The Ember War (The Ember War Saga Book 1)

by Richard Fox

  The Ember War

  by

  Richard Fox

  Copyright © by Richard Fox

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission.

  ASIN:

  For Mom

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 1

  THE NEAR FUTURE

  Humanity’s only hope of survival entered the solar system at nearly the speed of light. The probe slowed as the sun’s heliosphere disrupted the graviton wave it rode in on from the abyss of deep space. Awakened by the sudden deceleration, the probe absorbed the electromagnetic spectrum utilized by its target species and assessed the technological sophistication of the sole sentient species on Earth.

  The probe adjusted its course to take it into the system’s primary. If the humans couldn’t survive—with its help—what was to come, then the probe would annihilate itself. There would be no trace of it for the enemy, and no chance of humanity’s existence beyond the time it had until the enemy arrived. The probe analyzed filed patents, military expenditures, birth rates, mathematical advancement and space exploration.

  The first assessment fell within the margin of error of survival and extinction for humanity. The probe’s programming allowed for limited autonomous decision making (choice being a rare luxury for the probe’s class of artificial intelligence). The probe found itself in a position to choose between ending its mission in the sun’s fire and a mathematically improbable defense of humanity—and the potential compromise of its much larger mission.

  Given the rare opportunity to make its own decision, the probe opted to dither. In the week it took to pass into Jupiter’s orbit, the probe took in more data. It scoured the Internet for factors to add to the assessment, but the assessment remained the same: unlikely, but possible. By the time it shot past Mars, the probe still hadn’t made a decision.

  As the time to adjust course for Earth or continue into the sun approached, the probe conducted a final scan of cloud storage servers for any new information…and found something interesting.

  While the new information made only a negligible impact on the assessment, the probe adjusted course to Earth. It hadn’t traveled all this way for nothing.

  In the desert south of Phoenix, Arizona, it landed with no more fanfare than a slight thump and a few startled cows. Then it broke into the local cell network and made a call.

  ****

  Marc Ibarra awoke to his phone ringing at max volume, playing a pop ditty that he hated with vehemence. He rolled off the mattress that lay on the floor and crawled on his hands and knees to where his cell was recharging. His roommate, who paid the majority of their rent and got to sleep on an actual bed, grumbled and let off a slew of slurred insults.

  Marc reached his cell and slapped at it until the offending music ended. He blinked sleep from his eyes and tried to focus on the caller’s name on the screen. The only people who’d call at this ungodly hour were his family in Basque country…or maybe Jessica in his applied robotics course wanted a late-night study break.

  The name on the screen was “ANSWER ME”.

  He closed an eye and reread the name. It was way too early—or too late, depending on one’s point of view—for this nonsense. He turned the ringer off and went back to bed. Sleep was about to claim him when the phone rang again, just as loudly as last time but now with a disco anthem.

  “Seriously?” his roommate slurred.

  Marc declined the call and powered the phone off. He flopped back on his bed and curled into his blanket. To hell with my first class, he thought. Arizona State University had a lax attendance policy, one which he’d abuse for nights like this.

  The cell erupted with big-band music. Marc took his head out from beneath the covers and looked at his phone like it was a thing possessed. The phone vibrated so hard that it practically danced a jig on the floor and the screen flashed “ANSWER ME” over and over again as music blared.

  “Dude?” said his roommate, now sitting up in his bed.

  Marc swiped the phone off the charging cord and the music stopped. The caller’s name undulated with a rainbow of colors and an arrow appeared on the screen pointing to the button he had to press to answer the call. When did I get this app? he thought.

  Marc sighed and left the bedroom, meandering into the hallway bathroom with the grace of a zombie. The battered mattress he slept on played hell with his back and left him stiff every morning. Dropping his boxers, he took a seat on the toilet and answered the call, determined to return this caller’s civility with some interesting background noise.

  “What?” he murmured.

  “Marc Ibarra. I need to see you.” The voice was mechanical, asexual in its monotone.

  “Do you have any frigging idea what time it is? Wait, who the hell is this?”

  “You must come to me immediately. We must discuss the mathematical proof you have stored in document title ‘thiscantberight.doc.’”

  Marc shot to his feet. The boxers around his ankles tripped him up and he stumbled out of the bathroom and fell against the wall. His elbow punched a hole in the drywall and the cell clattered to the floor.

  He scooped the phone back up and struggled to breathe as a sudden asthma attack came over him.

  “How…how…?” He couldn’t finish his question until he found his inhaler in the kitchen, mere steps away in the tiny apartment. He took a deep breath from the inhaler and felt the tightness leave his lungs.

  That someone knew of his proof was impossible. He’d finished it earlier that night and had encrypted it several times before loading it into a cloud file that shouldn’t have been linked to him in any way.

  “How do you know about that?” he asked.

  “You must come to me immediately. There is little time. Look at your screen,” the robotic voice said. His screen changed to a map program, displaying a pin in an open field just off the highway connecting Phoenix to the suburb of Maricopa.

