by Nick Webb
Granger couldn’t believe his eyes. “Hard about! Get us clear of the blast!” He couldn’t tell what type of explosion it was—power plant failure, or capacitor bank overload. But if it was an anti-matter leak they needed to move. It looked bright enough for it.
The ship lurched as it accelerated away, and lurched again as the blast front washed over them. Granger bolted toward the tactical station and gripped Ensign Diamond’s shoulder. “What the hell was that?”
“Looking over sensor logs now, sir.” The man swiped through data and radiation image maps before glancing up. “Anti-matter leak in the engines. There was a gamma emission spike at reactor four right before the blast. Somehow all their anti-matter was injected all at once.”
Granger spun toward the comm station. “Get them back.”
A moment later Zingano and Avery reappeared on the screen, the admiral with a face of shocked anger and the president with her mouth still hanging open.
Only it wasn’t the president. It made sense now. He pointed at her. “You’re not Avery, are you?”
The woman slowly shook her head, still speechless.
Zingano punched his console, sending plastic shards flying, composite pieces cutting into his fist. “Shit!”
“I’m one of her doubles,” said the woman, who, on further inspection, looked less and less like Avery.
“Then where is the president?” Granger asked, knowing exactly what she’d say, but he still had to ask. It couldn’t be. How?
Their troubles were far deeper than he’d imagined.
“She was … she was on that ship, Captain….”
One of the president’s aides came on the screen, stepping in front of the double. Congresswoman Sparks. Avery had decided that having one of her aides be a member of congress would get her better access, contacts, and results in the petulant legislative body. “Captain, Admiral, can you explain this?”
“No, ma’am.” Zingano was picking pieces of the console out of his fist, still swearing.
Sparks buried her face in her palms. “Shit,” she said. Words seemed to be failing them all.
She looked back up. “Get over here. Both of you. It looks as though we have even more to discuss.”
Chapter Twenty-One
New Dublin, Eyre Sector
Bridge, ISS Warrior
The flight over the Atlantic went quickly, and Conner seemed to have overcome his fear of flying—at least temporarily. Isaacson kept him busy with menial tasks and busywork. Something to occupy his mind so he wouldn’t focus on the clouds rushing by dozens of kilometers below at over ten times the speed of sound.
Landing in Moscow, half his secret service detail exited first, securing the path he’d take to the United Earth embassy. The last minute nature of his trip precluded finding any secure hotels or official government residences, and besides, he wanted to stay in a place where he knew not only that he was being bugged, but exactly where the bugs were and who was doing the bugging.
“Take my things to the room, and get the usual ready for me.”
Conner nodded. “The usual?”
“Coffee, masseuse, some good Russian porn, and maybe a girl or two. Clean—I don’t want to catch anything. Go to Marco’s place—tell him I sent you. He has the best ones. Oh, and feel free to grab one for yourself—it’s on me.”
“Coffee?”
Isaacson rolled his eyes. “Right. The coffee’s on me. Go on, see you in a few hours.”
The secret service escorted him to the embassy just a short walk away, and from there he got in an embassy ground car that would take him to Volodin’s office downtown.
Moscow had changed since he’d started meeting with Volodin a year ago. Gone were all the western shops and vendors. Anti-United Earth hysteria had gripped the entire Russian Confederation during the past two months, or so his sources told him. Anyone who was not a Confederate citizen was not allowed to work, and many had been expelled. Why Confederate society was shunning United Earth citizens was beyond him. Maybe they felt that by distancing themselves from the west the Swarm might take it easier on them when they returned to Earth.
Fat chance.
The ground car pulled up to Volodin’s office, and the ambassador stood outside to receive him. “You’ve come back, my friend, my friend,” he said, greeting him with a firm handshake.
“Hello, Yuri. How’ve you been?” He let the ambassador lead him into the building. The three secret service officers followed close behind.
