by Nick Webb
“I don’t know if you can call the utility closet you slept in a state room, and I suppose five types of ration packs technically qualifies as a five course meal—”
“All the same. Thank you. If it weren’t for you, we’d be stuck on San Martin for another two months waiting for a regular transport. Every ship bigger than a cargo freighter has been impressed into military service these days, it seems.”
Danny tipped the brim of an imaginary hat. “At your service. Looking forward to doing business again.” He shook the man’s hand, waved goodbye to the kids, bowed slightly and held a hand to his chest to say goodbye to the mom who had her hands full of bags, and followed Fiona, who was already walking away.
He fell into step next to her. “You seem in a hurry.”
“No reason to stick around. We did the job. Got paid. Tipped, even. Why stick around for chit-chat?”
“Oh, you know, customer service. Word of mouth. Repeat business. Money. Even with what Whitehorse managed to pay us, that was only about equal to five refugee runs. We’ve got a long way to go, baby.”
She nodded a grim agreement. “I’m hungry. Let’s go find one of those famed Bolivaran taco trucks.”
They found a lift and descended the hundred or so floors to the bottom of the spaceport tower, and soon found themselves on a busy thoroughfare in the middle of Ciudad Potosí, Bolivar’s capital city. Skyscrapers lined the streets, most of them at least fifty stories tall, many of them several times that. A sea of people was bustling along the sidewalk, and they fell into step with the foot traffic. Danny recognized at least six different languages. There were an awful lot of people there, he thought to himself. Far more than he’d have expected in the middle of the afternoon during Bolivaran siesta.
“There,” he said, pointing ahead to an intersection. “Taco truck, twelve o’clock.”
She squinted. “La Mariquita Achispada? The Tipsy Ladybug?”
“Sounds authentic. Let’s go. Just hope they have an actual al pastor rotisserie thing.”
Even with the hundreds of people flowing past them, the line at the truck was surprisingly short. Danny was already halfway through his second taco when he finally noticed the crowd gathered at one of the intersections several streets down.
“What’s going on down there?”
Liu fished her data pad out of her pocket and waved it on. She scanned a few local notices. “Cooper is here on a campaign trip.”
“Senator Cooper is here? Lucky us.” He nodded slowly, realizing what that meant. “Shit.”
“What?”
“It means there’s going to be an air traffic embargo imposed by the Secret Service until she’s left. We’re stuck here for a few hours, my dear.”
Liu shrugged. “Gives us time to find our next job, anyway.” She jutted her chin down toward the massive crowd. “Let’s head over. I have an idea.”
“What?” He followed her down the sidewalk, his mouth still half-full of his third taco.
“We’re gonna schmooze. A presidential campaign stop? There’s a lot of government officials here, most likely. And contractors. Ambassadors. Congressional staff members. You name it. Chances are we can nab a campaign logistics contract or staff transport contract. Shuttle dignitaries back and forth between campaign stops, you know. ”
“Got it. I’ll put on my schmoozing face.”
“Please don’t,” she said, and reached into the bag to grab the last taco.
The crowd filling the giant intersection must have numbered in the thousands. Thousands more lined the walkways and mezzanines above all four streets leading away. “Let’s head in there,” he pointed to the building on the opposite corner, what looked to be a theatre. The Teatro Civil. Senator Cooper’s face was displayed on a giant holoscreen projected in front. She was in the middle of a speech.
“It’s time we tell these career politicians that enough is enough!” she shouted, her fist pumping the air. The crowd roared its approval. “It’s time we have some competent leadership! To get us through the recovery. You call this a recovery, President Sepulveda? Britannia is still a glowing cloud of magma, and half the refugees still don’t even have homes! New Dublin has still yet to receive even a single presidential visit, much less any recovery money!”
The crowd roared again. Danny muttered, “Well that’s a bald-faced lie. We were just at New Dublin. Construction everywhere.”
