by Nick Webb
“That the GPC is basically what it claims to be. They wear their intentions and goals on their sleeve. Nothing underhanded going on. What they say is true: they’re working for independence from UE for whichever world wants it. There are a few affiliated groups who are more … militant, and mostly outside of Secretary General Curiel’s control, but the GPC itself is on the up-and-up.”
“And Mullins? What does he want?”
Liu’s face looked cold at the mention of the name. “Mullins? War. He wants war.”
“Why?”
Liu blew out a puff of air in exasperation. “Hell if I know. He didn’t exactly give me the bad guy monologue before he tried to kill me.”
“But you have a better idea than anyone right now of what he’s after. Speculate.”
Liu closed her eyes. “Mullins is ego driven. I mean, he wants money and power just as much as the next guy. But Mullins thrives on being the guy at the top. He needs it. Craves it. And so he’s positioned himself through his connections as an IDF admiral, to being not only the head of Shovik-Orion, but essentially the strongman of Bolivar. They’ve got a president, of course, but he’s basically Mullins’s puppet. And, through his leadership at Shovik-Orion, he fancies himself the strongman of not only Bolivar, but every world where Shovik-Orion has a major presence, which, in the Irigoyen sector and the sectors close to it, is at least seven or eight planets. Many of the new colonies were essentially funded and started by Shovik-Orion.”
Proctor leaned back in her chair. “So. Mullins wants to rule his own little empire like a petty tyrant.”
“Oh, not just that. War is profitable, Admiral. For a company like Shovik-Orion, which supplies UE, IDF, and GPC, and a good portion of the Chinese, the Russians, and even the Caliphate, a war—especially one on the scale of the Second Swarm War—is the biggest profit-making engine they have. So not only is he probably trying to set up his own little empire with himself at the top, he wants to fund it off the backs of everyone else, and if he has to start an intergalactic war to fund it, and if, in the confusion of said intergalactic war, he manages to get his political dominance officially recognized, since IDF, in their need for a regular stream of supplies from Shovik-Orion, won’t do anything that might piss him off and cut off the equipment for the war effort….”
Proctor shook her head. “What a big, ugly mess.” She paused to process all the information. The implications. The possibilities. “How is he doing it? I assume this mess with the Dolmasi is his fault. And, most likely, the alien ship that slagged a bunch of our moons.”
Liu shrugged. “I think, but I’m not sure, that Shovik-Orion has a secret research arm. A black projects division. And I’m pretty sure that they’ve been doing banned artificial singularity research involving meta-space shunts.”
“The shunt. My god…” murmured Proctor. If true, that was terrifying, devastating news. Artificial singularities, developed by the Russian Confederation and used by the Swarm during the last war, had wreaked terrible, unthinkable destruction. The possibility that someone might be developing the technology further….
“At least, I did hear Mullins talk about a shunt at one point, though at the time I didn’t know what he meant?” She posed the statement as a question.
Proctor weighed how much to tell the other woman. She wanted the conversation to be a one-way street, but she supposed that throwing Liu a few bones might spur her memory, or possibly garner trust. “The bomb over Sangre De Cristo. It was more than just a nuclear device. Half of the energy was … shunted, into meta-space. We think it’s what was responsible for both summoning that alien ship, and for driving the Dolmasi crazy, among other things.” Proctor pointed a finger at her. “That’s highly classified, by the way.”
Liu smiled. “I’m dead, remember? That means I’ve either lost my clearance, or have a higher clearance than you.” It was a small joke, accompanied by a small smile, but the gesture was appreciated. Though Proctor wondered if the former intel officer was performing psy-ops on her.
“Admiral?” The speaker in the ceiling blared with the drawled voice of the comm officer, and Proctor lifted her head to answer.
“What is it, Lieutenant Qwerty?”
“Ma’am we just picked up a highly targeted meta-space signal. Was basically pointed straight at us—very tight confinement beam—spatially, at least.”
