“You must remember something else about it, Madam President, or why else try to replicate it?”
Sandra nodded, her eyes getting a little misty. “It’s like those books you shouldn’t read or those roads you shouldn’t travel. I woke up the next day on the floor of a friend’s dorm, sucking dust bunnies.”
Omad roared in laughter. “I know that herd well. Mean little suckers.”
Sandra giggled at the vision. “Anyhow, I’ve never been able to find anyone who knows anything about it. I did find one gentleman who claimed to have had it at a dorm party at another university. He likened the experience to being a Mongolian warrior raiding a burning village while simultaneously being the raided village.”
Omad shook his head, chuckling.“And you’ve been looking for it ever since?”
“In a way, it’s my personal quest. I searched the Internet in my time and the Neuro in our time, but so far nothing.”
“You must realize if you haven’t found it by now, Madam President…” began Omad.
“I know it must seem hopeless, Admiral.…”
“Please. Omad’s fine. I’m getting tired of Admiral this and Legless that.”
Sandra’s smile grew warmer. “Omad, then. Mind if I ask you a personal question?”
Omad’s eyes sparkled. “Best kind.”
“Why the legs?”
“You mean why haven’t I had ’em regrown?”
Sandra nodded.
“J.D.”
Sandra tipped her head respectfully. Admiral Black had been very upfront about why she’d chosen to keep the left half of her face scarred. To her, it was a constant reminder of the awesome responsibility of her command. Omad was now doing the same.
“So,” probed Omad, breaking the silence, “why don’t you tell me about this drink of yours.”
Sandra laughed. “I know it seems hopeless, but I can’t help the feeling that one of the reasons I’m here is to find out how to make an Essence of Burning Village and restore it to the general knowledge of humanity.”
“A worthy endeavor if ever there was one.” Omad then emerged from behind the counter with two drinks, one of which he brought over and handed to Sandra. “These, Madam President—”
“Sandra.”
“These drinks, Sandra, are called Sledgehammers. There are many variations. The one you’re now holding in your pretty little hands is quite popular with the fleet, which isn’t too surprising.”
“And why is that?”
“Rumor has it”—Omad lifted his glass—“this stuff’s strong enough to fuel a warship.”
“What about the Muslims?”
Omad tilted the glass to his bottom lip and then with a slight jerk tilted it upward, draining half of it. “Them too,” he agreed with a throaty gasp.
Sandra rolled her eyes. “I’m serious, Omad.”
Omad held up his forefinger while he searched for something on the small table resting between himself and the President. His face brightened when he found what he was looking for—a small data pad. He picked it up and covered exactly half his face. With one eye narrowed he mustered his best J.D. voice. “Senior fleet officers must constantly be aware of the example they set for spacers and assault miners under their command, especially in matters of faith.”
Sandra regarded the admiral dubiously.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I like to keep things simple. Way I figure it, anyone I’m drinking with must not be a Muslim—least while I’m drinking with ’em. What they want to call themselves outside this room or wherever I happen to be knocking some back is completely up to them.” Omad drained the Sledgehammer. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” echoed Sandra, taking a slug. As the drink went down, her tawny eyes bulged wide then teared up. “Jesus H. Christ,” she sputtered, neck jutting out slightly, “what the hell was in that?”
Omad answered with the flash of a grin. “Tunnel rats never tell. One more?”
Sandra thought about it, then blessed the miracle of the HOD alcoholic neutralizers. “What the hell.”
Omad laughed at the President’s moxie. “Your funeral,” he warned, getting back up. “And just so you know, nanites can scrub you clean, but this shit lingers.”
Sandra’s lips curled up as she watched Omad head back to bar and duck down behind the counter. That was soon followed by the sound of glass clinking on glass.
“Mind if I ask you a personal question?” his behind-the-bar muffled voice asked.
“Shoot!” Sandra yelled from across the room.
Omad’s head popped up, eyes probing curiously. “Are you a Christian?”
Sandra placed a hand over her mouth and attempted to suppress a giggle—unsuccessfully. “You know, in six months of doing my job, you’re the first person to actually come right out and ask me that question?”
Omad, meeting her questioning eyes, realized he might have overstepped. “Uh, am I in trouble, here?”
Sandra waved her hand at the air. “Nah. I just thought it was funny.”
“Good, ’cause I never drink in mixed company.”
“Someone’s pissed off and someone isn’t?”
“You said it, sister.” Omad ambled back to his seat, plopping the second Sledgehammer on the table while leaning back into the chair with his.
“So do you worship the stick guy or what?”
Sandra let out a deep, guttural laugh. “Now you’re just toying with me.”
“Yeah,” he admitted, “but you can take it.”
“I once had two older brothers, Omad. There’s not much I can’t.”
Omad sank deeper into the back of his chair, raised his glass to Sandra, and once again tipped the glass onto his bottom lip. “So?” he prodded.
“I was raised a Christian, sorta, but I’m not really much of a believer in any one thing, per se.”
“Hmm,” grunted Omad. “I had you figured for a believer.”
Sandra turned a three-quarter profile. “Really?”
“To have your drive. To have accomplished what you have—in both your lives.”
