by John Scalzi
“I’m not sure the Colonial Union will agree with that theory,” Wilson said.
“We don’t need you to agree,” Lowen said. “All we really have to do is wait. The Colonial Union is unsustainable without new colonists and soldiers. I’m sure your economists and military planners have figured this one out already. You need us more than we need you.”
“I would imagine the natural response to this would be that you wouldn’t like what happens to Earth if the Colonial Union fails,” Wilson said.
“If it was just the Earth, you’d be right,” Lowen said. “But there’s option B.”
“You mean joining the Conclave,” Wilson said.
“Yep,” Lowen said.
“The Earth would have to get itself a lot more organized than it is at the moment,” Wilson said. “The Conclave doesn’t like having to deal with fractions of a planet.”
“I think we could be sufficiently motivated,” Lowen said. “If the alternatives were either a forced alliance with former oppressors, or being collateral damage when that former oppressor falls.”
“But then humanity is divided,” Wilson said. “That’s not going to be good.”
“For whom?” Lowen countered. “For humanity? Or for the Colonial Union? They’re not the same thing, you know. If there is a human division, in the end, who will be to blame for it? Not us, Harry. Not Earth.”
“You don’t have to sell me, Dani,” Wilson said. “So, how is this line of argument going with the U.S. delegation?” Wilson asked.
Lowen frowned.
“Ah,” Wilson said.
“You would think nepotism would help me out here,” Lowen said. “Being the daughter of the U.S. secretary of state should have a perk or two, especially when I’m right. But there’s the minor problem that Dad is under orders to tell us here to try to hammer out a deal before the end of the summit. He says my points will make a fine ‘backup plan’ if we don’t end up getting the lease outright.”
“Does he mean it?” Wilson asked.
Lowen frowned again.
“Ah,” Wilson said once more.
“Oh, good, our drinks are here,” Lowen said, motioning to Hirsch and Schmidt, who were navigating back, beers in hand. “Just in time to drown my sorrows.”
“Did we miss anything?” Hirsch asked, handing his cousin a beer.
“I was just talking about how hard it is to be right all the time,” Lowen said.
“You were talking to the right guy about that,” Schmidt said, sitting down. “Harry has the same problem. Just ask him.”
“Well, then,” Lowen said, and raised her glass. “I propose a toast. Here’s to being right all the time. May God and history forgive us.”
They all clinked glasses to that.
Part Two
V.
“Captain Coloma,” Ensign Lemuel said, “another ship skipped in.”
Coloma muttered her thanks to Lemuel and checked her PDA. She had made it a standing order to her bridge crew to alert her when ships arrived or departed Earth Station, without giving them further explanation. The crew didn’t question the order; it was trivially easy to track the other ships. The order had been in effect for most of a day now. It was late morning on the second day of the summit.
Coloma’s display registered the new ship, a small freighter. It was one of eleven ships floating outside of Earth Station, the other ten arrayed in parking zones. There were four Colonial Union diplomatic ships; including the Clarke, there was the Aberforth, the Zhou and the Schulz, each carrying its complement of diplomats negotiating with the delegations from Earth, who came to the station by way of the beanstalk. Three ships, the Robin Meisner, the Leaping Dolphin and the Rus Argo, were cargo freighters from the Colonial Union, which had some limited trade with the Earth. The two remaining ships were Budek cargo haulers; the Budek were negotiating to join the Conclave but in the meantime were fans of citrus fruits.
In her earpiece, Coloma could hear Earth Station’s flight controller ask the new ship to identify itself: the first red flag. Colonial Union cargo ships had encrypted transponders that the station would ping as soon as the ship skipped into its space. The fact that control was asking for identification meant it either had no transponder or had disabled it. It also meant the ship was an unscheduled arrival. If it had been scheduled but was without a transponder, control would have hailed it under the expected name.