“Shh!” said Liu. “Don’t care. We’re not here for politics—we’re here for money. Let’s head inside, see if we can’t get backstage and schmooze ourselves up a contract.”
“And how do you propose we do that? You can’t just waltz backstage at a presidential campaign stop.”
“I can’t. But you can, Mr. My-Aunt-Is-the-Most-Celebrated-War-Hero-Outside-of-Captain-Granger-Himself.”
“Riiiight.”
“Security! Coming through! Move it, people!” Liu started using her scary IDF Intel Officer voice and started pushing through the crowd, finally pulling Danny into Teatro Civil. The crowd inside was even more raucous than the one outside, the campaign likely ensuring the space was filled with Cooper’s most die-hard supporters.
“Glad you’re on my side,” he muttered as she kept pushing forward, through the standing-room-only section at the back. Before long, they were at one of the doors to access the backstage area.
“Sorry, official access only,” said a man at the door. He wasn’t Secret Service—possibly a theatre employee, but in spite of his casual clothing he could have been a Secret Service officer undercover.
“This is Danny Proctor. Admiral Proctor’s nephew. He needs to talk to the senator’s chief of staff—it’s urgent. Message from Admiral Proctor herself.”
“From Proctor?” the man scoffed. “And why would she send her nephew, and not use an official military-government liaison?”
Ah. He was most definitely an undercover Secret Service officer. No theatre employee would have thought about such a nit-picky detail.
“She didn’t want to go through official channels with this one,” continued Liu. “It’s more of a . . . personal request. Not appropriate for government channels.”
“Then get in touch with her personal secretary.”
The man seemed implacable.
DANNY PROCTOR, YOU’RE IN DANGER.
His companion was almost screaming in his ear, if it were possible. His mind practically exploded with the Valarisi’s voice.
What do you mean?
He noticed Liu had stopped cajoling the officer, and had cocked her head toward the crowd, scanning this way and that. She must have heard her companion too.
EVERYONE HERE IS IN DANGER. MOVE! NOW!
The now was so forceful, with the weight of such powerful emotion behind it, that it was all he could do to not throw the officer out of the way and barge through the door. At this point, escaping through a side door backstage would be faster than making their way back through the crowd of people.
Liu was a step ahead of him. She pulled out her old badge and unfolded it for the officer to see. “Agent Fiona Liu, IDF Intel. We have information about an imminent terrorist attack. If you don’t move your ass right now, I’ll move it for you.”
The man’s eyes went wide, and his hand reached around to his back, searching for something under his belt. A gun, most likely. But his eyes were now on the crowd.
Liu didn’t even wait for the officer to move. She shoved past him and through the door.
“We’ve got to warn everyone to get out,” he said.
NO TIME. TAKE COVER.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Poincaré Sector
Deep Space
ISS Defiance
Sickbay
“Sir, please just hold still,” said Nurse Jackson. She was crouched down next to the bed, examining his calf. “The more you dance around and goof off the longer this’ll take.”
Goof off? Did she realize who she was talking to? He looked down at her head and really looked at her for
the first time. Gray streaked her hair. Deep crow’s feet crept out from her eyes. Maybe fifty?
Lieutenant Commander Rice had just left. They’d tried for over fifteen minutes to open that box, to no avail. So he’d gone to engineering to have it examined more thoroughly, leaving him with this woman giving him no end of grief.
“Nurse, I—” He caught himself. Someone saving his life didn’t deserve a tongue-lashing. “You shouldn’t speak to your elders that way, ma’am. Especially when they’re literally older than dirt.”
“I’ll speak to you the same as I speak to my grandkids if you don’t settle down. Stop. Jiggling. Your. Leg!” She grabbed his ankle and forced it to the bed and he let out a small yelp from the pain. He hadn’t even realized he was moving. “My god, you’re worse than a two-year-old.”
