And there it was. Traffic control had diverted regular ship traffic to starward, leaving a great empty section of space on the other side of the station. In the middle of this space was an island of motion, glints of running lights and the occasional flash of reflected star. Opal increased the zoom on the vid as far as she could and brought the scene into focus. Lights from shuttles and tugs swept across the hull of a MilDiv courier, a big interstellar ship, fast and bristling with sensor arrays. She recorded an image of the markings, checked the ship ID database—the TGS Kestrel. And it was broken. A chunk of it seemed to be missing, in fact. At first, Opal thought the angle of the view was wrong, but no. Kestrel was leaking sparks from a gash in its hull that cut through an engine pod. It wasn’t a collision; corrosion and deformation marked the wound, blackened oxidization streaking around it, the scars left by fire and escaping atmosphere. Something had blasted the ship. How had it even survived to limp back to port? The crew must have been frantic—
Opal took it all in, unable to turn away from that sight, the vision of the world changing. She didn’t think it would happen like this.
“Opal?”
She started, as if from a trance. Hypnotized by those images, that scene, the ship more broken than any she had ever seen, that would likely soon be coming to her bays for help. But they didn’t have enough power, enough supplies, enough crew—
“Opal.”
It was Henry, standing with a hand on the arch, looking in worriedly.
“Oh. Yes? I’m sorry, I was...” She shook her head.
“What is it?”
Kestrel must have hurled itself through a jump after the fight that broke it, using the last of its crew, praying the hull held together. Nothing left now but to pick up the pieces. Wonder if what happened to it would happen again. How soon it would happen again.
She ought to tell Henry to get back to work, that nothing was wrong. She ought to wait for whatever orders came from up top.
“Henry. There’s a ship going to be coming in, very badly hurt. We’ve got the clear bays in Eight and Nine. I’m betting that’s where they’ll send it. Not sure what’s going to happen next, just get ready to jump whichever way they call for, right? Pass it along.”
Henry stared at her, amazed. “Opal, what’s happened?”
“Just be ready to jump. I’ve got to see Creedy.”
She left Henry staring after her. She needed to tell Creedy, to prime him for what was coming. She tried to walk down the long, curved corridor as if nothing was wrong.
Some of her crew called out to her. Zare, coming out of Bay Three, calling, “Opal, that power ration still isn’t enough—”
And then Jon from Bay Two. “Opal, I need to talk—”
She waved them away and kept walking. Shut down a series of ordinary comm requests beeping on her headset until she pulled the thing off her ear and left it hanging on her shoulder. She didn’t have time, she didn’t want to know. Not until she identified that incoming problem, and had answers to too many questions.
The terminal at Creedy’s office scanned her as she approached, and the door opened.
“Sir, I need to talk—”
Creedy wasn’t there. The man, almost a part of the furniture, never moving from behind the shield of his desk, was gone. The room didn’t look right without him. The screen on the back wall, its pretty scenic pictures, was dark.
Instead, Station Director Ahmen, his eyes shadowed and his station uniform looking uncharacteristically rumpled, stood before the desk, showing a hand terminal display to a tall woman in a MilDiv uniform standing next to him. Even without the uniform Opal would have spotted her as MilDiv—polished, ramrod straight yet supple as rubber, like she was used to the gravity going out at any moment and could wrestle people off the ceiling without sweating. She had a bright new bruise on her pale cheek. More than that she was tired, the lines on her frown deeper than her seeming forty-odd years warranted. Her reaction to Opal’s entrance—a glance and a blink—seemed delayed.
Director Ahmen said, “Chief Lamb. We were just about to call you.”
“Sir?” she said weakly. And where had Creedy gone?
“This is Commander Deshan.”
“Sir,” she said in greeting.
“Chief,” Deshan answered. Opal was surprised at how soft her voice was. Maybe it was a symptom of fatigue. “There’s a ship coming in that will need an immediate berth and priority attention.”
