just earned a seat at the Captain’s Table for dinner. Okuda, bring up the DC team. We have work to do.”
SEVENTEEN
Tyson sat in a corner booth across a small, round, antique burlwood table from Dr. Elsa Spaulding and exhaled weeks’ worth of dread and anxiety in one long, exasperated, thoroughly satisfying sigh.
“That is the first bit of good news I’ve heard in more than a month.” He lifted his drink to clink her nearly empty glass. “Cheers!”
They both leaned back into the circular leather bench of the “privacy” booth. While they could look out on the rest of the patrons of Vicars, their conversations were reduced to static by overlapping fields of ultrasonic interference at the mouth of the booth. Tyson wouldn’t repeat his mistake from Chili’s.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. Abington.”
“Tyson.”
“Fine, Tyson. It’s a trial phase, there’s no guarantee it will work across all—”
Tyson waved her off. “I’m confident your team will close the gaps. Loosen up, celebrate your accomplishment. You’re running low, would you like another?”
In the Black Page 19