by Ron Collins
She chuffed under her breath. That level of accuracy was almost unheard of. The hundreds of test jumps she had simulated were proving their value. She couldn’t wait to get back to Katriana to share their success.
“Thank you, sir,” she replied through her smile.
Their splashdown point was designed to put Miranda, one of Uranus’s moons, between them and the UG space station, a position that would protect them from detection for at least a few minutes.
By the time she checked the numbers a second time, Anderson’s team had already jettisoned in the pair of Z-pad skimmers.
* * *
With the planet looming behind them, Matt Anderson guided the Z-pad toward Miranda’s “western” horizon—though the fact that Miranda’s orbit around Uranus was ninety degrees off the ecliptic made that call relative.
“Running on silent from here out,” Tamira Weston said into the radio from the left-hand seat.
“Roger,” came the reply.
Anderson was dialed in now, heart racing despite all the training sims. The cockpit space pressed in on him. Colors from the control panel seemed more vivid than they ever had before. He heard Weston speak, but only registered it because they had run this mission a couple hundred times in the simulator and the tone of her voice was now ingrained in the process.
They approached the dark side of Miranda and hugged the terrain.
Its surface caught enough reflection from Uranus to show that Miranda was craggy and lined, gouged and pitted with layers of impact craters that marked its age.
“Looks like some kind of melted crystal,” Westin said as the Z-pads winged over its surface.
Anderson grunted.
He had seen pictures.
No need to waste brain waves.
Miranda had no atmosphere. Its surface was mostly ice, which was something the United Government considered an advantage when they first decided to put so much of their Star Drive manufacturing capability here—the self-contained supply of water meant vast amounts of freely available hydrogen, which made for easy processing of rocket fuel and greater flexibility in their ability to create material at the atomic level.
Using Miranda as a blind, Anderson’s flight plan called for them to avoid detection by hugging the ground, then fly a burst straight up to the station, approaching the target from below like a balloon buster from the earliest days of air combat. Anderson’s unit would cover the approach while Shay Kai’s unit would set down to pick up the package. He had wanted to be the one to take the set-down role, but his father was adamant—a mission like this was no time for nepotism, and Kai was the better flyer.
They were on half power to reduce the profile of their emissions when they crested the “edge of darkness,” or point of no return where detection was possible.
The Z-pads passed that point.
The station loomed as a bright point in the blackness of space.
The guidance panel suddenly lit up like a city street, and the threat detection system went to full jam mode.
It was too early for that.
Damn it.
If their intel was right, the pair now had something in the range of two minutes before the UG security systems would flag them as actual threats rather than merely unknown foreign material.
A blue light flared on the station.
Anderson’s threat computer blared.
So much for freaking intel.
“Dive left, and begin your direct approach now,” he called, breaking silence as his heart rate spiked. “Full engines.”
His throat was suddenly dry.
He turned the Z-pad left, then right. Then he pointed straight at the station, putting the craft nearly on its ass end, and hit full power.
The back of his seat felt like it was going to come out his breastbone.
The station got big.
Kai’s Z-pad took a similar juke.
A beam of light flashed past them.
Plasma blast.
Shit.
Goddamned double shit.
They were not supposed to have a plasma cannon in place.
“Split and run,” he called out.
Kai’s skimmer peeled off first, Anderson’s a moment later despite the fact that he was the one giving the order. The second plasma blast almost took his right-side pod off, but somehow he avoided it.
Westin said something he didn’t catch.
He jammed the joystick right, and brought the Z-pad into a proper cover path. “Ready guns,” he said to her.
“Already done,” she replied in a way that told him what she had just said.
Westin was the communications specialist on the mission, but she had cross-trained on the weapon systems, and was solid with them. That was the U3 way—cross-pollination, multiple skills to ensure operations can withstand loss.
As the station came nearer she sprayed a blast from the laser system out in front of them, catching the plasma cannon in one blast. Their fire probably wouldn’t totally kill it, but if the atmospheric seals on the cannon’s pod were breached it could give them thirty seconds or more before the weapon could be used again…which would at least get them into place.
Kai formed up beside them.
Miranda Station grew huge.
Just as they had done in the sim, Kai broke off and looped around to an emergency platform just outside the primary landing bay. Anderson brought his Z-pad to a course that followed a seam in that same bay, and Westin laid down another line of laser fire that melted down the bay doors.
If that worked, at least they wouldn’t have company for a while.
He hit trim boosters and pulled severe g’s on the double-back.
Westin screamed to keep the blood in her head, which reminded him to do that, too.
The return path gave Westin a second shot at disabling the bay doors, which she took. An orange flare came from the emergency pad. The passenger in Kai’s craft carried a handheld laser, just as Westin did in case they would have to substitute. They were shooting at something.
Anderson couldn’t see what happened, but Kai’s Z-pad lifted off, and Anderson took that as the sign that the package was on board.
“Ready to run,” Kai’s voice came over the radio in a calm monotone.