“Yes, I know. Sir.” The commander tilted her head, inquiring. No sense in dissembling. “I knew something must be up, so I checked an external vid feed and found the Kestrel.”
“Ah,” Deshan said.
“I told you she was our best,” Ahmen said. “Chief Lamb, is this going to be a problem?”
“No. We’ll have to do some shuffling of crews, but we can handle it.”
“Good,” Deshan said, her voice melting a bit. With relief? “You’ll report to me throughout repairs and for the foreseeable future. I’ll have one of my crew look at your current workload to determine which jobs are essential or non-essential, in order to prioritize essential work. All traffic is locked down until we can make that rating. I expect there to be a lot more work for you coming in soon.”
“Sir?” She looked back and forth between the pair. Things were moving quickly now.
“You’re being promoted, Lamb,” Director Ahmen said. “Dock supervisor. We’re counting on you to keep things moving.”
“But where is Creedy?”
Ahmen said, “He’s being transferred.”
Part of her wasn’t at all surprised. She tried to imagine Creedy dealing with the preternatural Commander Deshan, and simply couldn’t. So part of her wasn’t surprised. But part of her was horrified.
“We’re being militarized,” she said, just so she was clear.
“Yes,” Ahmen said.
Deshan lowered her gaze, as if she was sorry. Just for a moment. “Chief Lamb, you’ll have the field rank of master sergeant until a more formal command structure can be established. The chiefs will report to you, you’ll report to me. It’s probably best if you pass the news along to your crews and start your reorganization as soon as possible.”
Opal didn’t know anything about being a master sergeant, but she supposed she’d learn.
“You should know—yes, we can work on your ship, we’ll strip parts out of our own repair bays if we have to. But we’ve had supply problems for months now, and a power deficit. As far out as we are, Tennant Station just hasn’t been a priority, and we’re behind on upgrades—”
“Noted,” Deshan said. “I’ll pass that information along.”
Deshan seemed to expect her to turn around and leave now. Maybe even salute, then turn with a smart click of her heels. Opal didn’t make the attempt, lest it seem mocking.
She lingered an extra moment. “Commander, would you please express our sympathies—all of us in the dockyard’s sympathies—to the Kestrel’s crew?”
Deshan smiled thinly and nodded. “I will. Thank you.”
Opal left.
By the time she reached her closet, the director was making a station-wide announcement, something about a state of emergency, encroaching hostilities, martial law. Opal had to shuffle crews —she’d put the best in charge of Kestrel. Henry’s crew. It might only take a little shifting around. But she didn’t know what she was going to tell Captain Ray about Marigold. He’d be calling any second. What happened would likely depend on whether Deshan and her people decided if Marigold was essential or non-essential. Essential for what?
Three bays could work on Kestrel, which should dock at Nine. Out of the way, plenty of room.
Then, she stumbled, so much so that she had to put her hand against the chill wall. An image had caught her, of her little kingdom in flames, whole sections crumbling as they decompressed, the station collapsing, tumbling out of orbit—
She locked that image out, never to be thought of again. Ever.
She was ab
out to message Ahmen to ask for Deshan’s contact information—she should have asked the commander, but she’d been too flustered. Maybe she could call traffic control directly, assuming things had settled down there. Then her terminal beeped with an incoming file from Deshan: a set of military requisition forms, for expedited supply and delivery of any and all tools, materials, personnel, and power ration she thought she would need for the next six months, given the likelihood of a high number of repairs involved catastrophic damage.
Blank, unlimited requisition forms. Opal had never seen such a thing. She didn’t know such a thing existed. This was it, she could have anything she wanted.
It wasn’t enough.
THE LAST BROADCASTS
An Owomoyela
DAJA HADN’T BEEN out to Relay Point before, and would have left it that way. Not that she wasn’t glad, or at least resigned, to do whatever the Coordination Office needed her to do, but she didn’t love space enough to see her relocation from Colossus as a step up. Or even as an adventure. Instead, as the station came into sight—ring upon ring of utilitarian grey, barely brushed with light from Sato System’s now-distant star, all but lost against the snowy visual static of interplanetary space—she couldn’t help but think her first priority was to secure a transfer back to planetside as soon as possible. Doing so would have to wait until she learned why she was here.