Coloma had the Clarke scan the new ship and ran the data against a specific database of ships given to her by the CDF. It took less than a second for a match to pop up. The ship was the Erie Morningstar, a civilian transport and cargo ship that had gone missing months earlier. The Erie Morningstar had started its life as a CDF cruiser more than seventy years prior; for civilian use, it was gutted and reconfigured for cargo-carrying purposes.
It didn’t mean it could not be reconfigured back into combat.
Earth Station was now hailing the Erie Morningstar for the third time, to no response, which satisfied Coloma that the ship was now officially in the “suspicious” territory.
“Captain, new ship skipped in,” Lemuel said.
“Another one?” Coloma asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lemuel said. “Uh, and another…two…ma’am, I have a bunch skipping in pretty much simultaneously.”
Coloma looked down at her display. There were eight new contacts there. As she watched, two new contacts lit up, and then another two.
In her earpiece, Coloma could hear Earth Station control cursing. There was an edge of panic to the voice.
Now there were fifteen new contacts to go with the Erie Morningstar.
Coloma’s database from the CDF had sixteen ships on it.
She didn’t bother running the other fifteen.
“Where’s our shuttle?” Coloma asked.
“It just docked at Earth Station and is prepping to return,” Lemuel said.
“Tell it to hold and prepare to bring back our people,” Coloma said.
“How many of them?” Lemuel asked.
“All of them,” Coloma said, ordered the Clarke on emergency alert and sent an urgent message to Ambassador Abumwe.
Ambassador Abumwe was listening to the Tunisian representative discuss her country’s plans for Earth Station when her PDA vibrated in three short bursts followed by one long one. Abumwe picked up the PDA and swiped it open to read the message there from Captain Coloma.
Big trouble, it said. Sixteen ships. Get your people out now. Shuttle at gate seven. It leaves in ten minutes. Anyone still there after that stays there.
“Go back to the beanstalk,” Abumwe said, looking at the Tunisian representative.
“Excuse me?” the Tunisian representative said.
“I said, go back to the beanstalk,” Abumwe repeated, and then stood up. “Get on the first elevator down. Don’t stop. Don’t wait.”
“What’s happening?” the Tunisian representative asked, but Abumwe was already out the door, sending a global message to her team.
VI.
“You look like you’re in a unitard,” Danielle Lowen said to Harry Wilson, pointing to his combat suit as he and Hart Schmidt came up to her and David Hirsch. The four of them were meeting in an otherwise unoccupied cargo hold of Earth Station.
“The curious reason for that is because I am in a unitard,” Wilson said. He stopped in front of her and dropped the large canvas bag he was carrying. “That’s what our combat suit is. This one is actually a heavy-duty combat suit, designed for vacuum work.”
“Do you engage in dance battles?” Lowen asked. “Because if you did, I think that would be stupendous.”
“Sadly, no,” Wilson said. “And we’re all the lesser for it.”
“So I’m going to have to put one of those on,” Hirsch said, pointing to the combat suit.
“Only if you want to live,” Wilson said. “It’s optional otherwise.”
“I think I’ll choose life,” Hirsch said.
“Probably the right choice,�
�� Wilson said. He reached into the bag he was carrying and handed Hirsch the unitard within it. “This is yours.”
“It’s a little small,” Hirsch said, taking the article and looking at it doubtfully.
“It will expand to fit,” Wilson said. “That will fit you, or Hart, or Dani. One size really does fit all. It also features a cowl, which when I activate it will cover your face entirely. Try not to freak out when that happens.”
“Got it,” Hirsch said.
“Good,” Wilson said. “You want to put it on now?”
“I think I’ll wait,” Hirsch said, and handed it back.
“Chicken,” Wilson said, taking and storing it back in the bag and pulling out another object.
“That looks like a parachute,” Hirsch said.
“Functionally, you are correct,” Wilson said. “Literally, not. This is your store of nanobots. When you hit the atmosphere, they release and form a heat shield around you to keep you from burning up. Once you make it into the troposphere, then they form into a parachute and you’ll glide down. We’ll be landing at a football field outside of Nairobi. I understand some of your friends will have a helicopter standing by to take me back to the beanstalk.”
