by William Cray
Crassis interjected. “You’re saying this ghost ship, one you are attributing to the Emperor, bombed Mars?”
“Yes.”
He flipped through the report, breaking scroll lock following Tonaska’s. “I don’t see anything in here about a bombardment?”
Tonaska looked back, a blank stare covering her building embarrassment. “The warhead…”
“If it was a warhead.” Crassis interjected.
“…apparently did not detonate.”
“Oh…” Crassis said, “A dud then.” He turned to Giaconna smiling, “I must check on the dud rates of our Gen-3 warheads.” He returned his attention back to the file, touching it to return to Tonaska’s link. “If the thing didn’t go off, did you recover it?”
It was Tonaska’s turn to lie. “Yes. Counselor General. We have it. It was retrieved from the surface during the aftermath of the attack.”
Crassis looked through the report again, scanning through its volumes, then turning back to Tonaska, his first expression of discomfort showed as he swallowed the supreme confidence of earlier. “I do not see that in your report Ambassador, an oversight perhaps?” recovering his posture.
It was Regia's turn to smile. “We felt it best that the knowledge not be included in the report. In these times with security always a concern, we felt it would be more appropriate to personally relay the information to you.”
“I see.” Crassis responded, his body language gave off the distinct flavor of displeasure, which Giaconna squirmed away from. “You have some evidence that ties the Emperor to this weapon. A serial number perhaps, or markings?”
“Let’s be clear. The device we recovered landed in the Juventae Chasma. I do not have the specifics of the weapon, other than it would have destroyed New Meridan City and killed up to nine million Martian and Commonwealth citizens, Ambassador. We have the remains of the bomb your Emperor ordered dropped on us.”
Stripping the irritating spectacles off his face and dropping the filament on the forma, treating it with the disdain he had felt for it from the beginning, Crassis leaned forward, his face still a calculated mask, but one of open indignation and personal affront. “You are a poor liar Ambassador.”
Regia shifted again, appearing accosted and contrite. “Should Parliament be invited to view the bomb? It landed in quite a few pieces, but I believe we have reconstructed it enough to resemble its original configuration, disarmed of course. Its origins would be of great interest to the entire human community of the Old Empire.”
She held her filament file up, facing him as a series of images flashed by. A Commonwealth S.P.E.C.A.T.S in action along the Stratospire’s lower Maintenance Ring…the images of a dead cyborg with a terrible head wound slumped in a car…the flashing, confusing surveillance view of an explosion deep inside cavern containing a popular hotel…and the image of a man restrained in an interrogation room, his voice straining against the apparent internal conflict he was in…
“I am pursuing a lone Intruder who is here in New Meridian City. I do not know…”
The recording played on, with a large dark skinned man hulking over the confession with another female witness, standing nearby as the questioning continued.
Regia Tonaska spoke as the flyer showed the hulking man again. This time in full body restraints and calmly laying out an explanation involving Imperial Intelligence and secret orders. Crassis watched intently.
“This man’s name is Rory Duran.” Regia said over the recording. “He is a former Commonwealth military officer reported killed in action during the Vendetta, and is an Ultra series cyborg. He claimed to be part of a covert team sent to New Meridian to counter an Intruder terrorist attack. I believe he works for you Mr. Ambassador.”
Crassis leaned back into the forma, his eyes drifting away from the damning evidence and turning to Giaconna, his old high born supremacy returning. Giaconna continued to crawl inside his own skin but to his credit, conjured up a thimble of hollow bravado. “Ambassador Tonaska, you must…”
Crassis cut him off, like a scythe through dry fiber, staring at Regia. “Roberto…perhaps it is time to brief our Martian colleague on the agreed protocols regarding the Intruders.”
Giaconna looked on surprised and chided. “Ambassador?”
“Ambassador Tonaska.” Crassis replied with a coy grin. “Please understand that I can confirm none of what you have so poignantly conveyed here today. However, I believe it is necessary to introduce a point of order to your argument. Something perhaps that the Commonwealth,” he turned to a confused Giaconna, “has been negligent, or perhaps in light of your secondary status as a Protectorate, has deemed it unnecessary to be fully open with you about.”