She’d been practicing her focus on the way up, eschewing the sensory-limiting headset which was probably a good idea, but stepping off the shuttle hit her with so much stimuli that she stood dumb in the concourse for a good two minutes. All her energy went into trying to just see grey walls, white floor, people, and not the flash of light along that person’s scarf, shattering into little glints, visual pepper, sharp and arresting, gold against crimson, or—
The thing was, there was so much detail in every environment—sound, temperature, motion, color, light intensity, subliminal social interpretation, taste, smell, so much of it—that her mind couldn’t process it all. Never had been able to. So, like a kind of defense mechanism, she’d find herself caught on some little singular detail which would swell up to occupy her entirely, and she›d lose the rest of the world in it.
The station’s automated helper chimed at her from a console nearby. She didn’t notice it at first, until it chimed louder, more insistently, and spoke from a place that seemed like it was inside her skull.
((Hello, Daja! Welcome to Relay Point. Please step into one of the privacy booths for a second.))
Daja glanced around. A few of the other passengers were veering off toward consoles at the wall; receiving their own instructions, probably, either beamed to implants or delivered via the much lower-tech focused directional sound. Narrow noses or broad hands or uneven gaits—one of them made her unbalanced just to look at, and his footsteps rattled unevenly against her ears. She closed her eyes. Opened them. Glanced around again; a nearby door rewarded her with an encouraging flash of gentle light, something that might have been more obvious to someone other than her, and she stepped through. The door slid closed behind her.
((Welcome,)) the station helper said again, this time playing ambient. ((How was your travel?))
“Long,” Daja answered honestly. “Overwhelming. I want to see my quarters and get a meal.” Acclimatize. “Is that... is that all set up?”
((Of course,)) the helper said. ((Everything’s ready for you to move in, and your work schedule’s been generated. It’s ready for your review at any time. Before you start, though, you need to acknowledge the Office’s confidentiality and non-disclosure policies. You’ll be held to their standards for the duration of your work here, and indefinitely thereafter.))
The helper’s voice was a very good synthetic, but there was still a buzz to it, as though it was wavering just a bit too fast for a human voice to catch. Daja considered that, and then yanked her focus back to the content of the words. “This is in addition to everything I acknowledged when I received the assignment?”
((Yes. In addition to.))
Bureaucracy. Daja let out a breath. “Well, let me have it.”
((You are being assigned to the Caribou Information Integrity Task Force. All information about the transmission, quality, or content of the Caribou data streams is classified. You are not to divulge or discuss any aspect of it, or of the specifics of your work, with any person not assigned to the Caribou Information Integrity Task Force, now or in the future, without the direct knowledge and permission of the Supervisor Sol Liaison.))
Daja’s eyebrows shot up. “Data integrity is classified? What? Since when?”
((That date is classified.)) The automated helper wasn’t properly intelligent, but Daja imagined it was smug. ((Please acknowledge.))
“I... acknowledge,” Daja said. “I’ve never worked on anything classified before.” Private before release, yes, but that was different.
The automated helper didn’t have a response to that. ((That’s all I need,)) it said. ((Your supervisors are ready to meet you at your convenience. Or should I tell them you need to visit your quarters first?)) A hiccup, as though the assistant was accessing her file, appending something. ((The Sol Liaison is from Sol, you know. Arrived on the last transport, seven anno ago.))
That was enticement, Daja had to admit.
She thought about it for a moment; going to a minimally-furnished room, maybe being there when her packs were delivered, or walking in to find all her things, ready for arrangement. The latter would probably be less disruptive. Of course, she wanted to return to a familiar environment as soon as possible; problem was, there wasn’t a familiar environment available on Relay Point.
