by Mack Maloney
The FAB4 didn't take more than a second to spit out its reply: a definite " Yes"
The Secretary drained his drink and thought about this for a long moment.
Then he floated over to where his emergency trans-bag was packed and opened its electric clasps.
True, he'd had centuries of intelligence work to rely on, and he still possessed a very sharp mind, especially for someone his age. But he knew that when in doubt, it was best to seek out some unorthodox help. And while the SF Intelligence network had thousands of analytical bubblers, as well as billions of string comms at its disposal, sometimes simpler was better. And more discreet.
So he reached into his bag and came out with his trusty quadtrol.
Making sure no one was watching him, he did a quick link from the FAB4 to the small handheld device, technically a violation of SF Intelligence rules, but at this point, the breach was of little concern to him. Once it was filled with all the latest information, the Secretary punched in the ultimate question, something he would never have asked the FAB4, as such a politically dangerous inquiry would undoubtedly come back to haunt him.
He asked the quadtrol: "How can the SF save the Empire?"
The quadtrol beeped and burped and took a long time before it came up with an answer, but when it did, its conclusion was very unexpected. Strangely, its reply had little to do with the REF or the war between the services. Instead, it had to do with the case of the Resonance 133 suddenly showing up in the midst of the battle between the SF and SG. Though it was still highly secret that the stolen 'crasher had reappeared, the quad-trol determined that not only was the ship still out there somewhere, there was a good chance that the rest of the rebel fleet might reappear, too.
Why? Because when all the bits of information were considered, it really came down to one thing: regardless of how they were able to do it, ever since the nonbattle against the rebels, the REF had been appearing and disappearing at will. And now at least one of the rebel ships had done the same thing.
Therefore, there was a high probability that all of the rebel ships would return shortly as well. That's why the device suggested the Two Arm be thoroughly searched, not for the REF, but for the rest of the rebel fleet. In fact, the quadtrol said, doing so should be the SF's number one priority.
It was a strange response, because at the moment, it might have seemed the number one priority for the SF would be the dual crises at hand: the war between the services and the REF's nonstop rampage.
In fact, events and recent history had relegated the short-lived invasion of the Two Arm to the back bubbler, so to speak. But there was a subtle beauty in the quadtroFs conclusion. By the strictest interpretation, protecting the Emperor and the Empire was the number one priority of the Space Forces, and at the moment, only the rebels had the stated purpose of disposing of O'Nay. The interservice war and the REF's activities, while extremely troubling, were actually sideshows. It was detecting the return of the rebel fleet first that would give the largest political advantage to the SF.
It would show that while the SG was in effect running wild, it was the SF that had to be called on to deal with the enigmatic invaders.
In other words, for the ultimate big bang, if and when the rebel fleet reappeared, the SF should be there to meet it, attack it, and utterly destroy it.
And if they did this, when everything else settled out, the SF would be credited with nothing less than saving the Empire.
21
There was an empty piece of space located halfway between the bottom of the Two Arm and the entrance to the One. It was called the Andromeda Zee.
The Zee was astride the main star road leading to the original Solar System. Traditionally, this was a place where civilian cargo vessels parked while awaiting authorization to enter the One Arm. Most of these ships could be found floating around a string of artificial moons. These big satellites had concessions for necessities such as water, food, power spikes, and of course, slow-ship wine.
Usually no more than several hundred ships would be lingering in the Zee at any given time. But now there were more than 50,000 ships here. Many were crowded inside the Zee's ill-defined border, but many more were hanging on the outskirts, hoping to get in, both for the proximity to provisions and the relative safety in numbers. Small pirate gangs had been nipping at the edges of this outer mob for weeks.
The 50,000 ships were part of the same makeshift fleet that had recently carried millions of civilians away from the Two Arm. Starting about a month before, those who hadn't fled in the panic surrounding the Two Arm invasion were forced from their homes after the SG declared a large part of the Moraz Star Cloud a No-Fly Zone. Once they'd been herded from the verboten area, the SG had left all these civilians high and dry, with no protection, only orders not to return to their home systems in the Two Arm under penalty of death. Hundreds of thousands had reached the Zee, exhausted and out of money. Many had no choice now but to remain there.
Exactly how many people were crowded into the Zee? No one knew for sure. The best guess could be determined by estimating 10,000 bodies per ship, multiplied by 50,000 ships. That was at least a half billion souls with nowhere to go.
In other words, the Zee was no longer just a truck stop among the stars.
It had turned into an enormous refugee camp.
The conditions inside the forgotten ships had been deteriorating steadily since the first week. These were not top-flight Empire vessels, in which just about every desire of comfort or nourishment could be had by a mere wish. These were civilian carriers, hardscrabble star buses and hastily converted cargo humpers that contained a few inches of space for each individual and accommodations that equaled the worst of steerage. Many people had already died from this overcrowding. Many more lay sick, especially in those vessels just outside the Zee.