Regia sat quietly, preparing to receive the closest thing to an acceptance of culpability she or her planet would ever receive. The Emperor was too well leveraged to ever be forced into admitting something he simply chose to deny.
“I am sure you are aware of the protocols of the vast powers given to the Emperor following the Intruder occupation of Earth.”
Tonaska continued her passive stance, revealing nothing but acquiescing knowledge with a nod.
Crassis continued, “Along with authorization to conduct a reprisal for the Intruder atrocities committed on Earth in Imperial Mandate 167, there were secondary protocols to prevent a second occurrence anywhere in human space. Those protocols were enacted in secret and gave the Emperor wide ranging powers to bring to bear any and all assets of the signatories, to bring about the complete elimination of the Intruder race.”
Looking on in disbelief, Tonaska turned to Giaconna, who glanced back apologetically, the poorest visage of a statesman she had ever seen. Without looking at Crassis who had returned to his cup, Regia replied with diplomatic indignation. “Authorization to bomb a human city of nine million in order to kill one Intruder?”
Crassis took one last annoying sip of the rich extravagance, “As a Protectorate of the Commonwealth, you are bound to Imperial Mandates issued during a state of emergency, as is any state. Any action taken in defense of humanity against an unthinkable second Intruder invasion would be perfectly legal.”
Regia stood, all precepts of diplomatic courtesy washed away in the revelation. Her chaperon Giaconna, followed suit. Crassis looked on in mock surprise at the angry breach of protocol.
“The Emperor’s recklessness with Martian lives will not go unaccounted Ambassador.”
“My dear Regia, how many lives were saved? Perhaps nine million? Perhaps the entire population of Mars? If, as you believe, Imperial intervention did occur, you and your ungrateful planet should erect a monument to the Emperor for his foresight and swift action in saving you from alien enslavement and suffering the destruction you were personally introduced to you when you arrived at your current posting.”
Tonaska gathered herself after the backhanded diplomatic slap across the face. Removing a flyer from her portfolio, she extended it to Crassis. “The Protectorate of Mars demands the extradition of Major Rory Duran into the custody of the Martian authorities to face charges under the Martian Enhancement Registration Act of 94 B.L.E., conspiracy to conduct acts of terrorism against the citizens of Mars, impersonating a Commonwealth officer, malicious assault of a federal officer, and… murder.”
Crassis reclined into his forma, at complete ease, shaking his head. He took the flyer, taking a moment to examine it with an incredulous expression. Finally dropping it on the low table between them.
“Are you serious, Ambassador?”
“Quite. With the lack of more concrete evidence surrounding the actual events in New Meridian City less than a year ago, it is our intent to prosecute this man. What we do know is that Major Duran arrived on our planet and conducted a series of illegal acts that left scores dead and billions in monetary damages. Not even you can deny the culpability of his actions.”
Crassis folded his hands in his lap, still looking up at Regia who waited for a response.
“Ambassador
Tonaska…” Crassis reached for his cup and took a final sip. “He is a myth. Rory Duran died a long time ago, if he ever existed at all.”
A SIGNAL TO BEGIN
3027 P.F.C.
18 Years before Triumphant Horizons arrives
“Crash site up ahead Consentor… Two minutes.”
“Conditions?”
“Anyone not sealed into a suit will not have long if they survived.”
“And the storm?”
“An hour away or more Consentor. This area will be inaccessible to rescue crews shortly after.”
“Very well. We will do what we can.”
Ambrose ran his hand up along his torso from the belt to the base of his neck. The grip of his extra-environmental emergency suit closed around him and he felt it sinch tight as it sealed. The men inside the ice hopper did the same, making final preparations as their craft slowed and made an aspect change, the sun swinging wide through the open view ports. The back ramp hummed and lowered while they were still on approach and the comfortable interior was replaced by the torrents of winds and freezing temperatures.
