Mercer thought it looked like a gigantic onyx jewel, exotic and beautiful. He knew at first glance it was incredibly valuable. The fact that sensors were blind to the pod made it even more so, implying it possessed some sort of alien stealth technology that certain corps would pay a handsome price to get their hands on. “We should bring it into the docking bay, take a closer look.”
Sinja frowned at Mercer, visibly annoyed by his joke. “Not funny. That thing is alien. We have no idea what it is or where it came from. No way to tell what the frickin’ thing will do. Why, it could be a bomb, for frick’s sake, and blow up in our faces.”
Mercer didn’t think so, and he wasn’t joking. He’d been studying the data readouts for some time now. “It’s emitting zero radiation. No detectable energy source. All indications say it’s inert, totally passive. The grav detectors indicate it’s small, just a few meters long and extremely light, so we can assume it’s not packed with explosives or loaded up with surveillance gear like a recon probe would be. I’d wager it’s an escape pod.”
Dupree’s eyes went wide. “Then aliens might be inside it. Wow.”
If this was true, if alien creatures were actually inside the object, Mercer knew it was even more valuable. Its price on the black market would skyrocket through any imaginable ceiling. He grinned like a kid in a candy store, knowing that by selling the alien pod he’d become rich beyond his wildest dreams.
Indeed, such illicit sales were a fairly regular occurrence, the most notable some twelve years prior when illegal prospectors had sold items looted from a derelict Jarda purgeship. Many were the so-called pirates out there, some even with financial backing from certain corporations―discretely, of course, through untraceable ghost accounts―who violated the strict proscription quarantines to secretly visit systems out beyond the frontier. In fast ships with empty cargo holds, they hunted for undiscovered worlds, plundering anything of value. Even exotic life forms had been smuggled back and auctioned off to private collectors for staggering amounts. The fortunes made kept an endless supply of greedy pirates on the prowl. They knew the sprawling interstellar frontiers were too vast for the Sphere Imperium to keep a vigilant eye on it all, especially with most of their forces guarding the Sikan and Veng borders.
Still, the risks were enormous―and often deadly―not only from local indigenous hazards but also from swift prosecution by Imperium authorities, who flaunted the public executions as warnings to other violators. Yet greed mixed with the idea of easy riches made people do foolish things. Mercer didn’t care about risks, his thoughts focused only on the reward. “We’d get billions for that pod on the black market.”
Dupree liked the idea. “Yeah, I say we grab it and sell it at auction to the highest bidder.”
Mercer had a vivid imagination; he could envision the auction clearly: wealthy private collectors haggling with underground corporate reps over who would pay the most to acquire it, to possess the alien jewel, to be very first to find out what was inside. He’d be fabulously rich.
“What about the quarantine?” Sinja pointed out. “Anything alien must be left alone, you know that. We’d get the death penalty just by touching it.”
Mercer chuckled. “That’s surprisingly hypocritical coming from someone who just masterminded a hijacking.”
His comment made Sinja fume, and she gave him an angry glare. “This is nonsense.”
“No, this is billions of credits were talking about.” Mercer raised a finger and began counting off the points of his plan. “First, we order the guard sats to release it to us. I can do that without much of a problem. Second, we snare the thing into the docking bay and lock it in a storage vault. Third, we take it to a black market auction site where we sell it for billions. It’s that simple.”
Dupree was nodding his head up and down like some mindless bobble-head figurine. “Yeah, let’s do it.”
Mercer eyed Sinja closely, gauging her reaction. She stared back at him with an unbelieving look, her mouth open, her bronze-hued cheeks taking on an irate red glow. Clearly Sinja was fighting back some rage, although why she wasn’t jumping on this great opportunity he hadn’t a clue. The woman was cautious to a fault.
Mercer scanned the bridge, wondering what everyone else thought of the idea. Dupree agreed with him, that was clear. Datch stood by the door, calm as ever, except his right hand now rested on the stun pistol in his holster. Mercer knew Datch would do whatever his stepsister told him to do. Tarn wore a big smile on his bearded face, obviously amused by this bickering between thieves.