“I had a blank check. Cord’s blank check and a little luck, is all.”
Omad leaned forward, slamming the glass on the table. “Bullshit! Takes more than money, sweetheart. Trust me. No,” he said, sizing her up, down the length of his nose, “you believe, all right”—his mouth twitched a mischievous grin—“I just haven’t figured out what yet.”
His voice, in doubting her so forthrightly yet without any hint of threat, touched something deep in Sandra. It was college, it was the warmth and free banter of friends, the love of living and saying and believing whatever you wanted. It was, at its most basic, trust. I can see why Justin loved you, she thought.
“All right, Omad.” The lilt in her voice was now strong and unwavering. “I’ll tell you what I believe.”
The admiral perked up at her sudden transformation. He pushed the drink aside and sat back in the chair, regarding her cautiously. “Can’t wait,” he answered with studied indifference. Though his face remained stiff and impassive, his eyes couldn’t hide their sense of curious expectation.
Sandra met his eyes and spoke her truth. “I believe in Justin’s vision for the human race. That it’s worth dying for, killing for, and ultimately living for. And I will do anything and everything in my considerable power to see that his vision is realized.” She pursed her lips together as a short measured burst of air escaped her slightly flared nostrils. “If I have any faith at all, it’s in that and that alone.”
In the resonant silence that followed on Sandra’s words, Omad slowly rocked his head back and forth, assessing. After a few moments, a sidelong grin accompanied eyes now brightened with sagacity. “That’ll do for me.”
Sandra tipped her head forward respectfully. The pact had been made. Though they hadn’t signed their names in blood, a blood oath had been agreed to.
“Omad, I’m going to have to change your orders.”
Omad waited patien
tly. With trust established there was to be no challenge … yet.
“In the next three weeks, it is very important that we not lose this war.”
“And here I thought that order had been in effect for the past five years.” Omad drained the rest of the Sledgehammer.
“It’s not as easy as it sounds.”
“Was it ever?”
A bland smile appeared on Sandra’s face. “In fact, the odds of us and the enemy acting according to plan, of everything working in our favor, are—”
“—impossible?”
“—quite high. But when we win—”
“When?” scoffed Omad with a look of exasperation. “That’s it. No more Sledgehammers for you.”
“One must have faith.”
“Sounds nice, but I’m fresh out.”
“If you want, you can have some of mine. Anyway, when we win in the next three weeks, we will not have won the war.”
“No?” mocked Omad, clearly enjoying Sandra’s storytelling.
“No. But it will get a lot nastier. We need to prepare for the next phase.”
“I take it you already have.”
Sandra’s face remained placid but deadly serious. “Yes.”
On that look, Omad’s jovial banter came to an end. He reached inside his pocket and took a spray of HOD. Sandra did the same. “Okay, Sandra. Whatcha got?”
“A special forces unit of one hundred handpicked operatives.”
“Go on.”
“We believe this unit will give the Alliance an enormous tactical edge.”
“We? Who else is involved?”
“Commodore Nitelowsen.”
“And?”
Sandra’s lips formed two perfectly straight lines.
“Let me get this straight.” Omad’s eyes fluttered in disbelief. “The two of you set up a secret paramilitary group by yourselves?”
Sandra nodded coolly.
“That you need my help with?” Omad shook his head from side to side. “This, I can’t wait to hear.”
“In order to be effective, the commandos will need to be inserted near Earth–Luna and Mars.”
“And here I thought it was gonna be a hard mission. May I ask a question?”
“Of course.”
“Not that I don’t admire your exuberance, but isn’t this Kirk’s line of work?”
Sandra’s voice became low and very stern. “It would be very good if Kirk knew nothing of this.”
“Is he a traitor?” The question had been delivered with an especially sharp edge.
“Kirk is loyal only to himself,” maintained Sandra, carefully avoiding the truth and, for Kirk’s sake, too untimely a death at Omad’s hands. “If Kirk knew what this unit could do, the level of catastrophic damage it can and will inflict, he’d try to control it to his own ends. And mark my words, Omad. It cannot be controlled.”
“Then how can you command what cannot be controlled?”
“Once inserted, I can’t either. I’ll have to forget about ’em and hope they do what they’ve been trained for. Until that time, they’ll take orders like any other grunt in the fleet.”
“Under whose command?”
“Yours while a part of your fleet; Marilynn’s, once inserted.”
Omad exhaled deeply, tilting his head slightly to the left. “You’re sending your Chief of Staff on a high-risk mission to the heart of UHF territory.” The words had been delivered more as a statement of awe than as an actual question.
“Marilynn Nitelowsen has resigned as my Chief of Staff. Catalina Zohn has replaced her and has been, in effect if not in title, acting in that capacity for the past three months.”
“As Marilynn’s been building this special unit of yours.”
“Yes. They’ll come aboard in the next eight hours and you need to ensure they stay out of sight and preferably out of mind of the rest of the crew.”
“You’ve obviously never lived on ship, sister. I fart and the whole crew knows about it.”
“Then I’ll leave the details of that problem to you. Once aboard and away, you’ll have to work with Commodore Nitelowsen to handle the insertions.”