“Yes,” Hirsch said. “Sorry it won’t be a longer stay.”
“It’ll still be good to hit the home soil,” Wilson said. He set down the ’bot pack and reached in for one more object. “Supplementary oxygen,” he said. “Because it’s a long way down.”
“Thank you for thinking of that,” Hirsch said.
“You’re welcome,” Wilson said.
“It doesn’t seem like a lot of oxygen,” Lowen said, looking at it.
“It’s not,” Wilson said. “When the combat suit is covering his face, it will sequester the carbon dioxide and recirculate the oxygen. He won’t need as much.”
“It’s a handy suit,” Lowen said. “Shame it looks so silly.”
“She’s right, you know,” Schmidt said.
“Don’t you start, Hart,” Wilson said, and then both his BrainPal and Schmidt’s PDA went off in alarm. Wilson accessed his message, from Ambassador Abumwe.
Sixteen unidentified ships have appeared around Earth Station, it said. Stop what you’re doing and head to gate seven. The shuttle leaves in ten minutes. Do not wait. Do not start a panic. Just go. Now.
Wilson looked over to Schmidt, who had just finished his message. Schmidt looked back, alarmed. Wilson quickly put everything back into his canvas bag.
Lowen caught their expressions. “What is it?” she said.
“There might be trouble,” Wilson said, hefting the bag.
“What kind of trouble?” Hirsch said.
“Sixteen mysterious ships suddenly appearing outside the window kind of trouble,” Wilson said.
Lowen’s and Hirsch’s PDAs sounded. They both reached for them. “Read them while walking,” Wilson suggested. “Come on.” The four of them made their way out of the cargo hold and headed to the main corridor of the station.
“I’m being told to head to the beanstalk elevators,” Lowen said.
“So am I,” Hirsch said. “We’re evacuating the station.”
The four of them walked through a maintenance door into the main corridor, and into chaos. Word had spread, and quickly. A stream of Earth citizens, with looks ranging from concern to panic, were beginning to push their way toward the beanstalk elevator entry areas.
“That doesn’t look good,” Wilson said, and started walking purposefully against the general rush. “Come on. We’re going to our shuttle at gate seven. Come with us. We’ll get you on our shuttle.”
“I can’t,” Hirsch said, stopping. The others stopped with him. “My team has been ordered to assist the evacuation. I have to go to the beanstalk.”
“I’ll go with you,” Lowen said.
“No,” Hirsch said. “Harry’s right, it’s a mess, and it’s going to get messier. Go with him and Hart.” He went in to give his cousin a hug and a quick peck on the cheek. “See you soon, Dani.” He looked over to Wilson. “Get her out of here,” he said.
“We will,” Wilson said. Hirsch nodded and headed down the corridor, toward the beanstalk elevators.
“Gate seven is still a quarter of the way around the station,” Schmidt said. “We need to start running.”
“Let’s run,” Wilson agreed. Schmidt took off, weaving through holes in the crowd. Wilson followed, keeping pace with, and making a path for, Lowen.
“Will you have room for me?” Lowen asked.
“We’ll make room,” Wilson said.
“They’re not doing anything,” Balla said to Coloma, staring at the sixteen ships. “Why aren’t they doing anything?”
“They’re waiting,” Coloma said.
“Waiting for what?” Balla asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Coloma said.
“You knew about this, didn’t you,” Balla said. “You’ve been having us count off ships as they came in. You were looking for this.”
Coloma shook her head. “The CDF told me to be looking for a ship,” she said. “Their intelligence suggested a single ship might attack or disrupt the summit, like a single ship tried to disrupt our meeting with the Conclave. A single ship would be all that would be needed, so a single ship is what they prepared me for. This”—Coloma waved at the display, with sixteen ships hovering silently—“is not what I was expecting.”