They were on their way to the opening of a new housing complex near the equator when the crash beacon sounded, but Ambrose ordered them to divert immediately despite having diplomatic clearance. It would have been easy to ignore any other beacon, but not this one.
As the hopper passed directly over the crash, Ambrose leaned forward, peering over the lip of the ramp to the diamond shine of the glacier below. The shuttle’s tail section had sheered off and lay crumpled across the slab of ice like a beached fish. The flash and seal of the Prime Consenstor of Pavonis was gashed across it like a deep wound carved into its scales. It was Caleb Barbaron’s personal shuttle.
The men of Ambrose’s small security detail looked on in surprise as the wreck came into view. Bodies were on the ice.
“Remember what I said. I will go into the shuttle alone. Pilot, remain on audio silence until I give word.”
“Understood Consentor.”
The loyal men of his small security force nodded at him through their helmets. Some gently touched sidearms at their hips, waking them, but most held out scanners, searching for signs of life or potential threats.
The hopper’s engines whirled and the squat craft thumped onto its skids. The hopper slid on the ice before its grips extended and dug into the sheen of the glacier. His men rushed out, spreading into a delta to protect their Consentor along the trail of wreckage and amongst the remains.
The tail of Barbaron’s shuttle had dug into the ice first, shearing off. The fuselage was still largely intact but the engines had pancaked with the fuselage and broken off their struts. The hot engines slid down the glacier, leaving a trail of melted ice and slush that quickly refroze. The nose of the shuttle had snapped off and rolled away from the wreck in a tangle of crushed metal frames and panels. The pilot would not have survived unless he was in a full crash suit, but no diplomatic ships ever inflicted those monstrosities on passengers or crew during a routine flight. The personal shuttles of Consentors were supposed to be safe.
Everything was as expected.
“All clear Consentor. No survivors. What the crash didn’t do, Pavonis finished.”
Another of his security team chimed onto the channel. “I don’t understand. There was no fire. Why would the passengers sprint away from the wreckage…away from each other?”
The bodies were scattered in a fan away from the fuselage before they fell, trying to escape the wreck and proximity from one another.
“Leave it for the investigators. Touch nothing,” Ambrose instructed. “Is Prime Consentor Barbaron one of the dead?”
He already knew the answer. No, he wasn’t.
Resting against the wrecked hull, Ambrose breathed deeply from his emergency tank, filling his strained lungs. His thighs burned from the short walk on the ice, but no one could make this trek but him. He glanced over at Varn, his head of personal security. Varn’s sidearm was alive and in his hand, pointing at the damaged entrance to the passenger compartment. Anyone still alive inside knew this was no accident by now.
The point of Varn’s gun came up, pushing slowly into the exposed hatch, left open by the bodies scattered around the wreck. They had survived the crash, but not the nanites. The nanites would make sure there were no witnesses.
The shock of the crash would have disoriented them before the compartment came alive with a swarm of sharp black needles. The horror of the attacking swarm would have sent them fleeing away from the wreckage.
Ambrose caught his breath as Varn swiveled his gun slowly around the interior of the wreck. Sweat rolled down onto his face inside the breathing mask.
“All clear, Consentor. He’s inside.”
Ambrose nodded. He took a final breath that cooled his lungs but his legs still burned from the exertion. He closed his eyes in concentration, trying to calm his body and mind before entering. Recalling his Idoan disciplines, he enacted the few basic protections he knew to shield his intentions. Despite his efforts to conceal his purpose, he couldn’t completely banish his complicity in this from the forefront of his thoughts. He cursed himself silently then heaved his bulk into the jagged interior with a grunt.
Ambrose waited inside the dark compartment for a moment. He looked for the tiny sparks near him that indicated his defensive sprites had found and killed any of the horrible black needles still alive in the compartment, but he saw nothing. The passengers would have had no such advanced protections. The attacking nanites did their jobs then died as programmed.
