“Okay, but vulnerabilities aside, does that mean they’re like supercomputers?”
I thought about it for a while. “It makes them very efficient physically, and they’ve also got some weird mental stuff going on that lets them get into networks, or into people’s heads if those people have bootleg ink. But tattoos are probably still superior because it’s not just about the ink, but also the design, density, and location of the tattoo. What, Devlin—are you trying to figure out if I’m stronger than a Ghost?”
He looked over his shoulder with a smile and nod to where the medics had departed with the Ghost. “I know you’re stronger than Ghosts. You’ve proved it every time. I’m just trying to understand how all this affects you.”
“Oh. Okay. Most of my tats are hardened military nano-ink now. The mesh is for extra protection, and power armor seals the deal. Besides, I’ve gotten pretty good at aiming Bugkiller so I never shoot myself in the foot.”
“That’s useful information, but not exactly what I wanted to know.”
Thankfully, Ken interrupted before I had to answer. “Amira, they’re asking for you in sickbay.”
I frowned in puzzlement, wondering what it could be about, and really, really hoping it had nothing to do with the Ghost I’d just taken down. “Right, Ken, on my way.”
+ + + +
It had nothing to do with the Ghost, at least not directly. Wei had sent out the summons. I soon discovered that Wei loved research. He walked with me along lines of crew members waiting for screening or cleaning, and monitored my physiological reactions via sensors. I felt awkward and fraudulent and I told him so.
“Not a word,” he ordered. “Not even a hint. I will be able to deduce everything from your data.”
I waited impatiently while he ran the results against the crew medical records. I watched the small feathers on his wing hands quivering in frustration. “What?” I demanded.
“I have a theory. Interviews should confirm it. Do you have another duty to perform elsewhere? You are disrupting my workflow.”
“Okay, Professor Wei,” I said sarcastically. “Call me when you want me.”
In a couple of hours, stage two was finished and the mission was formally completed. Devlin, Ken, and I went back to the courier for our debriefing with Major Buchanan. The longest part came when I described how we had neutralized the group of rogue crew and their Ghost leader. Buchanan listened with full attention and asked several questions that focused on the behavior of the human crew, the strength and endurance of the Ghost, my modifications of Bugkiller, and how soon and how much the Ghost had bled.
“We’re going to have to try some of those modifications on our EPC-2s. Ms. Singh, can I trouble you to prepare a report for the Munitions division of R&D? Any time before our next troopship encounter should be fine.”
“Yes, Major,” I said, biting back a sigh. Reprimands and now paperwork.
When the meeting ended and we filed out, something made me linger at the door. I looked back at her. “Major Buchanan?”
“Yes, Ms. Singh, what is it?”
“You’ve researched Conglomerate aliens. You must know things we don’t.”
She twitched the corner of her mouth in frustration. “Not about Ghosts, thanks to the Accordance. They’ve been loth to share data. Positively stingy.”
“Could a full citizen of the Accordance get the data? One of the struthiform medics . . . or maybe even a human?”
Buchanan stiffened and fixed me with a long, cold stare. “My my, you three really are joined at the hip, aren’t you.”
I half-regretted my words, but I made myself stare back unrepentantly.
Buchanan gave a shrug of resignation. “We will try our best to obtain information using whatever channels are available to us. However, that does not mean we won’t continue our own investigations. I think you’ve been operating in this business long enough to know that the line between information and propaganda is very, very fine.”
“Understood, Major Buchanan.” I left the room, feeling a little more motivated to write up that report.
+ + + +
Devlin and Ken were using the time between troopship encounters to work on a 3-D projection of known troopship positions, and discussing the most efficient schedule to bring the reclamation protocol to the ships that Hideo had most recently marked as having the highest probability of Ghost infiltration. No chance of distraction from them. I found my own task and gave Bugkiller a thorough maintenance overhaul, a soothing, mechanical job that gave me room to pull up and organize the information I would need for our next troopship encounter. I was so absorbed that when Wei called me, I was annoyed at the disruption of my workflow.