Okay now, that’s enough, he was going to say. Call her out for insubordination. Instead he closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. He had just taken his memory meds and was waiting for them to take effect. Wasn’t he supposed to do something along with taking the meds? Oh yeah, recite a list of his most recent short term memories.
Sickbay. Deep calf wound. Petulant nurse. Orbital battle. Clapping. Saving the day, again. Escaping. The ruins.
Ensign Shin. The hole in the poor kid’s head.
He squeezed his eyes harder, suppressing the tears. Goddammit, he hadn’t done this in eons, and he wasn’t about to start now. Be the unwavering, solid leader, he told himself. But the tears came anyway.
“That kid. Just a kid. I haven’t done this since Abe Haws died. My god,” he said, using a sleeve to wipe his cheek dry.
A reassuring pat on his hand. “It’ll be okay, Tim. He gave himself to the cause. Just like you. Let it all out. It’ll be good for you.”
He opened his eyes and stared at her hand on his. Who was this woman? In a ship full of fresh recruits who were too scared to so much as sniffle around him, the Legend, The Hero of Earth, this nurse was treating him like her scared, injured, little boy of a patient.
And it was refreshing. Someone was treating him like a human.
“He was only, what, thirty?”
She nodded. “Something like that.”
“He just lost his three kids and wife on Britannia.”
She nodded again. “The poor kid.”
“And I killed them. And him. I killed him.”
She had been waving the sonic disinfectant wand back and forth over his wound, but now snapped her head to look at him. “Now stop that. You’re doing your goddamn best to save the world. Again. Don’t go blaming yourself for every single person you can’t save.”
“You don’t understand, Nurse. I did. Britannia is gone because of me. If I hadn’t piloted Titan there, it would have never exploded and destroyed Britannia. If I hadn’t have brought Shin down with me, he’d be alive. Every single time, Nurse. Every single time I make a decision, any decision, someone dies.”
“You’re the bricklayer,” she said, turning back to focus on his wound.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your old nickname. Yes, I’m old enough to remember. Swarm War Two. I was in nursing school. They called you the bricklayer.”
“As I recall, it was not a compliment.”
She snorted. “Of course it wasn’t. But it was also a recognition of your greatness. Your being instrumental as the leader who has to make the hard decisions to save us, at any cost. You tossed those starships around like bricks. Throwing them against the Swarm ships like bricks through a window. Killing thousands to save billions.”
“Fuck.” It didn’t sound as glorious as she tried to make it. “That makes me sound like a ghoul.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You know why they called you the bricklayer and not the brick thrower? Someone who throws bricks just breaks stuff. Destroys shit. A bricklayer? That’s someone who builds. You were building our future, Tim. One brick, one sacrificed starship, one sacrificed life at a time. And ultimately, you threw your own life at them. And look what it gave us? Thirty years of peace and prosperity. Thirty years of life and civilization. So don’t you go shitting on your legacy just because you’ve gotten yourself an ouchie on your leg and have extreme geriatric memory issues.” She cracked a small smile at him, before returning to tend the wound.
He managed a smile back, in spite of still feeling like shit. “You know? You’re good.”
“I know. That’s why they assigned me here. This is the most important ship in the galaxy right now.”
“No.” He shook his head. “The second most important.”
“Yeah? Enlighten me, sir.”
“The Independence. Shelby Proctor. In fact—” If there was anyone in the galaxy who could pull miracles out of her ass, it was her. She’d figure out how to open that damn box. He tapped his commlink. “Bridge, current location of the ISS Independence?”
After a few moments, Ensign Baatar replied, “The Nova Nairobi system, sir.”
“How many t-jumps?”
“Eleven, sir. About an hour.”
“Get us there.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Sol Sector
Earth
New York City
United Earth Executive Offices Tower
“How sure are we that Former President Barbara Avery was in fact on Britannia when it died?” President Sepulveda was standing, leaning forward on the Resolute desk with both arms, staring down the woman on the screen, using his most terrifying the-leader-of-half-of-humanity-wants-answers-this-damn-minute face.