“Oh, you know. Just assisting President Malakhov with the war effort. While we’ve kept more of our freedoms than you people out west—no draft, for example—we’re still doing our part. Entire industries have been retooled and we’re even selling our surplus off to IDF to help out.”
Isaacson flashed a wry grin. “For a tidy profit, no doubt.”
“Is that wrong?” Volodin laughed. “It was your people that taught us capitalism centuries ago.”
“And then you taught it back to us.”
“And the circle of life continues.” Volodin gestured toward the living room, lined by plush, luxurious sofas and alcohol cabinets. “Can I offer you something?”
“Do you have to ask?”
Two secret service men stood near the doors while one left the room to stand outside. Volodin pulled a small bottle from a cabinet which Isaacson accepted gratefully. “So, no draft? How does your military manage?”
“We are a patriotic people, Eamon. We don’t need to be compelled to defend our freedoms like you people do. Young men are volunteering in droves.”
“Spurred, no doubt, by the incredibly low attrition rate your military suffers compared to ours. A consequence of sitting all the major battles out, I suppose,” Isaacson retorted.
Volodin smiled and sat on a sofa, swishing a drink. “So, why are you here, Eamon? What’s the problem?”
After a few swallows, Isaacson motioned to the men at the door. “Give us a moment, guys.”
When the security detail had left he stood back up. “Yuri, what the hell is going on? Why did you leave?”
“I told you. Malakhov recalled me.”
“Why? Right in the middle of the war? Doesn’t make sense. Are you still—” Isaacson paused, and glanced at the door, before lowering his voice. “Are you still targeting Avery?”
“Do you want us to?”
Isaacson glowered at him. “It’s wartime. Total war. Changes in leadership aren’t … prudent, during times like this.”
Yuri guffawed. “Ha! You’ve fallen under her sway, haven’t you? She’s charmed your balls right off with her chest-thumping, dick-waving show she’s putting on, playing at being a general when she belongs in the kitchen. My friend, are you getting soft on me?”
Isaacson rolled his eyes. “Please, Yuri, you sound like someone out of the twenty-first century. I wanted her dead so I could be president, not because she’s got a vagina.”
Yuri finished off his drink. “So why don’t you? Hmm?”
“Do what?”
“Kill her?”
“I told you.”
“Because of stability during wartime? Nonsense. The people need the best leader during wartime, not the most convenient one. They clearly need you, Eamon. Malakhov stands by his pledge of support for you. Even in all the commotion these days, I’m sure we can make something work.”
Isaacson drummed his fingers nervously on his cheek and paced the room. “No.”
Yuri snorted. “She has gotten to you. Taken you in with her act. What, did she say how much she needs you and how much she trusts you? Tell you how important you are? Did she promise to campaign for you next election? Or did she just promise you a good BJ for every thousand ships you christen?”
He would not give Volodin the satisfaction, but Isaacson grimaced inwardly at himself—it was all true. Well, mostly.
“Eamon, think. You’ve been planning her assassination for months. Surely you’ve been thinking about it for years, if I know you—you’re a ma
n of action, a man of decision, someone who makes the hard choices, come what may. But think. Someone has just made an attempt on her life. A sloppy one, from what my sources say. Do you honestly think that she doesn’t suspect you?”
Isaacson hesitated. “Who knows what she thinks—she’s a loose cannon right now, ever since the war—”
“Exactly. A loose cannon. She’s acting on instinct right now. And remember, she’s a natural politician. She’s drawn you in just as she’s drawn in the billions of rubes that voted for her. If I were her, do you know what I would do?” He paused, then continued without waiting for his answer. “I’d bring you in close, get you in my confidences, make you comfortable, then,” he raised a hand and made a gun motion, firing it at Isaacson’s head. “Bam.”
“And why would she suspect me? I’ve only ever been polite and encouraging to her.”
“Why wouldn’t she? Who will take the presidency when she dies?”
“Me.”
“Exactly.”