Proctor raised an eyebrow. “Source?”
“That’s just it, ma’am, it looked like it came from nowhere in particular. I almost thought it came from Mao Prime’s moon, but then I checked the numbers and that’s not quite right. It’s like it came from slightly above the moon, from our perspective, at least.”
“Have you decrypted the message?”
“No, ma’am. Workin’ on it.”
She nodded, and stood up, offering a hand to help Liu. “Understood, Lieutenant. Please keep me informed.”
Liu followed her out the door into sickbay proper, where Doc Patel was waiting.
“Thank you, Doctor. I need to borrow your patient for awhile. Don’t worry, I’ll have her back before the end of the day.”
“Ma’am?” said Liu. Procter realized she hadn’t told Liu what she wanted her for.
“We’ve pulled some research on Shovik-Orion recently. I want you to look it over and tell me what you think.”
Liu nodded.
The sickbay doors opened, and Proctor’s security detail came in. Damn, they were good. Knew exactly when she was ready for them. She gave them a quick nod—which they returned—and she looked back to Liu. “Please come with me.” She noticed Liu was still looking at the marines, a strange expression on her face. Recognition?
When Proctor turned back around, the marines had leveled their assault rifles.
And pointed them straight at her.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Britannia Sector
Britannia
Outskirts of Whitehaven
Freighter Angry Betty
The Angry Betty was a beast. An ancient, cobbled-together, heavy, rickety, barely-functioning beast of a cargo hauler. But it was dependable, and its q-jump engines were the best out of all the tiny fleet of ships that Nile Holdings, Inc. had, at least at the local warehouse Keen worked at.
The gallium—all fifty tons of it, enough to fill a cavernous steel storage container the size of a small house—sloshed as the Angry Betty’s thrusters ignited. As instructed, he’d arranged for special dispersion equipment to be installed on the container and the orbital thrusters attached. He assumed the customer would control it remotely, but that was not information that was forthcoming from the strange man, and Keen was not going to risk asking. Nothing was going to stand in the way between him and that pile of cash. And all the hookers and booze that pile of cash would fund.
“Whitehaven spaceport traffic control, this is the Angry Betty, cargo freighter with Nile Holdings, Inc., registry number oh-five-seven-charlie-dash-sixty-four-thousand-and-one-dash-zed-five. Requesting permission to enter orbit.”
The comm radio scratched with the reply from the control tower several kilometers away. “Acknowledged, Angry Betty. Destination?”
“Proprietary.”
In truth, he still had no idea. All the customer had said was, “far.” And besides, it was none of traffic control’s business.
“Acknowledged. Just confirming you’re actually leaving orbit and not sticking around. That’s all we care about here.”
“Affirmative, traffic control. I confirm—Angry Betty will be leaving orbit.”
A long pause. “Angry Betty, you’re cleared for orbital insertion path Whitehaven Delta Six. Your launch window begins in two minutes and extends for ten more. Safe travels.”
“Thank you, traffic control, Angry Betty out.”
He flipped the comm off, engaged the main engines, and minutes later the Angry Betty was screaming like a bulbous, heavy, unwieldy banshee out of Britannia’s orbit. The green continents were visible below through the thick atmos
phere, and the white snow-packed peaks near the coast glistened in the morning light.
When I come back, maybe I’ll buy a frickin’ mountain….
He plugged the tiny data pad the customer had given him into the receptacle on the nav computer, and moments later the system informed him of an impending q-jump. He settled back into his chair for a long nap—the customer hadn’t told him how many jumps the journey would require, and he’d worked all night putting the order together, so it was time to catch up on some sleep.