Meanwhile Argo continued to accelerate toward the hyper-insertion point. They’d pass tantalizing close to that alien pod, so close Mercer could reach out and grab it. Only Sinja stood in his way. With a grand gesture the impish man spread his arms wide, imploring her to see the logic of his plan. “Minimal risk with a huge payoff,” he promised. “Just a minor course correction and we snare that pod on our way out-system. Easy, simple, then wealth beyond your wildest dreams.”
“Yeah, insane wealth.” Dupree had a crazed look in his eyes. “Enough to buy your own cloud mansion on Apollo Easterly . . . makes you high just thinking about it.”
Mercer drove the point home. “Just think, you could live out any fantasy. Anything you want, it’s yours. Dupree and I will take care of everything and set up the meet with buyers. I’ll use extreme caution bringing the pod aboard. First sign of trouble, we jettison the thing into space. I promise.”
“This is crazy talk,” Sinja said. “We have forty million credits back in the cargo holds, Mercer. Isn’t your share of that enough?”
A quarter share of forty million was a substantial sum indeed, but Mercer wanted more. “But that pod is worth billions. And it’s right there in front of us, ours for the taking. Only a fool would pass up this opportunity.”
Mercer instantly realized he’d said the wrong word.
“Fool,” Sinja snarled as her stun pistol came out. “You have the nerve to call me a fool? Listen, Mercer, and listen well. We’re not touching that thing. We’re here to hijack this hauler, and that’s all were going to do. This nonsense ends now! Got it?”
Datch had his own pistol out, covering Dupree.
Mercer froze, carefully choosing his next words. He knew now Sinja could not be swayed. He needed to back off before this got violent. There were other ways to get what he wanted, simpler ways, really. Mercer grinned sheepishly as he shook his head, feigning embarrassment. “You’re right, crazy idea. I’ve been pumped full of adrenalin since this heist first began . . . it’s warped my thinking. Sorry.”
Sinja slid her pistol back into its holster. Datch did likewise, although he still kept a watchful eye on both Mercer and Dupree. The tension on the bridge slowly faded as everyone calmed down. No one said a word for several minutes.
Mercer just gazed longingly at the alien pod, thinking dangerous thoughts. After a sufficient amount of time had passed he left the bridge, telling Sinja he needed to go take a piss. That, of course, was a lie, as should be expected of a greedy man who owed large gambling debts to underworld thugs.
Archangel Nomad
The police corvette had been slicing through hyperspace at nearly three thousand times lightspeed and was only seventeen hours out from Cirtus Beta when the priority alert came in.
The console in front of Withers Pendergan burst to life with flashing red lights and a very annoying alarm. Leaning forward, he silenced the alarm then read the message scrolling across a display screen.
“Priority One alert from Cirtus Beta,” he said. “Looks like the guard sats caught an intruder.” He ran the alert through the decoding filters a second time just to be sure, not quite believing what he saw, before relaying it to the main bridge monitor so everyone could see it.
FLASH///PRIORITY-ONE///FLASH
Origin: CA-10#20243///Cirtus Beta///3415.05.11-0125.314358
Penetration of Defense Perimeter by Unidentified Object: Object Detained.
Estimate of Hostile
Intent: 76.67%. Estimate of Alien Origin: 97.50%.
PRIORITY-ONE END///3415.05.11-0125.389885///PRIORITY-ONE END
As Captain Hoth read it, his jaw slowly dropped. A Priority One alert was the universal code term for unknown and technologically advanced aliens with hostile intent.
During humanity’s expansion into the galaxy, two life forms with faster-than-light capabilities and far-flung interstellar empires had been encountered. The semi-reptilian and highly aggressive K’klacken had a kill-or-be-killed attitude with no concept of peaceful coexistence. The Jarda were best described as vine creepers, slow-moving chlorotrophivores, telepathic, intelligent, and very hard to kill, who considered animal species little more than pests―pests to be eaten. With each encounter a devastating interstellar war erupted almost overnight.
Humanity emerged victorious both times, but a heavy cost had been paid. Suffering untold billions in casualties left terrible scars in the societal fabric, scars that might never ever heal. The paranoia ran deep. Vast warfleets were maintained at all times despite the staggering price tag. Pacifist politicos had been all but banished in favor of hawkish warmongers.