  “Come. Now.”

  Marc grabbed his keys.

  ****

  An hour later, his jeans ripped from scaling a barbed-wire fence, Marc was surrounded by desert scrub. The blue of the morning rose behind him, where his beat-up Honda waited on the side of the highway.

  With his cell to his ear, Marc stopped and looked around before deciding how to continue. Spiked ocotillo plants looked a lot like benign mesquite trees in the darkness. A Native American casino in the distance served as his North Star, helping him keep his bearings.

  “You’re not out here, are you? I’m being punked, aren’t I?” he asked the mysterious caller.

  “You are nine point two six meters to my east south east. Punk: decayed wood, used as tinder. Are you on fire?” the caller said.

  Marc rolled his eyes. This wasn’t the first time the caller had used the nonstandard meanings of words during what passed as conversation between the two. Marc had tried to get the caller to explain how he knew about his theorem and why they had to meet in the middle of the desert. The caller had refused to say anything. He would only reiterate that Marc had to come quickly to see him, chiding him every time Marc deviated from the provided driving directions.

  “If you’re so close, why can’t I see you?” he asked. He took a few steps in what he thought was a northwesterly dir
ection and squished into a cow patty.

  “Continue,” the caller said.

  Marc shook his foot loose and tried to kick the cow leavings from his sneakers.

  “You know what this is? This is exactly what’s all over my shoes, you monotone bastard. Forget it!” Marc shoved his phone into his back pocket and limped back toward his car, his right foot squishing with each step.

  The route back to his car was comparatively easy; he just had to walk toward his headlights. That was the plan, anyway, until the lights on his car shut off.

  “Marc, this is important.” The muffled words came from his pocketed cell.

  “How are you doing this?” Marc shouted into the night.

  “Turn around, please.”

  Marc did as asked and a silver light like the snap of a reflection from a fish twisting just beneath the water flared on the ground ahead of him. No one was there a moment ago and Marc hadn’t heard any movement.

  “I swear if I get my kidneys cut out I will be so pissed about this,” Marc said as he made his way to where he saw the light. He stood for a moment, then flopped his arms against his sides. “I’m here.”

  “You’re standing on me.” The voice came from beneath Marc’s feet.

  Marc skipped aside like he’d just heard a rattlesnake’s warning.

  “Holy—did someone bury you? Why didn’t you tell me to bring a shovel?” Marc went to his knees and poked at the ground, which felt solid. “How deep are you? Do you have enough air?” Marc asked, using both hands to shove earth aside.

  “Two inches ahead and three down.”

  Marc’s face contorted in confusion as he kept digging. He moved a mound of gray dirt and pebbles aside and a silver light washed over his face.

  A silver needle no more than three inches long rested in the dirt. Tiny filaments of lambent energy crept from the needle and undulated through the air like a snake in the ocean. Marc was frozen in place, his jaw slack as the filaments extended away from the needle, shades of white swimming in and around it.

  “We don’t have much time.” The words came from the needle in the same mechanical voice as his mysterious caller. A point of light appeared in the air above the needle, sparked, and then lit into a flame no bigger than he’d seen on a match head. The white flame, which gave off no heat, rose and grew in size. A flame the size of Marc’s head came to a stop a few feet in the air.

  Marc, transfixed by the flame until now, got to his feet. The filaments from the needle had extended past him and formed a perimeter ten yards in diameter. Tendrils of energy writhed against each other and against an invisible boundary. His heart pounded in his ears and his innate fight-or-flight instinct made a decision.

  “This is a different experience for you. Let me—”

  Marc turned and ran away. He got to where the tendrils had stopped and ran into what felt like a wall of water. Air thickened around him as he tried to push through and find purchase on the ground ahead. It felt like he was moving through clay.

  “Marc, you’re being ridiculous.” The air hardened and spat him back toward the flame. Marc tripped over his own feet and tumbled to the ground. He snapped back to his feet and looked for a way, anyway, to put some distance between him and the flame.

  The flame, white on silver or silver on white—Marc couldn’t tell as it morphed in the air—floated toward him slowly.

  Marc made the sign of the cross with two fingers and looked away. He heard a sigh.

  “Look at me.” The flame, again.

  Marc opened an eye. The flame was a few inches from his hands but he still felt no heat.

  “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help you. Understand?” The flame bobbed in the air gently until Marc nodded. “I am an emissary from an alien intelligence sent to save your species from extinction and I need your help to do it.”

  Marc pointed a finger at the flame and tried to touch it. His fingertip passed into the flame’s surface without sensation.

  “I thought unsolicited physical contact was against your species’ norms,” said the flame, the tendrils rustling with the words.

  Marc snapped his hand back.

  “Did you say something about…extinction?” The flame bobbed in the air. “How? Why?”