And dream of his new country estate. And the women. And the booze. And the pool. And the race car. And the mountain. And the tropical island. How much could a few million buy? He wasn’t sure, but he was about to find out.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Orbit over Mao Prime
ISS Independence
Sickbay
Proctor stared down the barrel of the gun. She wondered briefly if it was seconds from going off, or if this was an arrest. An illegal arrest—unless Mullins had managed to not only convince Oppenheimer, but President Quimby and the chairman of the joint chiefs himself. She supposed that, technically, Oppenheimer had the authority to arrest her himself, but given the political situation….
Dammit, her mind was rambling. It was something that tended to happen when faced with death. Her animal brain took over, and, as it turned out, her animal brain was a scientist who thought a lot. And the animal brain, in spite of the gun pointed towards it, couldn’t stop thinking about Liu’s suspicions about the new artificial singularity research program. If there was anything more frightening than an imminent bullet to her brain, it was the possibility that the technology behind the artificial singularities was being improved on in some unthinkably destructive way.
“Admiral, you’ll come with us. Immediately,” said the marine. His eyes drilled into hers unflinchingly.
She inclined her head slightly, signaling to the comm system that she was about to speak. “Proctor to bridge.”
The marine smiled.
She tried again. “Captain Volz, this is Admiral Proctor. Please respond.”
Silence. The marine twitched his gun slightly towards the door. “I don’t think they’ll be sending help, ma’am. Come with us. Now.”
She grit her teeth, put her hands on her hips, squared her jaw, and said matter-of-factly, “No.”
The other marine swore and advanced on her, grabbing her by the upper arms and shoving her towards the door. “We don’t have time for this, ma’am,” he growled.
Doc Patel, who had been hanging back, trying to present as small a target as possible, made his move. He lunged for the marine holding the gun still pointed at Proctor’s chest, trying to jab him with a meta-syringe, likely full of a tranquilizer. How he’d managed to get one loaded during the brief confrontation she could only guess—did he just keep one in his pocket at all times, as a precaution? She made a mental note to buy him a beer later at Futwick’s.
The gun cracked.
Patel stumbled backwards, grasping at his chest.
He fell.
Blood was erupting from a hole in his scrubs, pulsing with each heart beat. But with each pulse, the flow lessened. His face, at first terrified, relaxed and went blank as he died.
The gun moved back to her, and the marine nodded towards the door. “Admiral? Now.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Orbit over Mao Prime
ISS Independence
Bridge
Volz leaned over the comm station, peering at the console in front of Lieutenant Qwerty. “The signal had to have originated somewhere. What about the satellites orbiting the moon? Can we access them somehow and go through their comm logs?”
Qwerty shook his head. “I doubt it, Captain. Even under normal circumstances, those satellites are Chinese, and even though we’ve got treaties that would let us look through their logs, the paperwork would take months. And they just fought off a … you know … alien invasion. I don’t think CIDR’s in a talky mood just yet.”
Volz rubbed his temples. “Fine. What about our IT boys? Surely we can hack in? Don’t we have a ten trillion dollar cyber-security budget?”
Lieutenant Whitehorse, sitting nearby at the tactical station, mirrored Qwerty’s head shake. “Negative, sir. First off, cyber-security isn’t the same as cyber warfare. Second, hacking into a satellite is trickier than you might think. Even UE satellites. We’ve got backdoors into those, as you know. But CIDR satellites? Those things have something like fifty nested firewalls. The Chinese really, really, really don’t want people hacking into their satellites.”
“I bet Admiral Sun will give us access. I mean, we did just help him fight off an invasion of their capital….”
Whitehorse shrugged. “CIDR military folks are skittish. I’m sure he’ll say something like, ‘yeah, you saved our planet an hour ago, but what have you done for me lately?’”
Volz had had enough. “Fine. I want to know where that meta-space signal came from. Now. Give me some options, people.”
Mumford raised a finger. “We could rule out the CIDR satellites, at least. Just interpolate their positions when the signal was sent, and then—”
Qwerty interrupted, “But meta-space signals have such a long wavelength, it’s almost impossible to nail down the source, spatially, at least not without a great deal more triangulation than we—”
“Yes, yes, but that would at least rule out the ones on the other side. I mean, how many CIDR satellites could there be around Mao Prime’s lifeless, uninhabited moon?” Mumford asked.