Be always ready, be forever vigilant, was the new cultural mantra.
Hoth thought of his history lessons, recalling how long ago the brightest minds had theorized that any advanced civilization must be peaceful, since a higher intelligence would have enlightened moral standards that precluded violence. After the forty-seven-year conflict colloquially known as the Red War, those theories lost favor, became scorned by most. After the Jarda Crusade they wilted into shameful obscurity.
Today, most theorists believed that evolution favored the predators, the hunter-killers, who to survive had to outthink their prey. With enhanced intelligence came newer, better, more efficient ways to kill. Smarter minds also gave them an edge over competing hunters; those best able to kill were best able to survive and pass on their progeny. Theorists used humanity’s own war-ravaged history to prove their point. Most believed the next alien life form encountered would be no exception to the rule.
Hoth swallowed hard, fearful of what they might find at Cirtus Beta.
Argo
Locked in his bedroom by the hijackers, Ritch had little to do other than immerse himself in an SR adventure. Besides, it kept him from dwelling on depressing thoughts, such as whether he, his dad and Shepard would all soon be murdered.
The bomb locked around his ankle was starting to chaff, but nothing he could do about that. Only by playing Castle Siege could he forget his worries.
In a simulated reality therefore, Ritch was once again in a prone position behind a rocky ridgeline in 1228 England. A booming thunderstorm approached from the northwest. Down in the valley below, the Black Duke’s caravan of six horse-drawn wagons escorted by a hundred troops noticed the coming storm. Wisely, they decided to take shelter in a grove of elm trees. Tents were hastily erected, horses tethered, wood for cooking fires gathered. Shouts drifted up to Ritch and his men, the dreaded Highlander Mercenaries.
He had fought alongside the Highlanders in many a glorious battle. They were characters created by the SR unit, true, but even so he considered some of them―like Magnus his top lieutenant, and Aldrich the grizzled sergeant with a never-ending thirst for ale―to be his best friends. Not surprising, really. Life on a hauler was a lonely life. Especially for an imaginative twelve-year-old whose only companions were his father and an AI. And so, naturally, these simulated Highlanders had become friends. Imaginary friends, true, but friends nonetheless that he could have fun with. And there was nothing more fun, the boy thought, than plundering gold from an evil Duke.
The sky grew dark as storm clouds rolled in. Lighting slashed overhead, carving dazzling-white claw patterns. An elm tree was struck with a deafening boom, sending leaves and wood splinters flying. Now the rain started, softly at first but soon thick drops were pelting man and horse alike.
Ritch nudged the Highlander to his left. It was Magnus. “Begin the attack,” he told his lieutenant. He did the same with Aldrich on his right.
Aldrich smiled at him, revealing yellow, cracked teeth. “For glory, Milord.”
Ritch’s order traveled quickly from man to man down the ridgeline. Rising in unison, his forty-four Highlanders advanced on the camp below, mindful of their footing in the raging deluge. They wore deer-skin jerkins, canvas leggings, and leather boots. Armed with a crossbow at the ready, they also carried a long sword known as a claymore sheathed in a leather scabbard.
Ritch alone carried an English longbow, his weapon of choice. While not as powerful as a crossbow, it did have a much faster rate of fire. He was quite proud of his Level 9 proficiency with the longbow, rivaling William Tell.
While the thunderstorm was a big hindrance, reducing the range of Highlander crossbows by two-thirds or more, it did give them the element of surprise. Plus, the Duke’s troops were dismounted and tired from a long day’s journey. Fighting mounted cavalry, even with the Highlanders, had cost Ritch dearly before.
Visibility dropped to a dozen paces, maybe less. Ritch felt confident the caravan sentries would be more concerned with finding a dry spot under a tree than keeping a watchful eye out for plundering brigands. They never saw the Highlanders who killed them, dropping silently as crossbow bolts pierced their hearts.
Ritch and the Highlanders had almost reached the tents when a guard dog noticed them, barking furiously.