Ken noticed my irritation. “Sickbay again? You want me to come with you?”
I hadn’t even noticed when they stopped working. “Sure, why not.”
“What did you find?” I asked Wei without ceremony as I entered sickbay.
His eyes were serious. “The presence of Ghost neuromelanin nano-ink does not correlate with your physical reaction to sensing Ghost-sign. However,” he continued, “there is another factor you have not considered.”
I was sure he’d timed his words for the simple pleasure of watching my face fall, so I was a bit snappish when I replied. “What factor?”
“Ghost contact. You have killed several? Touched their blood, sweat, tears, saliva? Or perhaps skin-to-skin is sufficient to do it.”
“Do what? Dammit, Wei, stop talking riddles.”
“Trigger the genetic modification process. The tainted nano-ink is only a first step. It has to be activated, and I believe that contact with a Ghost is the missing factor. Only then will the DNA changes begin to manifest.”
I was speechless. I remembered the Ghost’s bloody, defiant gloating before I threw it out of the hopper. I remembered Chris—such a stupid, fucking, overcommon name—Ghost-Chris, fighting me with relentless fury until he was dead and I was covered in his blood. Ken put a hand on my shoulder, steadying me.
Wei was either unaware of my distress or chose to ignore it. “Every individual who tested positive for Ghost neuromelanin and showed changes in DNA provoked a clear reaction from you—but I admit, the sample size is far too small to date. I would appreciate your assistance in continuing this line of research. In the meantime, I have advised Major Buchanan that individuals manifesting DNA variation should be banded.” He waved at my wrist. “After all, you have led by example.”
That gave me an additional pang. Buchanan was right. Accepting the band had been mere theater, and giving the keys to Ken and Devlin didn’t mean much when I had the knowledge and means to find ways to nullify all monitoring and all keys. I thanked Wei sincerely but without enthusiasm, and left with my thoughts whirling. We went back to quarters. Ken shook his head in response to Devlin’s raised eyebrows. They both watched in silence as I sat on my bunk and absently picked up Bugkiller again.
“Want to talk about it?” Ken said at last.
“Not sure what there is to talk about,” I said slowly. “Nothing I can change. Nothing I would have done differently.”
“We can figure out something. Find a cure, whatever,” Devlin insisted.
“Thanks, Devlin, but if I put you guys in danger, you need to look out for yourselves.” I looked up from Bugkiller and eyed them sternly. “I mean it.”
They gave me their best military disobedience faces, that expression that says, “I hear your illegal order but I plan for your sake and mine to pretend I never heard it.”
“Fine,” I grumbled. “Do what you want, but don’t blame me.”
An alarm went off, easing the heaviness of the moment.
“Time to suit up,” Devlin said. “Round three of Ghost-hunting is upon us.”
+ + + +
The tiny quarters that Emilia Lang shared with Hideo had one huge advantage. When Hideo was in session with Ken and Devlin elsewhere, it became the most secure spot on the ship. “Sorry for burdening you with Hideo this
long,” I told her. “And thanks for tidying up my report for me. I didn’t mean to drag you all the way out here to be babysitter and secretary, honest.”
Lang did not look at all burdened. She still had the bright, starry-eyed expression of a newbie fascinated by the unfamiliar. “I’m no Ghost-hunter,” she said. “I’m happy to stay on this courier and babysit. Speaking of which, here are the names you wanted.”
She handed me a tiny but heavily shielded datachip. “Good,” I said. “This helps.”
Buchanan would have rebanded me as a traitor if I hadn’t thrown her a bone or two, so I developed my own protocol. Before each encounter, I got the crew lists in advance and passed them to Lang to go over with Hideo. They returned to me a modified list identifying every Earth First spy and every Ship member who had been tapped for execution by suicide by their Ship leaders, and those were the names I saved to satisfy Buchanan that I was doing my job. I didn’t use all of them. I plugged them into Russo’s index and used any extra information that came up to pare the numbers down. Buchanan kept her word and only used bands, but a few times, I surprised her by revealing a hidden criminal record and advising prosecution and the brig.