“I’ll meet them,” she said.
((I’ll let them know,)) the helper said, and then rattled off a string of instructions which Daja winced at, then tried to commit to memory. ((Query any of the consoles along the way if you have questions.))
“I will,” Daja said. “Thanks.”
The door opened for her with a low sibilance.
She exited, and immediately a light outside one of the concourse windows caught her attention. It was the broad sweep of one of the station’s inner rings, lit by the sun to almost glowing against the background starfield, cut dramatically as a knifestroke by the shadow of another ring beyond it.
This was a problem. Even with her focus broadened, grounded, trained, details always percolated up through Daja’s unconscious, arriving at her conscious mind like unannounced visitors. And there was always some part of Daja’s mind which greeted each one with the wonder of a child who didn’t know to check with parents before inviting strangers in. Given enough time and she could learn to love this place, the steady purr of the air cyclers, the walls holding her close wherever she went. And she didn’t want to love this place. She’d do her bit here, get her piece, and go back planetside. That was the plan.
Still, without a haze of atmosphere in the way, the starfield was breathtaking. And she was standing here, with only a window and distance between her and it. Looking out from this environment, across that landscape—and it was a kind of landscape, the rings and the light and the shadow—at the light which bathed them all, only to be scattered on the weight of air. She could love that. Maybe, in honesty, she did already. A little.
And turning back to the hall, someone had selected that institutional grey and that white with care; they coordinated, like a… what was that Earth bird? The one with all the literary weight. Crow? Dove? And the white floors were scuffed, here and there, but cleaned so you›d hardly notice. Cared for.
She shook her head. Supervisors. Time to go.
DAJA HAD NEVER met an actual person from Sol before. Despite knowing, intellectually, that there was likely to be nothing special about him, she still couldn’t help a hungry curiosity. Would he be abnormally tall by Sato System standards? One of those incredible pale-cream people, or the carbon-black ones, outside the bounds of normal Sato variation? What would his accent be like?
But whe
n she walked into the office—oddly oblong, in a way that caught her attention and wouldn’t release it for a second or two—the man from Sol was... average. A little on the weedy side, but he just looked weedy, not exotic. And his accent wasn’t the cultured Earth Standard her ears had been trained by entertainments and news reports to expect. It was some other Sol System accent, one she couldn’t identify. Maybe not from Earth at all.
“Daja.” He gave her a curt nod. “I’m Supervisor Sol Liaison Bole Channing. This is Supervisor Sato Administrator Hatizda.”
The other woman in the room was standing off to the side, with a pinched, fixed smile. A bit taller than Daja and bulkier, darker, and significantly older. Hair done up in some deceptively simple geometric pattern that Daja, with an effort, didn’t get her attention lost in. Come to think of it, after the initial disappointment, Channing wasn’t so average, either; his fingers moved restlessly, the tips of each one visiting his thumb in turn, and his breathing was deeper than his voice suggested, and carefully disciplined. Then he was on to his next sentence, and Daja wrenched her attention back.
“You know that the work of this office is to collect the datastreams from Caribou, correct any data degradation, and prepare it for transmission to Sol and Waheed.”
He paused there, and it was a moment before Daja realized he was waiting for her confirmation. As though they had been worried that she actually wouldn’t know that, when she arrived. But that was one of Sato System’s claims to importance: it was a hinge world, on the transmission lines between two frontier systems and the great, ancient cradle of mankind. One of its roles, since Caribou had been settled—and Waheed settled, much more recently—was to receive the faster-than-light databursts, clean any corruption, and send the news on.
Information was the lifeblood of human civilization. Transports from one system to another were staggeringly expensive; they launched from Sol once every decade, and from Sato once every twenty-five. Caribou and Waheed hadn’t yet built up the infrastructure to allow people to return. And the wait for the transports was only half of it; the transit from Sol to Sato crested fourteen anno, and the distance from Sato to Caribou and Waheed was longer than that.
Infinity Wars Page 3