Frick Ultra-Hard! Ritch thought, though he was mostly mad at himself for setting the difficulty at the highest level again. But Normal and even Challenge levels weren’t much fun anymore. Even so . . . this is frickin’ ridiculous!
Sure enough, the element of surprise evaporated as one of the Duke’s soldiers swung open a tent flap and looked out. “Brigands!” he shouted. “Brigands among us!”
Those in the tents grabbed their weapons and rushed out. Sergeants bellowed orders, trying to organize a proper defense.
“Death to the Black Duke!” Ritch yelled.
Forty-four Highlanders fired their crossbows. The volley dropped twenty-five men and wounded a dozen more. Drawing their claymores, the Highlanders charged the Duke’s soldiers who were rushing out to meet them. A fierce battle broke out, the sounds of swordplay punctuated by the high-pitched screams of wounded men. The torrential downpour made fighting treacherous as the Duke’s soldiers and Highlanders alike slid and fell on the slick, muddy ground, some hacked or stabbed to death before they could get back up again.
Two soldiers armed with huge broadswords charged Ritch. He raised his longbow, took aim, and let fly. His arrow pierced the one on the right square in the heart, dropping him instantly. The other swung his broadsword in a vicious roundhouse crosscut that Ritch barely managed to block with the longbow. His cherished weapon was smashed in two by the blow. Dropping the shattered remains, Ritch pulled out his claymore and began backpedaling as the soldier attacked again. Down came a chopping cut he narrowly parried, followed by a vicious upward hack that just missed. Seeing an opening, Ritch counterattacked, spinning in a circle and bringing his claymore around in a slice cut that neatly severed the man’s head, sent it plopping into a mud puddle. Blood spurted from severed arteries.
The rain had let up a steady drizzle as the leading edge of the storm front blew past. All across the valley, the battle deteriorated into isolated skirmishes here and there, with the Highlanders winning most.
Ritch heard sloshing sounds to his right, getting closer. He swung round, saw three men charging him. The Duke’s soldiers slogged through the mud, two with broadswords held high, one with a spiked mace.
“Kill the swine!” one of them yelled.
Ritch backpedaled with his claymore out, ready to defend. So three-to-one this time, huh? The boy smiled, relishing the challenge.
Before their skirmish could even begin, a lightning bolt lanced out of the sky and struck the center man on his helmet. He twitched wildly like a dancing marionette, electrified by millions of volts, then
fell face first into the mud.
Another lightning bolt shot down, killing the man with the mace.
“What the―” Ritch muttered. Then to his incredible surprise, a fiery orb swooped down from the sky and engulfed the third soldier. To Ritch, it was as though a giant flame ball had swallowed the man whole. Everything except his head . . . to allow him air to breathe?
As Ritch watched in shocked disbelief, the man started screaming as the creature irradiated him with microwaves, liquefying tissue and muscle before heating the resultant goo to a gaseous state for absorption. The man’s face contorted into a terrible rictus of pain as he was consumed alive.
This can’t be happening. Ritch told himself as he backed away from the gruesome scene. It just can’t.
Whatever that fire beast was, it didn’t exist in 1228 England. Had the SR malfunctioned? Were the hijackers messing with its programming somehow?
“End simulation.” He sent the command with a focused thought. Nothing changed. His thought-command should have caused 1228 England to fade to black. He should be seeing his bedroom now. Instead he saw more of the fire beasts fall from the sky, attacking the Duke’s soldiers and Highlanders alike.
Men who were sworn enemies just minutes ago now stood back to back, fighting together against creatures from another world. They loosed crossbow bolts and shot their arrows, but the projectiles simply steaked through the fire beasts as if through air. They swung broadswords and claymores, hacking and slashing, also to no avail. Medieval weapons were useless against the creatures.
Lightning bolts killed dozens of men as the fire beasts swooped in. Ritch watched with horror as one of them enveloped Aldrich, the grizzled face of his friend twisting in pain.
“End simulation now!”
The slaughter continued. Ritch turned and ran, bolting toward some elm trees, unable to watch anymore. “Password Hush Puppy Tango. End . . . simulation . . . now!”
The Sphere Imperium: Book Two of the Intentional Contact Trilogy Page 5