by Jay Allan
Masters…
That was what the AI had decided the natives were calling the landing party. The computer had finally refined its guidance, and it had assigned a seventy percent probability to the determination that the subjects were not calling his people masters, but rather they were asking if they were masters. That was an oversimplification of the elaborate scenario the AI had laid out for him, but it left him with an uncomfortable feeling, and one thought, haunting him since he’d listened to the computer’s words.
What is a master? Is it something they’ve seen before?
He snapped back from his thoughts…abruptly. There was activity at the front of the group, chatter from the scientists and Marines alike, and they had stopped moving. He quickened his pace and moved forward, stopping suddenly as he saw what had caused the column to halt.
It was a building, large and vaguely pyramidal, constructed from a strange material that looked a bit like polished metal or glass.
“What is that?” Rogan walked over to one of the civilian experts, or at least what passed for a linguistics pro among the advance guard’s limited staff. The fleet had been prepared to decipher any old data systems or records that were found, but no one had expected to end up talking to actual people.
“I don’t know, sir. I’ll ask.” The man turned toward the closest native, the one Rogan had assumed was the leader, and he spoke. The Marine could follow some of what was said, perhaps a quarter of it, based on similarities between ancient imperial and the Prime Tongue.
“He says it’s a…I think ‘temple’ would be the closest thing to the term he used. He seems to think we wanted to come here. If I had to guess, I’d say these people think we have something to do with…”
The man never finished. He fell silent, spinning around as Rogan did…and watching as several hatches on the sides of the structure slid open. The Marine’s eyes were fixed on the building, and on the openings that had just appeared. His instincts were on fire, and he was bringing his rifle up even as he tapped at his headset, activating the comm unit.
But he was too late. He saw a flash, and then another. The man next to him, the one who’d been translating until just a second or two earlier, fell to the ground. Rogan’s eyes followed him down, focusing on the blackened, gaping wound that had taken off most of his shoulder and a good part of his chest.
If Rogan had been anything but a Marine, a veteran with years of combat experience, he would have died an instant later. But his instincts took control, and without even knowing how he’d gotten down, he was prone, tucked behind the partial cover of one of the huts.
He was on his comm, shouting orders to his Marines, calling reserves forward. His finger tightened on the trigger, and his rifle fired on full auto. He could see the attackers now, large shadowy figures emerging from the structure. They were humanoid in shape, but larger, bulkier. They were firing as they poured out.
And he could see his Marines, falling, dropping to the ground one after another, as the attackers moved forward.
* * *
“Commodore, I’ve got Captain Stockton calling for you.” There was urgency in the comm officer’s voice.
“Put him on my line, Lieutenant.”
“Commodore?” She could hear immediately something was wrong. Stockton was a cool customer, one who rarely let on when he was unnerved by something, but even he couldn’t hide the concern in his voice.
“Yes, Captain? Any status updates?” She wondered what Stockton could have found. She’d been receiving constant reports from the search teams. They all had the same story. The blasted sections definitely appeared to be parts of some kind of space stations or orbital platforms. And, every one they’d examined so far had been picked clean of any old tech that had been there. But she could tell from Stockton’s tone, there was something else happening.
“Commodore…I’m picking up strange signals. Very powerful.”
“Signals? From where?”
“From the debris fields. I got partial locks on a couple, and I managed to trace one. There seem to be a number of satellites in orbit…and they’re fully functional. My guess is they were powered down to minimum output to make detection difficult, and to appear like part of the debris field. But something activated them. I identified the power surges. They’re comm beams, strong ones. I managed to get a vector on one.”
Eaton could feel what the pilot was going to say next.
“It was a direct line to one of the transit points, Commodore. On the far side of the system.”
A wave of coldness ran through Eaton’s body. Random old tech that still functioned, unexplained survivors on the planet…the strange, seemingly unrelated events were piling up, far too quickly. Something was happening, something very disturbing.
The fleet’s mission had just gotten a whole lot more complicated. And dangerous.
“Captain…do what you can to track any more comm beams…and find all those satellites. Launch as many squadrons as you need for backup…and as many drones, too. Just find anything that’s out there.”
“Yes, Commodore. I’ll report back as soon as I have anything new.”
Eaton took a deep breath. Then, she turned toward the comm station. “Get me a line to Admiral…”
“Commodore, I’ve got General Rogan. He says it’s urgent.”
“On my line.”
“Commodore, we’ve had a problem down here. I need additional medical teams dispatched at once. And my reserve units as well.”
Eaton turned toward the tactical station. “I want three med teams sent down immediately, Lieutenant. And all remaining Marine units are to prepare to debark for the surface at once.”
“Yes, Commodore.”
Eaton turned her gaze from the tactical officer, staring down at the floor in front of her as she put her hand on her headset. “Med teams on the way, Bryan. Your Marines will be right behind. What happened?”