Some people go into space to find adventure, some go to see wonders. Some search for a better life, some get drafted into wars they never asked for. And then there are those who mess up life on Earth so badly that they literally have nowhere else to run.
My private protocol didn’t always run smoothly. During one encounter, a Ship mate I’d last seen in New Haven tried to approach me. I stared blankly past her, hefted Bugkiller a little higher, and made sure the band on my wrist was positioned right between our faces. She got the message, and that message spread. The next group of trainees for the reclamation protocol included a member of Ship 1. Showing great sense, he completely bypassed me and went to Lang. They exchanged information, and suddenly Hideo’s estimates became much more precise.
“Just accept it,” I told a skeptical Ken. “We found a way to cooperate that doesn’t require surrender or amnesty.”
Busy as I was, Wei still made me walk the lines at each troopship’s sickbay so he could add to his data and refine his theory. I put a big outlier spike in his readings when I turned a corner and saw Devlin happily chatting with Shriek. Our favorite struthiform medic was unmistakable with his black prosthetics—wing hand, leg, and face—that rebuilt his battle-ruined form into one functional piece. I shouted his name and came over.
“Amira!” he shouted in answer. “Congratulations on your continuing existence! Devlin has been telling me your adventures.”
Devlin was giving me a strange look. “Why didn’t you tell us Shriek was here?”
“I didn’t know,” I admitted. “I’ve been concentrating on the human lists.” I felt embarrassed. That was the kind of mistake Hideo would have made.
Wei rattled his pinions, the human equivalent of a finger snap. “Ms. Singh, we have work to do. Could you please return to the lines?”
“Wait a moment, Wei; you have to meet this medic. He specializes in human medicine.”
Wei approached us, looking dubious. “Hm,” he said regarding Shriek absently, his brain still deep in work mode. “I have heard of you. Come talk to me after I finish this round of screening. Ms. Singh, the lines?”
I sighed. “Duty calls. Good seeing you again, Shriek. Congrats on your continued existence as well.”
I knew that other struthiforms didn’t always get along with Shriek, finding his eccentricities and quirks for coping with trauma too much to take. However, Wei was not like other struthiforms. They began a conversation on comparative medicine, and to no one’s surprise, Shriek joined the next batch of medics for reclamation training.
21
* * *
While things were going smoothly in some areas, trouble was brewing elsewhere. We had to drop a troopship from the schedule when we discovered it was engaged in a firefight with a Conglomeration ship. Later, when we passed where it had been, we found nothing but debris. It was Hideo’s idea to risk a look and then do a scan of the area.
“We don’t want any stray bombs floating in this area,” he said. “That kind of minefield benefits no one.”
Hideo was in his element. He had fully recovered from the embarrassment of misjudging the bio-bomb attacks on Earth and was back to his calculating, pragmatic, oblivious self.
News came via the swift, secure quantum-entangled comms that Conglomerate forces had succeeded in taking over Io. That merited a special briefing in Major Buchanan’s meeting room. We were all in shock. Hideo showed only relief.
“We can cross that off our list of targets the Ghosts are likely to bomb,” he said cheerfully, ignoring our weary, angry, incredulous, and, in at least two cases, murderous glares.
The Accordance still had Callisto, Ganymede, and Europa and everything beyond, but the boundaries were slowly shifting. Battle was raging in Europa’s orbit, with the Conglomerate forces on the verge of winning. I noted cynically that it was mainly CPF ships holding the line while Accordance ships were fleeing and withdrawing to the outer moons. No wonder they used up our recruits so quickly.
Major Buchanan was starting to lose patience with Hideo.
“We’re in a courier. We’re not prepared to fight a Conglomerate ship, and yet you’re leading us deeper and deeper into the most desperate battles of the Jupiter front. Mister Pereira, for your own preservation, not to mention the preservation of this entire crew, could you please identify our final target?”