He edged his way past a row of dislodged seats in the darkness, pushing aside insulation and debris from the shuttle’s ceiling. Natural blue light from the Pavonian sun streamed into the interior in tight beams and long jagged shadows. A thick foamy gray slime saturated the interior. Someone had pulled the fire suppression handle. To ward off flame or the crawling nightmare he couldn’t tell, but the re-purposed agricultural nanites that killed them were buried somewhere in the slush, inactive.
The nanites wouldn’t show up as dangerous on routine security scans and wouldn’t cause an alarm if detected before take off. No one would bother scanning them down because they were literally everywhere in Aquilla or any other major city. Repurposing them had been easy enough to conceal with the right access.
Ambrose touched his mask and the lights came up, illuminating the shadows. There were four bodies still strapped into their seats inside the wrecked fuselage. He recognized the one nearest to him. He didn’t know the woman’s name but she was a close associate to Caleb. Sira, or something like that. A functionary with his meta sciences maybe. Ambrose couldn’t remember.
Her pretty face was torn below the neck in long deep scratches. She had tried to claw the nanites out of her throat. Her blue eyes looked up. They were wide with desperation above the bloody rows of her necrotic flesh. Her tongue was swollen from the reaction to the poison and poked out between frozen lips.
“Youuuu.” The moan whispered across the interior of the wreck like a slithering animal. Ambrose searched the darkness with his mask light, finally settling on the center row of seats, holding his light on the still shape. Half lidded eyes looked back at him.
Monticel.
Shoving debris away, Ambrose worked his way past the poor red throat woman and into the center isle, facing Caleb Barbaron’s most trusted Idoan, sitting immobile against the restraints pulled tight to protect him during the crash. The seat had closed around him like tentacles of a cephalopod, saving him from the worst of the impact.
“I can’t move.”
The agricultural nanites had killed his companions with a selective poison, but their DNA sensitive programming had targeted Monticel with a paralytic. He had survived the crash as designed. Ambrose needed Monticel to be able to talk, otherwise this repulsive act was only a ridiculously complex forced retirement.
Again Monticel croaked. “Why are you doing this?”
Ambrose took the final few s
teps, past another of Barbaron’s dead security team. Monticel was dangerous. Maybe not with a blade or a weapon, but his Idoan intuition and intellect could cut even deeper than such crude implements. He was dangerous beyond belief. His knowledge and power as an Idoan Voidman made him essential to the circle of advisors surrounding the Consentors, but as keeper of Caleb’s deepest secrets, he was also expendable.
“I’m sorry Monticel.” Ambrose said. The words came out wrong.
“Why? Why have you done this?”
“I need some information.”
The drugs injected by the nanites had blurred his vision and dulled his sharp intellect, but behind the fog, Monticel was still there. Ambrose could see it in the set of his face and strain in his voice. He had not seen the betrayal.
“I need to know who is commanding the Battleforce?” Ambrose finally said.
Monticel blinked, then tried to focus again on Ambrose. The realization of what was happening came over his face in a slow wave of astonishment and acceptance. Hope drained from him like the wide-eyed contractions of a dying animal. “Consentor Barbaron. Why? Why is he doing this to me?”
Ambrose touched his hand. Held it in his. “Yes. I’m very sorry Monticel. Please know that your retirement was not my decision, but perhaps the method was. This isn’t easy. Events have passed beyond our foresight. Your master is trying to find an advantage and he needs you to tell me everything. Everything you know.”
His voice was weakening. He was fading much faster than was planned. Ambrose pulled a greatcoat off one of the dead, and draped it across the suffering Idoan. In his suit pocket he reached for the cylindrical injector. It was a last resort, but he kept it hidden.
“Retirement…” Monticel said. “Seconds are retired. I am a Prime. He can’t simply cast me off like this. Not like this.”
“You are not a Prime. You are unique and the first of your line, yes, but you are not a Prime. Not like Caleb. But you will continue to serve him. You are serving him now.”