by Jay Allan
“How so?” Achilles stepped forward and took a tablet Themistocles handed him, glancing quickly at the screen.
“Most of the research done in this area over the years focused on trying to discover the cause of the affliction. That was a logical methodology, but one that defied all efforts to make substantial progress. I tried a new approach this time. Instead of finding a way to prevent the Plague from occurring, I explored ways of reversing it once it does.”
Achilles gazed back at his friend, a rare look of uncertainty on his face. He was a Mule, and a gifted scientist in his own right, but his areas of expertise extended more toward physics and robotics. Themistocles was the Hybrid’s undisputed leader in medicine and medical research.
“It is simple, Achilles, when you consider it. There are simply two different ways to look at a disease. The first is to understand its causes, and to attempt to interfere with and reverse them. The second is to simply treat the result of the disease, with or without any concern to how it developed. Consider a cancer therapy. We understand how malignant tumors develop, and we have many therapies to prevent the disease from striking. But, when a malignancy does occur, the common methodology changes almost completely. The standard treatment is to engineer targeted hunter cells to eradicate the tumor…in effect not seeking to understand what happened to the patient, but simply eliminating the dangerous effects of the disease. A patient so ‘cured’ will still carry a susceptibility to recurrences, but the instance of the disease will be eliminated.”
“Yes, I understand the difference in approaches…but, are you telling me none of the research into the Plague has explored treatments from that perspective?”
“Yes, some early studies did. But, the disease killed so quickly after the onset of symptoms, that line was largely abandoned in favor of attempts to prevent incidence. Those efforts, save for some meaningful advances in tagging susceptible donor strains of DNA, have been largely unsuccessful as well.”
“So, you returned to attempts to cure the disease after it occurs? Even though there is a window of just a few days before death occurs?”
“To an extent, Achilles. Actually, I was working on something entirely different, but when I realized the possible utility in cases of the Plague, I redirected my efforts to that end.”
“You said you haven’t tested the treatment on any actual Tanks suffering from the disease. Are you sure it will work?”
“As sure as I can be. It’s a cell regeneration technique, one taking an entirely new approach from past research. It has some cursory relationships with the rejuv therapies that have been in use for nearly a century, but it is much more comprehensive. I’ve experimented with tissue samples from stricken Tanks, as well as the bodies of those killed by the disease. But, now I need to try it on several live specimens.”
Achilles took a deep breath and considered everything he’d heard. If Themistocles was right, if his treatment was effective, the great scourge of the Tanks would be defeated. He felt a burst of excitement, followed by a darker, more somber thought.
Control of such a cure would give us tremendous influence over the Tank population.
Achilles didn’t like the thought. It went against his own ethical standards to even think about withholding medical treatment from any sick people…Tanks, NB, Mules.
But Freya’s words had stuck with him, as did her concerns, and they awakened the ones he himself had once had, worries he’d convinced himself to ignore, flashes of a dark future, the Mules hunted down and cornered…killed one by one by the fearful humans who outnumbered then a thousand to one.
And, he’d never forgotten what had happened twelve years earlier, how close his combat robots had come to facing Marines—mostly Tanks—in battle. Control over the Tanks meant control over the military…the ground forces, at least.
Achilles considered his people superior, but he didn’t hate the Normals. He wished them well, and he generally considered the Hybrids to be guardians for the lesser humans. Still, if it came to a choice, if the radical forces opposed to the Hybrids one day pushed humanity into becoming a deadly, insensate mob, as they were so prone to become…his loyalty was with the Mules. If that conflict came, the Tanks would be immensely valuable as allies. Willing ones or otherwise.
“We should keep this quiet, Themistocles.” Achilles felt guilty for not telling his friend what he was thinking…but he kept it to himself anyway. “The Tanks have seen many promises of cures before…we should conduct secret tests, on a few carefully selected subjects. If the cure works, there is plenty of time for public announcements and celebration.”
Themistocles hesitated for a moment, but then he nodded. “Of course, you’re right, Achilles. But, how do I arrange to treat the test cases in secret?”
“Let me take care of that, my friend. I will speak directly to President Harmon. He, too, will see the need for caution in this matter. Earth Two society is fragile and easily fractured. I am sure he will be in favor of confirming the effectiveness of the treatment in secret, before announcing it planetwide.”
Themistocles nodded. “You are right, of course, Achilles. Do you think you can get in to see the president immediately?”
“I am sure I can, my friend. Prepare what you need. I will see that two selected patients are sent here at once. We can maintain the proper security at the institute, far more effectively than in a hospital in the city.” Achilles hesitated. “Do you have any particular needs in terms of candidates?”
“Not really. But the sooner after onset, the likelier the treatment will be effective.”
Achilles nodded. “I will go see the president now.” He turned and took a few steps, but then he stopped and looked back. “You said you were researching something different entirely. What was that?”
“I was trying to improve on rejuv protocols. The longevity treatments have been in use for more than eighty years, but very little improvement has been made in that time. I believe this new line of research will lead to vastly superior techniques to slow or even reverse age-related cellular degeneration.”