That the SG so suddenly left them in this interstellar lurch was considered typical of the Empire's second service. As the Solar Guards were essentially the police force of the Galaxy, the Empire's citizens on the whole both distrusted and feared them. The SG was known throughout the Milky Way for being heavy-handed, corrupt, and ultra-authoritarian. While they were famous for going after some outlaws with a vengeance— such as tax dictators and space pirates — they were also known to be heavily involved with people of the same ilk. Rumors of shady alliances with space meres and freebooters for black-market wine, aluminum, and even jamma were rampant.
The SG's fascistic antics lately only added to this grim perception.
It would always be hard then to determine exactly how the startling news first reached the Zee. Few of the stranded ships still had workable scanners on board, and none of them had other kinds of deep-space detection equipment. What was clear, though, was that on the morning of their thirty-third day in limbo, a fleet of Solar Guards warships suddenly showed up close to the enormous floating refugee camp.
Absolute terror swept through the dour collection of ships, especially after it was determined, again somehow, some way, that the ships belonged to the SG's REF. Even isolated out here in the celestial wilderness, the refugees had heard whispers about the REF's atrocities across the Galaxy. How their intent these days was to inflict as much pain as possible upon the most innocent and vulnerable souls in the Milky Way.
And at that moment, there was no group of people more innocent or vulnerable than the unfortunates caught in the Andromeda Zee.
But then a string comm message arrived on all of the ships — this whether their communications systems were working or not. The message was from the REF, and it was very surprising.
They weren't here to harm anyone, the SG commanders said.
In fact, they told the refugees, the REF was here to take them home.
When word of this spread around the Zee, the SG were suddenly hailed not only as heroes but as saviors.
Their plan seemed simple, too. The trip back to the Two Arm would take just two days at ion-power speed, and it would be done under the protection of the
SG warships the entire way.
It seemed too good to be true. The dispossessed had just one question: Once back in the Two Arm, what would be the procedure for returning them to their individual home systems, their home planets, their homes?
That's when the faceless SG officers running the operation informed the refugees that this was not part of the plan.
22
Bad Mews 666
Agent Steve Gordon knew something was wrong.
He'd first felt it two days before. The universe had shifted a bit. A little cosmic energy had been lost.
Then, an overwhelming sadness had come over him, and even now, forty-eight hours later, he'd yet to shake it
Gordon was the one who stayed behind. To watch over the ship. To watch over the handful of Twenty 'n Six capsules the messengers now considered sacred. To be as close as possible to Zero Point without being detected.
He'd spent all of his time here alone, perched on the highest peak of die moon, very close to where the Resonance 133 still lay, hidden and battered, not far from die moon's immense pyramid.
He'd learned many strange tilings in this time here. That things like breathing and eating were no longer necessary, but a deep understanding of nature and the cosmos was. He'd watched the sky intently, these long days alone, studying the stars and thinking about them in a way he'd never been able to before. He also looked beyond those stars that were part of the Milky Way to the other pinpoints of light, up there in the heavens. Those stars weren't stars at all. They were other galaxies — billions of them. And they made up the universe of which the Milky Way was only a very small part.
Thinking beyond the realm. It was just not done these days — and hadn't been for thousands of years.
Until now.
It was while he was looking up at the skies, thinking about them in this new and different way, when another very distressing feeling came over him. Something was coming. In fact, it was heading right for him, traveling very fast, from somewhere very deep in space.
It arrived just a few moments later, screaming in like a small missile and crashing not a hundred yards from the Resonance 133. It caused a huge explosion on impact.
But it was not a missile. It was something else.
Gordon flew to the crash site in an instant. Here, he found the remains of 33418, Zarex's robot. Its knees were broken, its fingers were smashed, and it had two massive holes in the back of its head.
It was dead.
This is not good, Gordon thought. Not good at all.
He looked up at the stars and whispered a few words, and suddenly the others were around him.
Summoned through the ethers by this turn of events, Tomm, Erx, Berx, Klaaz, and Calandrx were not there one moment, but simply there the next.
They all hovered above the robot's mechanical corpse now. Profound sadness times six. They had all been fond of the mighty danker, almost as much as Zarex had.
"Not a random act, its landing here," Tomm said, lightly touching the bent and twisted remains. "Nor is Zarex's absence among us."
"Someone is trying to tell us something," Calandrx said. "And I fear it will not be the best of news."
They laid their hands on the tin man's remains, and after a while, a dark crimson mist began rising out of its chest. The red fog slowly coalesced into a viz screen. A recounting of actual events had been implanted in the robot's indestructible memory banks, events someone wanted them to see.
The images were like those in a bad dream. They were inside a dark place, misty and damp and the color of blood. Disturbing just to look at. Shadowy figures were moving back and forth through the scene; some were almost floating, but in a most unnatural way. Bizarre equipment that looked alive was jammed in everywhere. In the middle of this place was Brother Zarex. He was bound to a hovering chair.
The shadows became clearer. They were REF troopers — or at least some of them were. Unmistakable in their red uniforms. They were taunting Zarex even as he was struggling with them. They were telling him they knew exactly what was going to happen at Zero Point. They knew when the UPF fleet would be passing over, and thus, they would be in a position to destroy it when it did — and there was nothing he could do about it.