“Sure sure,” replied the uniformed woman. “Beyond a doubt.”
“Madam Chairwoman,” he began, momentarily unsure of what to call his Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the highest-ranked military officer serving in a civilian capacity in the United Earth government. It was mostly ceremonial, but seeing how Admiral Oppenheimer was off on his quest to defend against the probably-but-maybe-not invasion of some mysterious all-powerful new alien race, she was the person with the most power he could talk to at the moment. “This is of the highest importance. Without going into too much detail, all I’ll say is that if we don’t know this one hundred percent for sure, then we’ve got other problems just as big as the Findiri.”
She pursed her lips, apparently trying not to lash out at this petulant civilian trying to lecture her on the threats to civilization.
“One hundred percent. I need to know, Madam Chairwoman. Is it one hundred percent?” He tried hard not to blink.
She blinked. Twice. “Ninety-nine point nine nine percent, sir.”
“Shit.” He pushed himself away from the table and turned back toward the window looking out at the cityscape of lower Manhattan, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Sir, that’s basically one hundred percent. We have video of her in the retirement home not an hour before the disaster. A week beforehand, the late Captain Volz visited her in the same home and reported her to be alive and well and not going anywhere, Mr. President. She hadn’t gone anywhere in months beforehand. Why would she suddenly up and leave an hour before the Swarm arrived at Britannia? Once they arrived, it happened so fast—Titan collided with Britannia just fifteen minutes later.”
He turned back to the screen. “Maggie, you’re saying that there is an entire hour where Avery was unaccounted for?”
“An entire hour, sir? No disrespect, but are you listening to yourself? Do you really think the government has every single former government official under constant twenty-four-hour surveillance? I’m sorry, but that’s just not realistic. She had a small Secret Service detail with her, and guess what? They’re dead. Their families have been informed. Funerals were held. Hell, Avery’s funeral was just six weeks ago! It was on the news, remember?”
“Yes, goddammit, I remember. I was invited, but I was busy with, you know,” he swept an arm around the office, indicating all this. The emergency they were living through. The unthinkable disaster of Britannia. The hopelessness in the face of
the new invasion, or at least, the insidious rumors of one.
“Then what’s the deal?” she said. “Dead former presidents are the least of our worries right now. Just twenty minutes ago we received new intel out of the Savannah sector. Long range meta-space sensors indicated the passing of a very large collection of mass through that area of interstellar space, leaking out huge amounts of meta-space radiation, indicating hundreds of vessels undertaking simultaneous q-jumps. They’re coming, Mr. President. And they’ll be here soon. For now, all we can do is thank God they don’t have Trans-q-jump technology or else they’d have been here weeks ago.”
He wasn’t sure how much he could trust her. It wasn’t some rando that snuck into his office and left a cryptic, unsettling message on his desk. It was most likely someone up high. A cleaning lady couldn’t have done it. A low-ranking Secret Service officer wouldn’t have done it. It would have been someone near the top. Was it her? It could have been, for all he knew. But what that meant, he could only guess.
Avery is alive, and wants what’s hers? The only thing that was ever really hers, the only thing she ever cared about, the thing that was her entire identity for nearly twelve years, was the presidency of United Earth.
It was a threat. He knew it. The message was as clear as day.
But was the threat from her? From someone in her orbit or allied with her?
Or someone allied with him, simply trying to discreetly warn him?
“Fine. Thank you, Maggie, that will be all.”
“Mr. President, is everything okay? What’s so important about—”
“Thank you, Tombstone out,” he said, using his Secret Service code name he’d once loved but these days gave him pause. He waved the screen off and the woman’s face mercifully disappeared. She had that expression about her—the same one it seemed the rest of the military used when they had to talk to him. The do-I-really-need-to-be-talking-to-this-guy look. He had no respect.