Achilles looked back at Themistocles, silent, even his usual rigid control failing him. “You mean you are working on a treatment that could lead to virtual immortality?”
Themistocles returned the gaze. “That may be a bit of a broad description…but, yes. And, I believe I have achieved just that.”
* * *
“Connor, what the hell happened?” Max Harmon was mad…as red hot, raging, fist-clenching as he could ever remember being.
And it showed.
“We don’t know for sure yet, Mr. President. It appears that some kind of explosive was detonated in the main concourse. I don’t have a casualty total yet, sir, but we’ve got a minimum of sixty confirmed dead as of right now. The explosion was well-timed to catch people during their lunch breaks. I deployed three companies, and the entire area is under lockdown.”
“Have you been there yourself, Connor?”
“Yes, sir. I set up the command post and saw to the deployments. Then I came here.”
“What does it look like?”
Frasier paused. “It’s bad, sir. It looks like it was designed to do as much damage…to kill as many people…as possible.”
“So, no doubt this is a deliberate terrorist act?”
“None, sir…at least not as far as I can see.”
“Suspects?”
“None yet, sir, but the AIs are studying surveillance footage. It’s hard to imagine that someone could have set this up without getting caught on a number of security cams.”
Harmon leaned forward, putting his face in his hands and sighing. Frasier was right, in theory…but he didn’t think the security footage would reveal anything. The attack was a sophisticated one, not an act of pure emotional rage. Whoever was responsible was intelligent, and they would have known the whole area was under constant surveillance.
Which means they got to the security footage.
Harmon squeezed his eyes t
ightly together for a moment, trying to push back against the pounding in his head.
That means they have accomplices in high-level security positions.
Harmon had expected civil disturbances after he’d taken power. He’d been prepared for it for at least a year, perhaps even two, every day, waking up, expecting news of some rebellion or other disruption. But, none of it happened. He was never sure if the threat of the Regent had scared people into accepting his rule, or if his appeals for unity and promises that one day he would step down had actually had the desired effects.
Or, if people were just scared of Connor Frasier and his Marines.
Whatever it was, likely a combination of factors, the years had passed, and opposition to his rule had been largely limited to grumbling, and to a few protests he’d allowed to take place unmolested. But, this was something new, something different.
Something he couldn’t ignore.
“Connor, I want whoever is responsible for this outrage. I don’t care what it takes. You have total authority…but find me everyone behind this act.”
Frasier looked uncomfortable. My people are Marines, Mr. President, not security officers or police. This is not our area of expertise. We will try, of course, but…”
“Let’s not fool ourselves any longer, Connor. This is a military dictatorship, and your people are the military.” He paused, his look of anger and determination giving way briefly to one of sadness. “Besides…I don’t know who else I can trust.”
Frasier looked as though he was going to argue, but Harmon’s last words cut him off. He hesitated, and then he just nodded. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
“My God…I just heard. Are you ok? Connor? Max?” Ana Zhukov came walking in the office. Zhukov had been almost alone among the inner circle in almost entirely ignoring any formality toward Harmon since he’d become dictator. She kept up enough airs in public to get by, but in private, she maintained that the president had been her friend first, and always would be. The others sometimes scolded her—to no avail—but Harmon had always been grateful for the slight tether back to his old reality.
“We’re fine, Ana.” Frasier stood up and turned toward his wife.
“What happened? Do we know anything yet?”
“Nothing significant. Ana, I have to…”
“Sit, Ana.” Harmon rose as well, forcing something with a slight resemblance to a smile and gesturing to the open chair. “Connor has duties that require his attention, but I’ll bring you up to speed.” He looked at the Marine. “Anything, Connor…remember that. Do whatever you have to do, but find out whoever is responsible for this. Every single one of them.” There was a coldness in Harmon’s voice that even startled himself. He was enraged that someone on Earth Two would murder their fellow citizens in such numbers…and he shuddered to think of what he would do to them when he found them.
Frasier leaned over and hugged Zhukov. Then, he snapped off a quick salute, and he walked swiftly across the room and through the door.
“I was coming to see you with good news when I heard. I’m so sorry, Max. This is terrible.”
“Yes, it is.” Harmon understood the rage he felt, to a point. But, he was no stranger to death, nor to the loss of comrades. Even if the toll from the explosion rose, as it almost certainly would, what did it compare to the thousands lost in the fleet’s journey to Earth Two…or the millions killed on the other side of the Barrier, in the wars against the First Imperium, and between the superpowers?
But, it was different. Earth Two was all alone, desperately trying to defeat the new Regent. Anyone who would turn on their own people with such mindless violence…didn’t have a place on Earth Two.
And, when Harmon found them, they wouldn’t have a place. Anywhere.
The two sat quietly for a few minutes. Then, Harmon looked over at Zhukov. “You said you had good news?” Harmon looked at Zhukov, a spark of desperate hope in his eyes.
“Oh…yes! I spoke to Achilles and Themistocles over at the Institute. Themistocles has discovered something, something incredible.”