Volodin was annoying him, so he changed the subject. “Will you tell me how to detect Swarm-influenced people?”
Yuri’s eyes narrowed at the question. He poured himself another drink. “Why? Do you suspect someone in your government or military?”
“Possibly. You said that some of those soldiers that went aboard the Swarm ships came out changed. Smarter. Faster. Better. Is that the only way to tell if someone’s been compromised?”
Volodin swished his drink. “There are many ways. I will not tell you all of them. For classified reasons,” he added, noticing Isaacson’s eye-roll. “But I will tell you this. Ever wonder how the Swarm communicate with each other? I’m sure you’ve noticed during all the pitched battles over the past few months that your fleets never detect any transmissions between Swarm ships. It’s like they coordinate their attacks perfectly, all from prior plans they worked out before the battle.”
Isaacson nodded. “I have heard the admirals discuss the matter.”
“But it’s nonsense. Of course they communicate with each other. You witnessed me talking to them, remember? They’re not wordy folk, but they do talk. And their coordination amongst themselves is … effective, wouldn’t you say? How many ships have you lost the past two months? How many people?”
Isaacson shrugged. “Too many. Five hundred ships? Maybe more.”
“And the Cadiz System. And almost a dozen other worlds. A shame. Truly a great human tragedy.”
Isaacson nodded again, hoping the other man would get to the point.
“Think about it. If we talk to them using meta-space signals, it might make sense that they talk to each other with meta-space signals, correct?”
“Right,” said Isaacson, leading him on.
“And if they talk to each other using meta-space signals, you’d think they would have figured out a way to talk to those they control with meta-space signals.”
But back in the Omaha command center, he’d scanned the entire room for meta-space signals. Not one of the stations registered even so much as a blip.
Unless….
“Are you saying that they’ve figured out a way to transmit and receive meta-space signals with—” he fumbled for words—he was no scientist or technologist, “—with bodies?
Yuri raised an eyebrow. “Now that would be something, wouldn’t it? Being able to talk to each other without electronics, without devices, without antennae. Just you, and me … and our thoughts.”
“So you’ve detected this among those men that came back from the Swarm carrier?”
“Oh,” Volodin began, standing up and putting the bottle back into the cabinet. “Hard to tell what was going on in the military back then. I was just a junior member of the diplomatic corps at the time.”
So he was going to play coy. Fine. But at least Isaacson learned what he came for.
He was absolutely sure Volodin was not involved in the recent attempt on Avery’s life. The ambassador was not a humble man—the fact of his involvement would have been flaunted for Isaacson like a badge of honor.
“I need to get back to Washington.” Isaacson stood up. “It’s been a pleasure, Yuri, as always. Do keep in touch.”
Volodin nodded, and after more small talk, he led Isaacson out where his security detail was waiting for him. They shook hands, and Volodin slipped back into the building as Isaacson allowed the guards to lead him back to their vehicle on the street.
He almost ducked into the car when he heard Volodin call out to him, waving something from the doorway. Grumbling about walking more than he needed to, Isaacson motioned to the guards to get in the car as he went back to the office.
The ambassador held a new bottle of the vodka they’d been drinking. “For tonight. I do know how you love your Russian beverages after your Russian girls.”
Isaacson smiled. “Thank you, Yuri. How very thoughtful.”
He turned to walk back to the street, examining the bottle. Caspian Black Label—Russia’s finest. He suspected most of it would be gone before he left in the morning. Maybe Conner might want the rest.
Moments later, he was thrown backward. The ground car exploded in a massive fireball as he flew through the air, landing on the grass behind him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
New Dublin, Eyre Sector
Bridge, ISS Warrior
Interstellar One was in a state of somber pandemonium. Aides, department chiefs, interns, all grim-faced and arguing, still not quite believing what had happened, scurried in shock. Zingano and Granger both arrived in the shuttle bay at the same time and followed Sparks and some advisors into a conference room.