“You sent a skip drone,” Balla said. “That will bring the cavalry.”
“I sent the data to the drone,” Coloma said. “The drone is at skip distance. It will take two hours for the data to get to the drone, and it will take them at least that long to decide to send any ships. Whatever is going to happen here is going to be done by then. We’re on our own.”
“What are we going to do?” Balla said.
“We’re going to wait,” Coloma said. “Get me a report from our shuttle.”
“It’s filling up,” Balla said, after a minute. “We’re missing two or three people. We’re coming close to our deadline. What do you want to do?”
“Keep the shuttle there as long as you can,” Coloma said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Balla said.
“Let Abumwe know we’re holding on for her stragglers, but that we’ll have to seal up if things get hot,” Coloma said.
“Yes, Captain,” Balla said, and then pointed at a display that was focused on the station itself. From the bottom of the station there was movement. A car on the elevator was making its way down the beanstalk. “It looks like they’re evacuating people through the elevator.”
Coloma watched the elevator car descend silently for a moment and then felt a thought enter her head with such blinding assurance that it felt like a physical blow. “Tell the shuttle pilot to seal up and go now,” she said.
“Ma’am?” Balla said.
“Now, Neva!” Coloma said. “Now! Now!”
“Captain, missile launch!” said weapons desk officer Lao. “Six missiles, headed for the station.”
“Not to the station,” Coloma said. “Not yet.”
“Stuff them in,” David Hirsch said, to Sergeant Belinda Thompson. “Pack them in like it’s a Tokyo subway.”
The two of them had been assigned to keep order at the elevator cars, which were “cars” in only the strictest sense. Each of the cars was more like a large conference room in size, torus shaped around its cable. The car could comfortably fit a hundred or so; Hirsch planned on jamming in twice that number. He and Thompson shoved people in, none too gently, and yelled at them to go all the way to the back of the car.
A thrumming vibration in Hirsch’s soles told him that one of the other elevator cars was finally under way, sliding down the cable toward Nairobi and to safety. Two hundred fewer people to worry about, he thought, and smiled. This was not the day he’d been planning to have.
“What are you smiling about?” Thompson wanted to know, shoving another diplomat into the car.
“Life is full of
little surpris—,” Hirsch said, and then was sucked out into space as six missiles targeting the departed elevator car smashed into the car, destroying it, and into the beanstalk cable, wrenching it askew and sending a wave up the cable into the car-boarding area. The wave tore open the deck, sending Hirsch and several others tumbling into vacuum and tearing open the deck, crushing the car Hirsch and Thompson had been filling into the hull of the boarding area. The air sucked out of the gash, launching several unfortunates into the space below the station.
The station’s automatic overrides took control, sealing off the elevator-boarding area, dooming everyone in it—three or four hundred of Earth’s diplomatic corps—to death by asphyxiation.
Elsewhere in Earth Station, airtight bulkheads deployed, sealing off sections of the station, and the people in them, in the hope of stanching the loss of atmosphere to only a few areas and protecting the rest still inside from the hard vacuum of the outside cosmos.
For how long was the question.
VII.
Wilson felt rather than saw the emergency bulkhead springing up in front of him and saw Hart Schmidt on the other side of it. Wilson grabbed Lowen and tried to push his way through the now thoroughly panicked crowd, but the mob pushed him and Lowen back and into their flow. Wilson had just enough time to see the shock on Schmidt’s face as the bottom and top bulkheads slammed shut, separating the two of them. Wilson yelled at Schmidt to get to the shuttle. Schmidt didn’t hear it over the din.
Around Wilson, the screams of the people near him reached a crescendo as they realized the bulkheads had sealed them off. They were trapped in this section of Earth Station.
Wilson looked at Lowen, who had gone ashen. She realized the same thing everyone else had.
He looked around and realized that they were at shuttle gate five.
No shuttle here, Wilson thought. Then he thought of something else.