The shortest path between two points is a straight line, and this time there was no subtlety to their flight path. The two of them headed directly for Miranda’s horizon.
“Hit that cannon again!” Anderson screamed.
Westin was already shooting.
The escape run was probably the longest minute and a half of his life.
“Professor on board,” Kai reported when they crossed over the edge of darkness and back to Miranda’s backside.
“Outstanding,” Anderson said, breathing properly again.
He pulled his hand off the joystick, and flexed a cramp away.
“Good flying,” Westin said.
“Thanks,” he replied.
It was hours later before he realized he hadn’t commented on her shooting.
* * *
Deidra brushed the palms of her hands over her hips as she stood in the docking bay control room.
The two Z-pads set down.
Her first reaction was relief that both had returned. Her second was to think about everything she had to do.
“Close the bay door, Abke,” the controller said.
The doors ground closed.
After the vacuum was filled, Deidra stepped through the double locks to stand beside the skimmer.
This was easy, she thought, as she waited for the professor. Like fish in a barrel. At this rate Universe Three would be able to control their own fate in no time.
The door popped open.
A disheveled man stepped out.
He was about her height. Thin enough that his clothes hung off him like drapes. His skin was light brown. His face hollowed at the cheeks. His hair was dark and stereotypically unkempt.
“Welcome aboard Icarus, Professor Cat
azara,” Deidra said as she offered her hand, “and welcome to Universe Three.”
ONE STANDARD AGO
Atropos, Eta Cassiopeia System
Local Date: Kalnas 19, 8
Local Time: 1145
Todias Nimchura, a man whose call sign had once been “Yuletide,” and who had once been the wingman of Alex “Deuce” Jarboe, poured concrete into its frame. When the material was settled, he used a spreader to smooth its surface and a smaller trowel to do the detail work. It was summertime in Atropos City. The heat of Eta Cass, now risen to its noon-point, beat through the cloth he had tied around his head and through the sweat-stained shirt he wore over his shoulders. He smelled of human brine and the coarse grit that coated his face. His body, already hardened by his military background, had been scoured and roughened in these past few years, his skin baked to a deeper brown, his muscles leaned out by a barebones diet of unprocessed foods and hardened further by backbreaking work.
When the concrete was smooth, he stood, stretched his back, and squinted up at Eta Cass.
“You waiting for rain or something?”
It was his shift leader, a woman who was no stranger to either sarcasm or biting commentary.
“Just stretching,” Nimchura replied.
“Take all the time you need,” she said. “Your day’s not over ’til the whole thing’s poured no matter what you do.”
“Yes, ma’am, I get that.”
“That’ll be the day.”
For a moment he thought she was going to sit down and just make his afternoon hell, but she left him alone, heading to the other corner of the plot to harass Gif Johnson.
Nimchura smirked at that.
Johnson was U3 clear through. Had come from a station at Io, where he did the same thing he was doing now—constructing shitty buildings so folks who ran things could have nice places to live. Only difference was that those earlier buildings were all built down under the surface or inside atmospheric domes rather than out here under the open sky.
So Nimchura’s smirk was for U3, Gif Johnson, and the entire concept of freedom.
U3 was supposed to be all about freedom, after all.
Freedom this, and freedom that.
As far as Nimchura was concerned, it was all just so much bullshit—no more or no less bullshit than he ever saw out of the United Government, anyway, which was a group who claimed it was all about safety and security but who didn’t keep anyone safe or secure unless they could afford it.
That was his thing now—comparing the freedoms he once held with those he had now.
Nearly seven local years had passed since he had been captured, three since he had been given full “freedom” to live among the U3 as a citizen.
As far as he was concerned, it was all the same.
He glanced over his concrete pour and saw it was good.
Concrete was expensive, or at least it was hard to make here on Atropos because they only had a few pieces of the equipment they needed to make small rocks out of big ones. That meant Universe Three’s architects reserved it for foundation work, leaving the rest of their buildings to be made of mudbrick or lumber. The plot he was working on was a set of nine blocks, a meter and a half each side—small enough to avoid settling cracks, large enough to cover reasonable floor space. When this group was poured, he would move to the next, and then the next. Then the rest of the building would be assembled.
This one was going to be a big one—maybe fifty meters to a side. When the building was completed it would be used to make more space-faring equipment.
That was the rumor, anyway.
The scuttlebutt said U3 was going to make another Star Drive ship. They said U3 had studied Icarus and Einstein. That they were building prototypes and reengineering parts they didn’t understand.
Nimchura knew for a fact that U3 had brought scientists and engineers into the project by convincing them to go turncoat. He supposed he should be pissed at that, but after all this time he couldn’t manage to bring up any kind of healthy rage about it.
Universe Three’s plan was to make one Star Drive ship just to prove they could, then, using buildings with the foundations Todias Nimchura was helping to pour, make more.
That was the rumor, anyway.