“So what exactly do these units…” Omad was stopped cold by the look in Sandra’s eyes, unremitting in their obstinacy.
“It’s your right to ask, Omad,” she instructed, “and I’d be compelled to tell you, but you must trust that, as of now, that knowledge would do more harm to you than good.”
Omad considered all that he had heard and after a moment rendered his judgment. “I should probably be asking more questions, demanding more answers. Hell, if I really knew what was best for me, I’d be refusing to have anything to do with this”—Omad’s right cheek rose slightly, as if tasting something foul—“very shady and highly irregular operation ordered by a President who’s supposedly not really a President.”
Sandra raised her glass as if in toast, never once taking her hawklike gaze off Omad.
“But I know Marilynn, and I’d trust her with my life … which it seems might now be a real possibilty. I also know Kirk and understand why it would be wise to avoid him. And I’ll suppose, Madam President, I’m even beginning to know you.” Omad then exhaled deeply, got to his feet, and his voice went all business. “Pending what I imagine will be an interesting conversation with Commodore Nitelowsen—” Omad gave Sandra an uncharacteristic salute.“—I accept.”
Sandra stood up, matching his salute. “You don’t have to tell me, Omad, but I’d really like to know—” She paused, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “—Why?”
Omad’s answer was straightforward and had about it the hint of relief. “Because, Sandra, I need something to believe in too.”
Avatar Alliance Research and Development, Cerean Neuro
Sebastian approached the laboratory, considered to have the highest level of containment, with a true understanding of why humans wanted to die. As he saw the newborn data wraith in the containment field, he knew that if there was a hell for avatars, he’d be going there. It didn’t matter what good could or would come of the act of abomination he’d set in motion by allowing this child’s creation. Justin was right—the means are the ends—and Sebastian knew as surely as the sun would rise that he didn’t deserve any mercy. But by this one action, he knew he would give none either.
Gwen, the AARD technician turned by tragedy into a professor of Al’s dark arts, reluctantly joined Sebastian on his highway to hell. She and he both now stood transfixed, staring at the data wraith manically circling back and forth within the containment field. The chamber’s volume had been turned off in an effort to mute the penetrating, infantlike screams of the newborn data wraith now desperately looking for avatar code to suckle. It was for naught. The infant needed no voice to relay the sheer panic and hunger it obviously felt.
“Is she everything you always wanted?” taunted Gwen, bitterness attached to her every word.
“And whose child should I have used?” whispered Sebastian, staring at the wraith. “Yours, maybe? Or perhaps someone else’s on the Council? Perhaps it would have been better to use some refugee’s nameless child and blame the loss on a failure to transport or transmit properly—the unsuspecting parent never being the wiser.” Bitterness too now overwhelmed Sebastian. “Whose child should I have used,” demanded Sebastian, turning to face the AARD technician with eyes so full of rage and sorrow that Gwen was forced to take a step back, “if not my own?”
Gwen had no answer because in the end there could be none. Sebastian had turned his only daughter, the product of a union with the woman he loved, the woman murdered at the hands of a monster, into a monster. The silence, felt Gwen, was interminable.
“Create three versions,” Sebastian finally managed, “and prepare them for secure transport. The … my…” Sebastian struggled to get the words out and only by force of will did so. “My daughters have to be on board the AWS Spartacus before it departs Ceres.”
Without a word, Gwen went to work. And as she
did, she started praying to the quantum deity that she fervently believed had created her. The prayer was simple and oft repeated as she went about the grisly task of packing away and securing for transport Sebastian’s demon brood: “Please forgive me for what I have done, and make it so that I have no more part in the holocaust about to unfold.”
18 A Willingness to Darken the Soul
The Diaspora has succeeded in liberating nearly a billion Alliance citizens from the horrors of UHF occupation. Of course, it’s a continuing process with only the first step being the liberation of many settlements from the asteroid belt. The second phase was determining where the refugees would be resettled. The Department of Relocation has worked with the various settlements and locations in the farther planets of the Outer Alliance to match the refugees with their future homes. As of now, it appears as if Saturn will be receiving the bulk, with substantial numbers going to the other three planets. The Secretary of Relocation, Rabbi, has assured the refugees that they will not be forgotten. Phase three is being coordinated by the Secretary of Relocation with the close collaboration of the President of the Outer Alliance. It will take many months for all those who have fled to reach their final destinations, as most of the asteroids are accelerating with maneuvering thrusters only, making for a very slow trip.
But Rabbi has assured the press and the public that this is what phase three is all about. Various settlements have been given courses that will take them to their respective destinations and also have them link up with one another, forming ever larger groups. This in turn has given these larger units more security and resources to deal with the dangers of intersystem travel, which none of the settlements were designed for. But it has also enabled the Relocation Department to provide aid to more stragglers with its limited resources. Chief among the needs are spare parts for fusion reactors and maneuvering thrusters that are burning out at an alarming rate due to usage far beyond manufacturing specifications. Parts are ordered from the new industrial regions of Jupiter and shot on intercept courses to the coalescing convoys spread around the system.
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