“Fifty-seven,” said Qwerty.
Mumford looked crestfallen. “Oh.”
Volz balled up his fists, ready to pound something. Something just felt … off, about that signal. That it seemed to originate from empty space, and that it was, unusually for a meta-space signal due to their large wavelength, targeted directly at the Independence in a tight beam, and encoded. If he was honest with himself, he felt like someone had just painted a large set of crosshairs on the ship. It was irrational, but that’s what it seemed like.
“Move the ship. Get us into a higher orbit. Geosynchronous. And begin t-jump calculations to get us out of here at a second’s notice.”
“T-jump heading, sir?” said Ensign Riisa at the helm.
“Any heading. Just a few light seconds away—I’d still like to see what’s going on here if we have to hightail it.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” she replied, but then furrowed her brow. “Sir? I’m not getting a response from the engines.”
Volz jolted upright. The alarm bells went off in his head. “Come again?”
Riisa shook her head in frustration. “The status board says they’re online, I … I just can’t access them.”
Volz raised his head toward the ceiling. “Bridge to engineering. Rayna? What’s going on? Are the engines down?”
Silence.
“Captain…?” Lieutenant Qwerty’s face had started to drain of color. “All comms from the bridge are out. In fact, we’ve lost control of just about every system, as far as I can tell.”
Volz spun around to the entrance to the bridge, and pointed at the two marines stationed there. “Seal the bridge. Now. Protocol Firestorm.”
The marines, to their credit, sprung into action. They knew what Protocol Firestorm meant: that the ship had been compromised, and that their job was to lock the bridge down and keep intruders out at all costs. The doors, already shut, now locked into place and bars extended from hidden sleeves to seal them tight. Volz could almost hear the ventilation system shut down, switching over to a local emergency backup—if any intruders had planned on gassing them, that avenue of attack was closed, too. The bridge was now hermetically sealed.
“Captain…? This is strange.” Ensign Riisa looked up from the nav console. “The ship’s power plant is … well, operating normally, but there’s something strange about the phase of the containment envelope. It’s … pulsing. Semi-regularly.”
Volz strode
over to see what she was talking about. Sure enough, on the console, he watched the readouts from the power plant waver. The phase kept on changing—something that would have absolutely no effect on the performance of the power systems, or any effect whatsoever. But it was….
“Code.” Volz waved Qwerty over. “Lieutenant, read this for me.”
Qwerty sprung out of his chair and watched the pulsing of the phase envelope on Riisa’s console. “It’s Morse, alright.” He had a momentary sense of deja vu, remembering how, just a few weeks ago, a thirteen billion year old message had been transmitted to them using the same archaic code. Shelby, they’re coming, encoded into an alien weapon, using Morse, of all things.
Qwerty started reading the words as they were spelled out by the engines. “Engineering taken. Intruder target is sickbay, shuttle bay.” He looked up. “Then it repeats automatically.”
Volz felt like someone had hit him in the gut. With a half-ton hydraulic wrench. “Sickbay—that’s where Shelby is. They’re going for the admiral.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Orbit over Mao Prime
ISS Independence
Engineering
Rayna Scott loved her engines like her children. At least, that’s what she thought—she’d never actually had a child. Real children screamed far too much. Diapers, bottles—ain’t no one got time for that shit. Give her a hydro-wrench, diagnostic kit, a few spare power couplers, and she’d be happy for life, tinkering with her beloved friends—her real children.
But now something threatened her child, and she was about to go mother-bear on their asses.
“Have you locked out bridge control yet?” said the burly marine. The assault rifle he held, aimed idly down at the floor, looked far more interesting than anything he was saying, so she addressed her reply to the gun itself.
“Yep. They’re as stuck as stripped machine bolts.”