“The natives brought us to their village. The whole thing was primitive, rough huts and the like…except for one building in the center. It was modern…very modern. Maybe more advanced than anything on Megara. Then…well, there was a firefight down here, Commodore.”
“A what?” Eaton almost shouted her response. She’d expected the Marine would report something strange, and almost certainly bad, but actual combat had never entered her mind. Initial reports on the natives suggested they were not only passive, but also utterly incapable of fighting Rogan’s Marines in any real way.
“A firefight, Commodore…a nasty one.” As she listened, she realized that Rogan was still out of breath. Whatever had happened down there, the general had been in the thick of it. “The building opened up, armed soldiers came out, and they attacked. No attempts at communication, they just came out shooting.”
“By armed, you mean…”
“Armed and armored, Commodore. High tech all the way. They had some kind of energy weapons, years ahead of anything we’ve got. They looked human…sort of…”
“What do you mean, ‘sort of?’”
“Well, they seemed part human…and part machine. They had some kind of partial exoskeletons, sections of dark metal that seemed to be…implanted…in their flesh. They were fast, Commodore, agile. And their weapons were powerful. They sliced right through our front line.” A pause. “I’m afraid we suffered heavy losses. I don’t have a final count yet, but it’s at least twenty…including some of the technicians and engineers who were caught up front and couldn’t get out of the way in time.
“Do you need orbital bombardment support?” Eaton didn’t let herself think too deeply about what the Marine general had just told her. The implications were staggering, and right now her focus was on making sure her people had what they needed.
“I don’t think so, Commodore. There were only ten attackers and they’re all dead now. They put up one hell of a fight, but there are no signs of any others right now. I think we’ll be okay until the reserves land. Our scans can’t penetrate the structure. We�
�ve got it surrounded, and we’re about to go in.”
“Hold on that Bryan…I’d feel better if you waited until you had more reserves down there.” She hesitated. Barron and the rest of the fleet were still on the way to the planet…and Rogan already had most of the advance guard’s Marine strength with him. “We’ve got another company prepping to come down now, maybe a bit more, but that’s all we’ve got. Stay where you are until they arrive, at least…and do not proceed without further authorization.”
“Yes, Commodore.” She couldn’t tell if Rogan agreed with her or not. She suspected his blood was up, and he was anxious to get into that building and see if there was someone there responsible for the losses his Marines had suffered. He might understand waiting for reinforcements, but she suspected he would resent her order to stand down until she gave the specific go ahead to move. Especially if she held him back again after the extra company had landed.
Eaton had a cautious mindset. She wasn’t one to jump to conclusions, but there was no escaping the realization that the fleet had discovered far more than a cache of old tech, more than traces of the old empire.
It had found survivors—more accurately, the descendants of survivors. The Confederation, and every other civilization in the sector, had long assumed they were the only ones to endure past the Cataclysm. She closed her eyes and shook her head, struggling to face what her mind was telling her.
The primitives the landing party had found were a shocking enough discovery, but this was stunning. They had found another civilization…and from what little information she possessed, it seemed clear it was one significantly ahead of the Confederation’s technology.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Cellar of a Non-Descript Warehouse
Spacer District, Just Off the Promenade
Port Royal City, Planet Dannith, Ventica III
315 AC
Andi Lafarge took a breath, forcing the cool, damp air into her lungs despite the pain in her chest. She had a broken rib, at least, maybe two or three, and she was covered in bruises from head to toe. Her captors had restricted their interrogations to emotional and mental pressure for the first week or more that she’d been their prisoner. In between sessions, they’d dangled rewards: wealth, power, a place of rank and respect in the Union. They’d mocked her for loyalty to a Confederation that treated her and those of her profession as outlaws. They’d offered her a place with people who respected what she did, who valued her skill and experience.
She knew things would probably go easier on her if she feigned some interest in their entreaties, if she fed them enough to convince them they were making progress convincing her. But her rage and spite were too strong, and instead of playing along, she’d hit them with every vile curse she knew, the foulest and nastiest things she’d heard in filthy spacer’s dives, even a few swear words in old imperial that she’d picked up somewhere. She didn’t know exactly what those meant, but she was sure they were insulting and vulgar.
Still, for all her anger and resistance, her captors—Sector Nine, she knew—had refrained from really hurting her, no matter how viciously she provoked them. Until three days earlier.
She’d had no warning about the change, not until the interrogators came into the reasonably comfortable room where they’d kept her…and beat the hell out of her without so much as asking her a question. She’d stood up, as she had every day since they’d brought her there, but this time she rose to a hard punch in the face, one that almost knocked her back on the bed. She staggered, but she managed to maintain her footing, as much through sheer stubbornness and the refusal to give her assailants the satisfaction of seeing her fall.
It was a short-lived bit of spite. The two interrogators had begun pummeling her, one of them with huge, balled up fists, and the other with a hard rubber club. She felt pain everywhere, up and down her body as the blows landed, and despite all her tenacity and grit, she fell, first to her knees, and then face down to the floor.