Zarex fought them bravely, tossing them about like dolls. But suddenly, he just stopped. And that's when one shadow ran him through again and again with a long shiny needle. A very painful way to die.
This vision faded to be replaced by another. It showed REF troopers rampaging through ships, slaying innocents, bombarding defenseless planets, vaporizing orphans and children. In one last hazy vision, so distorted the six knew it probably hadn't happened yet, they saw thousands of ships unloading millions of people on a very bleak planet. In the background hovered the Red Ships, weapons ready.
This vision disappeared as quickly as the first, but the message was clear.
"The devils implanted this memory," Erx said somberly. "They want us to know that they have our plans. And that if we interfere, they will kill millions on that planet in the near future, just as they have already killed thousands in the recent past. And if they succeed, the bad side of things will hold sway here for many ages to come."
"That planet can only be one place," Calandrx said. "An appropriate piece of Hell…"
"And the world closest to where it all started," Berx agreed. "So they're being ironic as well."
"Or not," Tomm added.
Klaaz said, "It was wise that we fulfilled our missions as messengers; these things will help us. I just wonder if it will be enough. There are many more of them than there are of us."
"For the moment anyway," Erx murmured.
"But at least we have one bright spot in this," Tomm said. "One chance that could help swing things our way."
They all knew what he meant.
"Brother Zarex was actually a very clever man to do what he did in the end," Calandrx said.
"As well as a very brave one."
They were silent for a while. Finally Gordon said, "And so it begins."
"And there is still much we have to do," Tomm added.
They knew, then and there, it was finally time to leave Bad News 666 for good.
They were needed elsewhere.
23
The enormous transport ship lowered itself through the planet's thin atmosphere and set down on the forbidding, rocky plain.
Its massive cargo doors swung open, and it began hastily unloading its cargo, more than 5,000 people, mostly women and children, all late of the floating refugee camp at the Andromeda Zee. Those reluctant to step off the ship were prodded by faceless SG soldiers in bright red combat gear and holding blaster rifles. Any further resistance, and the offending refugee was painfully reduced to a pile of subatomic dust.
Once empty, the ship quickly lifted off and disappeared into the barren, predawn sky. It was one of several waves of refugee ships to land on this stark, radiation-soaked planet. Thousands of vessels from the Zee had been dumping their ill-fated passengers all over this dreadful place, under the eye of ominous low-orbiting SG ships that, for whatever reason, had hulls painted like blood.
The conditions for the hapless refugees did not improve once they were landed here. If anything, they became worse. The REF did not provide food or water or medical supplies throughout the trip from the Zee, nor were any forthcoming now. There was no shelter anywhere on the planet. No protection from the harsh cosmic elements. The planet's sun was weak and far away, but because the atmosphere was almost nonexistent, its rays could burn clear through the skin in a matter of days or even hours. At the same time, the nights were so cold, frostbite was probably the most humane way to die here.
Such were the conditions on the aptly named planet of Doomsday 212.
Why would the REF move millions of refugees from a horrendous situation to one that was even worse? And why pick this notoriously unhealthy planet, ground zero for the schism that was now tearing the Galaxy apart? For those unfortunates so suddenly plunked down
here, on this not-so-little piece of Hell, these questions were in the fore. None so much as for a man named Alfx Sheez.
It had been a long strange trip for Sheez. He was 251 years old, overweight, bald, short, and perpetually sweaty. He was also the ex-president of a planet, the infamous Megiddo, where SG wonder boy Joxx the Younger had made his stand against the Two Arm invaders a month ago — and lost miserably. Sheez got out just before his planet was destroyed, but it had been aninglorious departure.
Previously wealthy from the largesse that came with being a top man, his escape from Megiddo left him with little more man the hat on his head and the boots on his stubby feet.
Sheez had been caught up in the massive tidal wave of refugees fleeing the Two Arm, first in a panic to escape the invading forces, and then by order of the SG when they established their No-Fly Zone.
Sheez bribed his way aboard the last space bus leaving Megiddo, thinking he'd be on it for three days at the most. He wound up spending the next five weeks on the flying bucket of bolts instead, stuck in the Zee with the half million other star-crossed souls who'd once called the mid-Two Arm their home.
He'd seen so much misery since, it had almost changed him as a person. Conditions on his transport grew steadily worse as food and medicine ran out and no more was to be had. Rations got down to one food cube a day, and then none at all. Sheez had even tried bartering food from the dying — a futile enterprise if there ever was one. He'd cursed the SG many times for creating these intolerable conditions, and cursed the fools on Earth for doing nothing about so many of its citizens suffering so close to the Mother Planet.
So he, too, was surprised when word first arrived that SG ships would be escorting the refugees back to the Two Arm. But that appreciation quickly turned sour once they learned that those ships belonged to the REF and that they were planning on unloading everyone on this barely habitable planet, a place that Sheez was all too familiar with, as it was in even worse shape than his own decimated world, just a few light-years farther up the Arm.