And he admitted the rumor made his palms itch.
With his background, Nimchura would probably never be trusted to do much beyond foundation work, and in truth he should probably feel lucky to have that. But Todias Nimchura had once flown XB-25 Firebrands for the United Government Interstellar Command. He dreamed of flying again. The idea was all that kept him going at times. He couldn’t imagine ever being happy with a life that consisted of pouring foundations.
He took a deep sigh and bent down to retrieve the canteen he had left in the shade.
The water was lukewarm.
The sounds of other workers filled space around him.
Animals plodding, masons and carpenters calling to each other, pounding on other buildings around him. Every day was the same. The clatter was a dull din that seeped from everywhere at once.
Freedom was a farce, he thought.
He would never fly again.
Nimchura took another swig from the canteen, then put it back in the shade. If he wanted to get home before dark, it was time to get back to work.
The Olive Branch
CHAPTER 1
Aldrin Station
Local Date: January 19, 2215
Local Time: 1225
“All it takes to accomplish anything is a single person, properly motivated. This is true of the greatest destructions, and it is true of the most miraculous achievements. One person is all it takes. One person can change everything.”
Those words, delivered by an Interstellar Command chaplain, were echoing in Lieutenant Commander Torrance Black’s head as the door clicked shut behind him. Finally alone, he let his façade down, removing his hat, leaning back against the hard door, and rubbing his bleary eyes in an attempt to get rid of his headache.
His bay wasn’t large for a station like Aldrin, maybe ten meters to a side, but after nearly fifteen locals on Everguard, the place felt like a palatial mansion. The walls were white with a thin line of navy piping that marked off the lower third of their height. A sink and shower stall were to the left of the doorway, a closet to his right. The modernistic bed opposite him was a sleek thing with a rounded headboard lined with adjustable reading lights. A work desk filled another corner. Fresh air circulated with a hint of what might have been a waterfall but was probably just mint. The flavor gave the room an edge that was as sharp as the white of the walls.
The morning’s ceremony had been a long one, but at least it had been his last. There was nothing else on the public calendar. No events, no meet and greets, no interviews. Just a debrief tomorrow afternoon and this evening’s one-on-one meeting with Admiral Umaro.
Both of those should be easy conversations. Simple formalities.
Then his life in the service would be over.
Decommission: the only way to cut bait.
Despite the fact that it was only just past lunch, he was drained now, numb from the unrelenting blur of interrogations, press functions, funerals, and memorials that had unfolded in the aftermath of Everguard’s sabotage. He hadn’t slept right for weeks, and his body was still healing itself from the wounds he had taken during the attack. The scuttling ceremony alone had nearly killed him.
He slid his hat into a cubby beside the door and let the room’s silence surround him. For the first time since arriving on Aldrin, Torrance had an entire afternoon to himself.
Torrance pulled the data cube from his pocket and rolled it between his fingers. Its hardened corners pressed into his skin.
He held it up to the light, thinking about the chaplain’s words, which were a not-so-thinly-veiled editorial wherein spirituality, politics, and the human need for revenge had been mixed in such measure as it was impossible to pull them apart.
She had been talki
ng about a warrant officer who had given his life extracting families from the same fires on Rearward deck that had disfigured Marisa Harthing. But the chaplain had also been speaking of one Casmir Francis, the leader of Universe Three, the terrorists who had undertaken this attack.
The crystal was a translucent light blue.
The data inside was from Alpha Beta, or as it was commonly known, Eden, the second planet in the Alpha Centauri A system.
Thomas Kitchell had given the crystal to him the night before the attack. It held copies of files that Government Security Officer Casey had banned Torrance from accessing—files that Torrance was still convinced held proof of an alien life-form.
No one would believe him, though.
Despite astrobiologists having spent literally centuries working to find fully developed intelligence, his experience on Everguard made it clear that no one would take his ideas seriously until he coaxed the truth from the data.
If even then.
It didn’t help that these same scientists had already moved on, already discounted the Alpha Centauri A system as a possible source of intelligent life. Humanity had identified thousands of planets orbiting thousands of stars, all of which carried organic markers of life—but no one had found clear signs of intelligence. Eden had been studied years ago, and summarily tossed aside.
This is why the loss of the three Star Drive spacecraft and the attack on Miranda Station, which had been the United Government’s primary production facility for new Star Drive systems, put a rock the size of an asteroid into his gut. With only Orion in service, it was likely to be years before they could mount a serious program to visit these stars. Without those studies, without hands-on experience, Torrance didn’t think anyone would ever really buy the idea of intelligent life outside the Solar System. He had his files now, though, and he had financial resources built up over fifteen years of compound interest. So he had time.
He cleared his throat as he shrugged off his dress jacket and laid it carefully across the bed.
The room came outfitted with a more advanced computer system than he had seen before. It used three small projector pods installed near the ceiling, each swiveling to create images and patterns that could be displayed on any surface or as a hologram at any location around the room.