by Nick Webb
Lieutenant Qwerty looked up from his console with a look of mild surprise. “Ma’am? Speak of the devil. The Independence is receiving a hail from a compound in Maria de Lujan—one of the domed cities. It’s Curiel, asking for you.”
Chapter Forty-One
High Orbit over Earth
Freighter Angry Betty
The cargo bay on the Angry Betty was a cramped, awkward space. For all the advances over the years in spaceship design, and even in things like materials science and manufacturing processes, nothing could ever replace the need for duct tape, and Chris Keen saw that it had been put to liberal good use in the bay. Hole in the plasma cargo pallet jack? Duct tape. Light panel coming loose from the ceiling? Duct tape. Smuggling compartment doors not closing properly? Duct tape. Graviton emitters coming unscrewed from the q-jump drive? Duct tape.
But in the center of the bay, resting on an array of wooden pallets, was the massive steel shipping container full of gallium. He imagined it sloshing around as the orbital thrusters maneuvered them into a very particular inclination around the planet below, though now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure if it was still all liquid. He’d kept the cargo bay at a chilly ten degrees C, well below the point the liquid gallium would solidify into a massive, solid chunk of metal. Now that it was frozen, the whole steel shipping container, combined with the solid chunk of gallium within it, basically formed a metal block the size of a small house.
Weirdest shipment ever. But the customer had specified that the temperature in the cargo bay be ten degrees, so ten degrees was what he set it at, no questions asked. All he had to do was repeat his mantra.
Three million dollars. Three millions dollars. Three million dollars. Country estate. Women. Parties. Cars. Hell yeah.
He went through the checklist the customer had given him. All the miniature orbital thrusters were retracted into the cargo container, as well as the dispersal nozzle and pump equipment. He checked that the gallium was, in fact, solidified. A multi-tool analysis sensor confirmed it had solidified to the core. Check, check, check.
When the final item was checked off his list, he got ready to send the signal to the recipient. The customer had assured him another ship would take the cargo off his hands once he’d arrived and gone through his delivery checklist.
Time for pay-day, bitches.
He thumbed the comm switch on his data pad, and keyed in the channel the customer had given him to signal the other ship. At least, he assumed there was another ship he’d deliver the gallium to.
Static.
Nothing happened.
He keyed it in the comm channel again.
Nothing.
Nothing that is, until his ship exploded.
But Chris Keen wasn’t around to appreciate the expanding cloud of glowing slag—the remains of the Angry Betty, a fiery maelstrom surrounding the still-intact, now red-hot steel shipping container full of gallium.
And as the cloud cooled several minutes later, the thrusters poked out of their pockets in the steel walls, ignited, and pushed the battered, glowing-hot container along a very particular orbit high over planet Earth.
Chapter Forty-Two
Orbit over Sangre de Cristo
ISS Defiance
Bridge
“Lieutenant, send a message to Captain Volz. Tell him to take the call for me. Have him tell Curiel I’m … washing my hair or some shit.”
Qwerty nodded, and typed. “…or … some … shit. Got it.”
“And then patch us into the conversation. This should be good.”
Moments later, the link was live. The viewscreen, which had shown the wavering infrared image of San Martin, was replaced by a split screen of Volz and Secretary General Curiel, as telegenic and youthful as the last time she saw him a few weeks ago, when they were both being shot at by unknown assailants.
“Captain Volz,” began Curiel, “I had hoped to talk to Admiral Proctor. When will she be available?”
“She’s indisposed at the moment, Mr. Secretary General. But I speak for her. How can I help you?”
Even though he was obviously well-trained for work in front of a camera, with a face to match, he struggled to contain his displeasure. “Well … first off, please relay my appreciation for her assistance over Earth a few weeks ago. I regret that we didn’t have the time in the immediate aftermath of … the incident, to have a proper conversation.”
Volz smiled. “Oh, you mean the incident where a GPC sympathizer destroyed our shuttle bay, killed half a dozen flight deck staff members, and then launched a stolen nuclear weapon out the back door, nearly incinerating Northern Europe? That incident?”
Proctor chuckled to herself. Ballsy, you’re good.
Curiel almost blanched. “Yes. That incident. Our investigation is still ongoing as to how that bomb was stolen and how it was smuggled aboard your ship. Please relay my assurances to the admiral that I’ll get to the bottom of it. Eventually.”
“Eventually?” Volz leaned in towards the camera. “I’d hope that you get to the bottom of it faster than eventually. Losing a nuclear weapon is kind of a big deal, Curiel.”
The Secretary General’s face clouded over with annoyance. “Just tell Admiral Proctor that we’re working on it, but we’ve got bigger fish to fry. The bigger threat right now is the Dolmasi. My people in the Veracruz sector are telling me that they’re detecting massive fleet movements. They’re not going to stop at Mao Prime. And you can’t just count on the Skiohra to bail you out like last time.”
Proctor snapped her head back to Whitehorse. “How did he know about that? That’s classified.”
Through the comm, Volz seemed to read her mind. “I see the GPC’s intelligence service is second to none.”