“What the hell is going on?” Zingano yelled. “Where’s the secret service? Are your security protocols really this shoddy? Where’s the chief of staff? Where’s General Norton? He’s her military advisor. Doesn’t he personally handle fleet protection for the president? Where’s—”
Sparks held up a hand and cut him off. “Admiral, please. We’re trying to figure out what went wrong. Could be as simple as an engine overload, for all we know. Right now we have to worry about continuity of government. We need to send a meta-space signal back to Earth and get Vice President Isaacson to a secure location before word leaks out. We can’t have this happen again.”
“Isaacson? That dipshit?” Zingano tossed his hands up. “Unbelievable.”
The door opened again and General Norton ran into the room, along with three armed men. “I’ve got her secret service detail.”
Zingano pointed at one of them, an older man that looked like their commander. “What the hell happened? Why was she on that ship, and how did they know she was there?”
“And who is they?” Granger added.
The secret service agent shook his head. He was obviously troubled, his face red. His fist looked bloody. He’d apparently had the same reaction to Avery’s death as Zingano. “That’s standard protocol these days. She’s never to travel on Interstellar One. We’ve got three body doubles for that. One’s on Earth, the other’s on Verso.”
Zingano shot him a look. “Verso?”
“The other escort ship. The one that didn’t explode—that one was Recto.” He sighed. “The third double is here on Interstellar One.”
Silence. The enormity of the situation began to weigh on them all. They’d need to make an announcement. Isaacson would need to be sworn in, and then read in to all the top-secret programs, some of which Granger didn’t even know about, he supposed. The Earth, and dozens of other United Earth worlds, would be shocked. Demoralized. If the Swarm could not only invade with fleets, but infiltrate this deeply into Earth’s elected government with impunity, what hope could they have of winning?
There was shouting out in the corridor. Shit. What now?
Granger couldn’t believe his eyes. The door opened. President Avery stepped through, flanked by her chief of staff and another secret service agent. She held a small, glittering handbag, a mug of coffee, and a fierce frown.
She strode
straight up to Congresswoman Sparks. The other woman’s mouth still hung open. “Madam President! You’re … you’re alive.”
Avery smiled and handed her coffee to the chief of staff. “Yes. And you’re not.” In one fluid, swift motion she reached into her handbag and pulled out a sidearm, pointed it straight at Sparks’s forehead, and fired.
Chapter Twenty-Three
New Dublin, Eyre Sector
Bridge, ISS Warrior
Isaacson felt himself being dragged across grass, then pavement. Looking around he saw people running and screaming, but he couldn’t hear them. His head felt like it was underwater and his ears stuffed with gauze.
He looked up. Volodin was pulling him toward his offices, his large face red from the effort. Soon, first responder vehicles swarmed the street, lights flashing, sirens blaring—he supposed. He could just barely hear them, as if from a distance.
Someone was calling his name. He looked back at Volodin, who was yelling in his ear. The ambassador pointed to Isaacson’s legs, then made a rising motion.
Isaacson nodded, and let the other man pull him to his feet. He immediately felt light headed, and leaned into Volodin for support. The two hobbled to the front door of the office and stepped inside, Isaacson falling onto one of the sofas.
Volodin bolted back out the door and Isaacson closed his eyes. Moments later he opened them to find the ambassador standing overhead with a few paramedics. They examined him, scanned his head with a device and read his vitals, feeling his limbs and torso for wounds.
“He’s fine, Ambassador,” said one of the men. “Just in shock, and his hearing is slightly damaged. But both will pass.”
Isaacson nodded. Good—he could hear again. “Who?”
“No idea, Eamon. Intelligence services are already here, combing for evidence,” he said, pausing, “I’m afraid your men did not survive.”
Isaacson waved the comment aside. “I almost didn’t survive, Yuri!”
Volodin nodded to the paramedics and signaled for them to go. When they were alone Volodin sat on the sofa next to him. “Eamon, this is a troubling development.”