“Almost there,” he insisted. “I’ve narrowed it down to a convoy of five troopships bound for Callisto.”
“Tell me something,” Ken interjected. “When you and your friends cooked up this marvelous idea, did you have a clue how things were really going at the front?”
“What do you mean?” Hideo asked stiffly.
“I mean your tactics would work if you were imagining a line, with Accordance on one side and Conglomeration on the other, like a neat WWI trench. You could threaten Accordance ships behind the line and get attention. Or if the moon bases were secure, you could make an example of one by detonating a bomb nearby. But that’s not the case. CPF are fighting hand-to-hand with crickets and raptors on Ganymede’s base. Conglomerate ships are all around Europa and they’ve claimed space around Callisto. You’ve got a muddle, not a line. You said it yourself: no Ghost is going to detonate a bio-bomb where the Conglomeration have won or are winning. In addition, no Ghost is going to persuade even the most radical Earth First fighter to take out a CPF or Accordance ship that’s blocking the Conglomeration’s path to Earth.”
Hideo squirmed. “We may have . . . misunderstood the realities of the war.”
“We may have misunderstood the motives,” Devlin said very quietly.
We all looked at him. His face was tired and he avoided our eyes as he spoke. “I thought about what you said, Amira. You studied the human personnel files and forgot to check for Shriek. That’s the pattern. They’ve been distracting us. They scared the Arvani so they stopped thinking about Jupiter and started worrying about every human face on Earth possibly hiding a Ghost. They scared the struthiforms by using the weapon that killed their planet—and the Arvani made it worse by pushing struthiform units to serve near blast zones. They scared us. They made us distrust ourselves. Notice how we all reacted, turning our attention inward?”
He looked up at last. “What’s going on out there that they don’t want us to see?”
“Oh, God, Devlin, Ken. I think you’re right.” So much for coats dense with processing threads, high-tech tattoos, and experimental indexes. The grunts of the operation had figured it out.
“Sure as hell don’t want to be,” Devlin answered. “How do we find out for certain?”
“Accordance surveillance has become very short-range and battle-focused,” Major Buchanan admitted. “We’ve lost stations and outposts that would have given us the information we need.”
“Let’s ask the ast
ronomers and the miners,” I suggested. “They’ve got probes from decades back all around the Solar System.”
I used the quantum-entangled comms to send out desperate calls for access codes and information, messaging every Ship member I could reach: miners, soldiers, medics, scientists. The word spread and data began flooding back so profusely that I begged Wei for his multiscreen display in sickbay. A crowd gathered there, watching images coalesce from grainy monochrome to vivid life. I toggled the filters on different screens so the non-augmented eyes could see the full picture.
“What’s that?” asked Wei, pointing a wing hand.
“That” was something I had never seen before. A shadow scraped across the clouds of Jupiter, like a slash from a knife. The source was a massive, translucent spindle in orbit trailing a line to another orbiting spindle. I brought up the contrast, making the structures more visible. Six linked gigantic spindles orbited Jupiter like a garland of light and lace. As we continued to look, one of the spindles ejected a spear-like object which pierced the Jovian atmosphere and disappeared. Another spindle did the same. The spindles were shooting chunks of material into Jupiter at regular intervals.
We gazed at the images, baffled.
“I think I know,” Shriek said in a hushed tone. “But . . . I do not understand. I saw structures like these orbiting a star before it died, destroyed by the Conglomeration.”
“Jupiter isn’t a star, so how would that work?” Devlin asked, frowning.
Major Buchanan was already on her feet. “Send this information to every Accordance and CPF ship and station. We need to get back control of our fleet and stop running scared. Mister Pereira, your convoy of five is next. Which ship do we take?”
“I think I’d better come with you for this one,” Hideo said.
Everyone looked at him as if he had sprouted feathers and spoken in a rare struthiform dialect.
“Hear me out. First, I’d like to point out my continuing good behavior and full cooperation . . .”
Jupiter Rising Page 19