Curiel waved a hand. “Please. Everyone in the system could see what happened, even if we weren’t privy to the conversation that took place between the Matriarch and Proctor. The Skiohra show up in their big-ass ship and all of the sudden the Dolmasi pull up and leave? Of course the Skiohra made them stand down.”
Volz shrugged.
“And the reason I’m calling, besides to warn you about the fleet movements … I need to pass a message to her.”
A smirk crossed Volz’s lips. “A message? Who in the world is using the Secretary General of the GPC as a messenger boy?”
“Oh Ballsy, you sure know how to press people’s buttons,” murmured Proctor as she saw the anger flash on Curiel’s face.
“I only agreed to it because of the importance. Because of how the events are tied to each other.” He took a breath, as if trying to suppress his anger. “Patriarch Huntsman asked me to request a meeting with Admiral Proctor, as he believes he has something that she wants. Or rather, knows someone that has what she wants.”
Volz stroked his beard stubble. “Very well. I’ll let her know. What, does Huntsman want to set up a meeting with Proctor and Huntsman? Isn’t that something our secretaries could have done? Or are you taking on secretarial duties in addition to being a messenger boy? Huh, well, I guess you are the secretary general….”
Proctor couldn’t help laughing out loud.
Curiel’s face grew redder. Before he could explode, Volz held up his hands. “Sorry, Mr. Secretary General, it’s been a rough few days. Repelling the Dolmasi attack—we sustained casualties. You’ll forgive us for being a bit, uh, lacking in patience at the moment. Now, what does this information actually mean? And who’s this oh-so-secret source of Huntsman’s?”
“Huntsman is on Britannia right now. And he’s with his source, who apparently is very eager to pass on the critical information to the admiral, but didn’t think it prudent to go through the usual channels as she is under constant watch. You see, the source has very … particular knowledge about the Dolmasi, and doesn’t feel comfortable sharing it with the … powers that be. There’s too much at stake.”
“The source?” Volz leaned even further in.
“Not over an open channel.”
Volz
turned to his side to say something to the officer filling in at comm. Moments later he turned back to the camera. “We’ve encrypted. As long as your side is secure, we’re fine.” He leaned in farther, his lined face filling the entire half of the screen. “Source?”
Curiel hesitated, but relented. “Former President Barbara Avery. He’s with her now, and asks that Proctor get there immediately, before … well, let’s just say I’m sure there are people who don’t want the information she has getting out. You know what I mean. I understand you’ve had recent … difficulties … on board your ship? People you’ve trusted that perhaps you shouldn’t have?”
Proctor gripped her armrests. Curiel knew about the mutiny—the kidnapping attempt on Proctor. That either meant he was behind it—unlikely—or that his intelligence people had contacts on board the ship, or contacts within the organization that was behind the attack, whether IDF Intel or Mullins or … someone.
But more importunely, she finally had a lead. From a source she never would have expected.
From ninety-nine-year-old former United Earth President Barbara Avery.
Chapter Forty-Three
At the hospital in downtown Boston their father met them in the reception area of the oncology clinic.
His face was grave.
“Girls, sit down. Carla? You feeling ok?”
Her face flashed with nervousness. “Yeah. Why?” They both sat down. Their father sat next to them. His eyes were squinting a little, his brow furrowed.
Oh no. Dad never could hide his emotions. The news was bad. Real bad.
“I’m afraid I have good news … and … bad news,” he said, opening the envelope in his hands. The results from the scan. Shelby wanted to cover her ears. Even though adult Proctor, dreaming, knew what he was going to say, she wanted to run away. Escape the injustice of it all.
“Yeah…?” Carla’s voice had started quivering.
“The bad news is, you’re in big trouble. Principal Calderon told me everything. Girls, this behavior is inexcusable.”
The bad news? Principal Calderon was the bad news? Shelby felt her face bloom into a wide smile.
“And the good news is, the scan came back completely clean. Not a single malignant cell left. It’s actually quite miraculous. You’re cured, honey.”
It took a moment for the news to sink in, and when it did, Carla exploded with squeals and shrieks and laughter. Shelby joined her. She’d been imagining this day for six long, grueling months. It was like a god-send. The doctors had said that just like the tumor being one-in-a-million, the cure would be just as elusive. This type of cancer was breathtakingly aggressive and resistant to treatment.
And so, at her mother’s urging, Shelby had prayed, and prayed, and prayed.
And great jumping Jehosephat, it worked. It actually worked. There was a God, and he liked children and puppies and scan-day doughnuts….
Speaking of which … but her father was one step ahead of them. “Do you know what I think we should do to celebrate? We should have some ‘scan-day doughnuts’!”
Carla’s face was pained, embarrassed. “Uh, dad, I kind of used those as secretary-bait. Sorry.”
He grinned. “I know that. No, I’m saying we should skip the rest of school today, all fly down to New York, and get the doughnuts in person, hot out of fryer. It’ll be fun—you deserve it, sweetie, after …everything.”
Carla squealed again. It was the best day ever, and Shelby pulled her rosary out and kissed it. I believe, she thought. Dammit, mom, you were right. And I believe.