They’d dragged her from the room then, and taken her down to a cellar, somewhere at least two levels below ground. There, they threw her into what seemed to be some kind of cell. It was dark, and damp—hell, it was wet—and she landed hard on the cold cement floor.
She’d sat on that same floor, ate there when they’d deigned to feed her, and even slept there, shivering in her half-wet clothes, soaked through from the seemingly perpetual puddles on the ground. She’d reacted at first with her usual fiery rage and determination, but deep down, she knew her strength was faltering. She hated her own weakness, but she was aware that she was getting closer to telling them whatever they wanted to know, anything if they’d just bring her back to her room, stop the beatings.
Her thoughts had turned from escape—which seemed hopeless—to thoughts of suicide, assuming she could find a way to do it. It was counter to every impulse inside of her, every urge that drove her to fight to the end. But this wasn’t that kind of situation. Sooner or later, her captors would break her…and she would tell them everything she knew.
Still, she wasn’t sure that would matter much. After all, Lille clearly knew already that Confederation Intelligence was making a move against his operations. She didn’t really know much more than that. She could give the names of her crew, all operatives, of course, but she couldn’t imagine Holsten hadn’t already assumed that their covers were blown and pulled them out. It wouldn’t exactly be an intelligence coup for Sector Nine to discover that Confederation Intelligence was sick of being made into fools on their own border worlds.
If she’d known anything truly sensitive, she probably would have taken her own life, assuming her captors gave her the chance in some way. She wouldn’t want to live knowing she’d given her enemies what they needed. But, she knew her interrogations would be fruitless. Whatever they thought she might know, whatever information they expected to get from her…that was all that was keeping her alive.
And, despite the thoughts that had plagued her weaker moments, Andi resolved she would not kill herself. It just wasn’t in her DNA to do something like that. She would resist to the last, and if they wanted to break her, she would make it as difficult as she possibly could.
And if one of them gets careless, gives me an opening…
Killing one of the bastards…now, that might be something worth dying for.
She was tired, and her entire body was wracked with pain…but there was something else, too. An old friend. Defiance. And, it was still there—a warmth inside, keeping her going despite the fear and growing hopelessness.
Yes, they would break her.
But not today.
* * *
“Confederation Marines…open this door right now, or we’ll break it down.” The sergeant had barely finished his threat when he gestured to the private standing next to him with the handheld battering ram. The armored Marine hurled himself at the door, holding the heavy metal cylinder in front of him, and his momentum carried him straight through into the room beyond. The old wooden door didn’t so much open as shatter into hundreds of tiny shards.
The sergeant followed right behind, flanked by three other privates, all with assault rifles drawn and pointing toward the room’s occupants. There were two men and a woman, and they were sitting at a table covered with boxes containing some kind of small electronic components. They leapt up, moving their bodies in an almost comically ineffective effort to hide the items from the Marines.
The sergeant held back a sigh, but only through pure discipline. Bashing down doors in a Confederation city wasn’t usually part of his duty roster. Sergeant Malcolm Jones was a veteran of the Union War, and he’d seen service in two significant battles in that conflict, as well as half a dozen skirmishes. He’d been wounded twice, once superficially, the other time seriously enough that he’d spent the first day unsure if he’d make it.
He knew orders when he heard them, and he damned sure obeyed them without question, but he had no idea what was actually going on. Command HQ just sent
lead after lead, addresses around the city that had triggered the suspicions of someone substantially higher in rank than Jones himself, and each time, his people interrupted one more sex worker plying his or her trade, or a group of petty thieves divvying up their haul.
He knew Border worlds like Dannith had more than their share of lowlifes and crime, though he’d still been surprised at the sheer number of jailable offenses his people had uncovered in a few nights’ work. He’d wondered what the local police did, and then he came to the startling conclusion that all the crimes his people had seen were the crumbs—offenses that didn’t even rise to a sufficient level to provoke a reaction from Dannith’s overworked, and likely corrupt, law enforcement agencies.
He still had no idea what Marines were doing on the planet, a hundred teams like his raiding criminal enterprises the local police didn’t even bother with. Jones knew his people were looking for someone specific—a woman, one of the dispatchers had told him, not sounding entirely sure of himself when he did. Neither Marine command nor the local authorities were very interested in the routine illicit activity they’d uncovered, and for the most part, after searching and finding nothing of note, the Marines moved on, leaving the terrorized criminals no doubt breathing hard, but otherwise unmolested.
Jones walked toward the table as his Marines moved the room’s occupants against the wall, relieving two of them of guns that looked ancient enough to predate the Confederation. He looked down at the boxes, reaching out and tilting one toward him to get a better look at its contents. It looked like a collection of small circuit boards of some kind, or, more accurately, broken shards of larger boards. As far as he could tell, the stuff was old tech of some kind, but it was in terrible condition, damaged by acid and clearly missing components. He guessed it still had some value, but not enough to worry about. Still, he’d check. He didn’t want the responsibility of making that decision himself.