  “An armada is coming.” The flame morphed into an oblong shape with a half dozen tendrils sticking from it, like a misshapen spider. “They are the Xaros and they will annihilate your species with ease. Unless you and I work together, your extinction is assured,” the flame said, floating closer to Marc, who stood dumbfounded. The flame came so close that he could see his reflection on it. Deep blue motes of light sprang from the flame and evaporated in the air.

  “Why me? What am I supposed to do about an alien armada? I’m a B-minus grad student with a mountain of student loans, not some…some world leader!”

  The probe returned to flames and a hologram of a white paper popped into the air next to it. Pages flipped open from the book, the mathematical proof he’d finished the night before.

  “We expected that your species would have progressed to the edge of your solar system by now. To see such potential squandered on wars and Internet cat videos was disheartening, but this is well beyond what you should be capable of. The advancements you discovered in material science and energy storage are a springboard to technological advancement that will give you a 27 percent chance of survival, provided everything goes as planned. We can start here.” The proof stopped with the picture of a lattice of carbon atoms. The last page had the words “No way!!!!” scrawled next to the diagram.

  “I don’t understand,” Marc said.

  “You will, but we need to get started right away.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  “Sixty years.”

  CHAPTER 2

  SIX DECADES LATER

  Lieutenant Ken Hale of the Atlantic Union Marine Corps felt blood rush to his head as the pilot swung their drop ship through a breaking maneuver and g-forces pressed him against the restraints of his acceleration bed. A glance out a porthole offered nothing but swirling stars against the deep void. A holo appeared against his visor showing the drop ship relative to their target.

  “In position. Go for hard dock or umbilicals?” the pilot asked through his helmet comms.

  There were no unusual energy readings from their target. There were no readings at all, which was why he was there in the first place. The Ibarra Corporation asteroid mining outpost had gone dark hours ago, with no warning or explanations. All attempts to contact the miners had been met with silence, leaving many unanswered questions to this mission. He wouldn’t trust a standard docking assault, which meant a riskier boarding maneuver.

  “Go for umbilicals,” he said as he tapped a flat screen on the back of his left hand to open a channel to his team.

  “We’re going in on the wire. Hang tight and use your secondary clamps. Anyone goes Flying Dutchman and you’re on Gunny’s shit list for the whole trip to Saturn,” he said. Six icons on his visor display went green as his Marines acknowledged. One icon pulsed as it broadcast.

  “I swear he does this just to scare me,” Lance Corporal Standish said over the squad net.

  “Standish!” Gunnery Sergeant Cortaro’s icon pulsed.

  Hale fought a grin. Cortaro’s icon kept pulsing as Cortaro and Standish went into a private channel. As the officer in charge, he could cut into any channel, but he had a pretty good idea what his head enlisted Marine was saying to the junior Marine—mostly four-letter words and a series of promises of what would happen to Standish if he screwed up his radio discipline again.

  The infrared, IR, net used by the Marines and the rest of the military under combat conditions was limited to a few tens of meters in range. Transmissions with extended range, such as radio, could be detected, triangulated and targeted. Staying off a potential enemy’s radar was the surest way to survive the 21st century battlefield, on Earth or in the void of space.

  A vibration shuddered
through the drop ship followed by a sudden jerk. Hale felt the deck lurch as the umbilical latched onto their target and the speed between the two objects almost matched. The drop ship would maintain a bit more relative speed to keep the line taught.

  The restraints on the acceleration bed popped open silently as there was no atmosphere in the bay to carry sound. Hale activated the magnetic plating in his boots and let it pull him to the deck. He shrugged his gauss rifle off his shoulder and locked the weapon into his right hand with the mag plates in his palm and the rifle’s grip.

  Sliding his feet against the deck lessened the grav plating’s hold, keeping him attached but not immobile. Moving across the deck was more akin to ice skating for him than walking. The ramp at the end of the bay opened, the final traces of gas in the hold venting around the widening gap in wisps of fog.

  Two of his Marines—Torni and Franklin, according to the labels his visor projected on their armor—stood at the edge of the hull and the remaining four stood in line behind them. All his Marines looked nearly identical in their armor; only the vagaries of height and musculature would set them apart to an outsider. After enough drops and exercises, the men and woman of his team could pick each other out by gate and silhouette.

  Franklin’s Gustav heavy gauss rifle, a beast of a weapon with three rotating barrels, slung ready from his hip, braced against his body by a harness. Franklin lowered the barrel in time with the descending ramp, ready to engage any targets that appeared.

  Torni stood against the bulkhead, scanning their target with the cameras of the heavy gauss guns slung underneath the drop ship. Hale peeked around her and saw that the surface of their target was nothing but craters and dust.

  “Nothing on the scope. No transmissions,” she said. Her words came into Hale’s helmet through shortwave infra-red transmissions and adjusted for distance and location. Despite being in a near Vincenti vacuum, the commo tech in their helmets allowed the team to speak naturally and without radio transmissions that would betray their location to an enemy.