Chapter Forty-Four
Orbit over Sangre de Cristo
ISS Defiance
Bridge
They had orbited Sangre de Cristo for almost twenty-four hours, giving Admiral Proctor some much-needed time to recuperate from the wound in her arm and giving the Independence time to continue repairing the damage sustained during the engagement with the Dolmasi at Mao Prime. And giving them all some time to figure out what to do next. Avery had summoned Proctor, through the GPC’s Secretary General Curiel, no less. But she didn’t have time for meetings with people in retirement homes. With open war between United Earth and the Dolmasi, and Titan—along with several other moons in the UE—continuing to swell with mysterious added mass, her time to make on social calls with former presidents was down to zero.
Proctor rubbed her forehead—a headache had settled in and the recent revelations were only contributing to the pain. “What the hell is former President Avery doing in the middle of this? She’s retired.”
Fiona Liu, scrunched behind the tiny navigation station, swiveled back to face her. “Actually, during my stint at IDF Intel, I heard that she keeps her fingers in a few pots. No actual power, but enough people owe her favors that she’s managed to at least stay in the game as a spectator.”
“The game?”
Liu shrugged. “You know. The game. That’s what we called it in the service. The behind-the-scenes maneuverings, the backstabbing, the blackmail, the extortion, the backroom deals, the above-board diplomacy, and the secret threats. The fog of war. All of it. And from everything I’ve heard, Avery lived for it back in her day, and she could never quite give it up once she left office.”
Proctor nodded. “She did love it. She had so many secret programs going on that I don’t think the top brass ever uncovered half of it. In fact, it was her secret anti-matter bomb project that ended up winning us the Second Swarm War, in a way that not even she foresaw—if those warheads hadn’t have been on the Victory when Granger piloted it into the Penumbran black hole….”
“Makes sense, in a twisted way.”
Proctor raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“In complicated situations like that, like in the Second Swarm War, there was no way to know exactly what was going to work, or through which path victory would be achieved. And so Avery—at least, this is my theory—basically had a scattershot approach. Her goal was to throw as much shit against the wall as she could and wait to see what stuck.”
Sometimes it seemed that way. The fog of war could be so thick at times that Proctor often wondered if it might not be a wiser course of action just to strike out in random directions to keep her many enemies off guard and unbalanced. Throw as much shit against the wall and see what stuck. Eventually, one of the one-in-a-million chances would stick, and they could all go home and take a long vacation.
Life doesn’t work that way, Shelby.
“No. We don’t have time for that.” She turned to Qwerty. “Send word to Captain Volz. I want to go confront Mullins. Make him see some reason. See if he’s behind this attempt to get us into a war with the Dolmasi,” she added, with a knowing glance at Liu. “Oppenheimer doesn’t seem to have the balls to do it, so I guess someone has to.”
Qwerty nodded, but before he could acknowledge, Lieutenant Whitehorse caught her attention. “Ma’am, I’m getting odd sensor returns from the debris field of El Amin.”
She leaned forward. “Odd? How so?”
“Nothing terribly urgent, it’s just that … well, I’m doing a passive optical scan of the debris field—which is getting wider by the second, but the size distribution is off. And it doesn’t match the scan from when we first showed up in the system.”
Proctor stood up and approached the tactical station. “Show me.”
Whitehorse brought up a graph of the size distribution of the debris field, and overlaid it on the one taken several hours previously. Sure enough, there was an odd bump on the new graph that was not there on the old. “There. See it? I can’t explain it. A bump, centered on … one hundred and twelve point five square meters.”
“What’s the uncertainty? Does the data have error bars? Could this just be an artifact of … I don’t know … our angular position with respect to the debris field and Sangre de Cristo, or something like that?”
“Uncertainty is less than point one percent on any given data point. This is ten times that. Could be a fluke….”
Proc
tor rubbed her forehead again. “Or it could be something else. One hundred and twelve square meters cross section … tell me, Ms. Whitehorse, do you think it’s coincidental that the bump in the data just happens to occur at the same size as your average light cruiser?”
Fiona Liu cocked her head. “Are you thinking there could be a fleet hiding out there? Curiel? As far as I know he doesn’t have more than a few ships loyal to the GPC.”
“Perhaps Mullins has something else up his sleeve.”
Lieutenant Qwerty glanced up. “Or, ma’am, could be Dolmasi.”
The look on his face told Proctor that he wasn’t guessing. “Meta-space activity?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She walked over and gripped the edge of the comm station. “Mr. Qwerty, are you ready? You’ve had two days to learn their language and the Ligature’s protocol from Krull’s notes. Was that enough?”
He grunted, then grunted some more, then coughed violently, before screeching something vulgar-sounding. “Excuse me, ma’am. That was Dolmasi for, you can bet your cheesy grits I’m ready.”
Proctor raised another eyebrow. “You suppose the Dolmasi have cheesy grits?”
“Be a shame if they didn’t, ma’am.”
It was enough, in spite of the urgency and dread of the situation, to make her chuckle. To take the edge off. “All right. Set q-jump coordinates. Take us out there, Ms. Liu. And please inform Ballsy where we’re going—I imagine we’ll need some backup.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Wreckage of Moon El Amin