Harmon looked back across the desk, curiosity pushing away some of the darkness.
“He thinks he has developed a cure for the Plague.”
Chapter Seventeen
Flag Bridge, E2S Midway
System G45
Earth Two Date 02.09.43
“All units engaged, Admiral.”
Strand leaned forward in her chair, as she tended to do in battle, staring intently into the depths of Midway’s main display. “Very well, Commander.” As she often did, she felt that she should be firing out commands, directing the ships of her force in the fight that was unfolding all around. But, her people knew what to do, and she could only distract now. It sometimes took more command discipline to shut up than it did to micromanage.
Her flagship had taken damage in the fighting in G24, and several times again as enemy forces had hit the fleet at multiple points along its journey. But now, the great battleship was one hundred percent operational, save perhaps for a jammed hatch or twisted bulkhead here and there. She was grateful to Midway’s small team of engineers, but she knew the bulk of her gratitude was owed to the several hundred AI-directed repair drones constantly crawling through the bowels of her ship.
The heavy automation that had taken over the role of so many engineers and technicians was extremely effective, there was no argument against that. Besides the obvious advantages of greater resistance to heat, vacuum, and radiation, the bots were also something that could be mass produced and crammed into every nook and cranny a ship had to offer. They didn’t need cabins or food or recreational facilities.
For a new world struggling to produce the population required to man and support a large navy, the reduction of naval crews by a factor of five to eight had been a welcome option and a huge problem solver, if one that had also spurred some not-inconsiderable backlash. Humanity, after all, was fighting to avoid extinction at the hands of a robotic enemy. A certain amount of resentment and concern was understandable, especially when, superficially at least, Earth Two seemed to be going down the same road that had led to the destruction of the Ancients, putting ever greater dependency on automated servants, with less and less human supervision in the mix.
She’d seen those types of concerns decline a bit as the years passed. Strand had entered into a navy almost entirely crewed by Pilgrims, veteran spacers at least twenty-five years her senior, who had fought their way across half the galaxy to attain victory and find a home. Those seasoned warriors, the youngest of which were now in their mid-60s, had resisted the automation drives, almost fanatically at first. They had seen the havoc the First Imperium had wrought on the human worlds on the other side of the Barrier, and no small number of them still woke up, sweat covered in the middle of the night, fleeing from nightmares of deadly combat robots.
But even the resistance of the fleet’s former officers and crews hadn’t been sufficient to stop the trend toward automation. There simply weren’t enough people to man fleets of ships with thousand strong crews, a problem that became far more urgent when the existence of the new Regent became known and spurred a massive mobilization effort.
Strand found herself somewhere in the middle in her outlook, a bit nervous about ceding so much of the operations of her ships to artificial intelligences, but also keenly aware that Earth Two was compelled to field a military vastly beyond what it could normally support. Her views matched her place in Earth Two’s military structure…not a Pilgrim, but one of the oldest of the new generations.
The ships she had served on as a young officer had already been far more advanced than those of the original fleet, yet compared to Midway with its high-tech robotics and tiny crew, they seemed in her memory almost like ancient artifacts. She had some reservations, but she was still amazed when she saw how quickly and effectively the damage control bots managed to get systems back online after a fight. There was no argument that the new ships were far more combat capab
le than their predecessors.
Still, she was never able to banish the thought that the demise of the original First Imperium had begun with similar thoughts. She wondered if, millennia ago, some version of herself hadn’t wrestled with the same thoughts…as his civilization continued its march to destruction.
Strand sighed softly. She felt old, though at forty-one, she knew she was very young for her position, at least by historical naval standards. That was a fact she owed as much to the quarter century gap in Earth Two’s population as to her own considerable achievements. There wasn’t a fifty-year-old human within several thousand lightyears, nor a sixty-year-old…and the Pilgrims had largely begun to give way to their progeny, both naturally-born and cloned.
Midway lurched slightly…a minor hit, she decided, before she’d even looked at her screen. Probably a bulkhead had blown, sending a rippling vibration through the massive hull.
That was another reason to appreciate the robots. It was unlikely any of her people had been in whatever compartments had just been blown open, and that meant the fatalities that would almost certainly have occurred on the original Midway had been avoided, replaced, perhaps, by a few non-sentient maintenance bots sent careening through the frigid vacuum.
She glanced toward the display, her eyes darting from one of her ships to the next. The battle was a sharp one, the enemy ships closing to point blank range, firing the entire way. It was an aggressive tactic, especially for a force as outgunned as the First Imperium fleet. But, the enemy had been striking hard with every force the fleet had encountered.
The enemy attacks had been strange, almost random assaults all along the fleet’s approach to G48…mostly uncoordinated, feeling as though the Regent was throwing whatever it could scrape together at the fleet with growing urgency and desperation. That made a sort of sense. If the Regent’s forces were too spread out to form up quickly enough to respond to an attack on their antimatter production planet, it might frantically throw whatever it had available at the approaching human ships. An attempt to stop, or even slow the human advance.