by John Murphy
Navies from the major sovereign nations maintained freedom of the skies, combatting piracy by thieving human enterprises as well as alien beings. The Carthenogens permitted humans to take care of their own business, yet maintained superiority by never allowing human technology to approach their own. A journey such as the one from Earth to Veritas would take the Carthenogens only six days.
By the time Andrew Burdette had joined the navy, his father had died in Mars’s harsh environment. His father wouldn’t believe the many planets his son had traveled to.
The trip to the Saturnus solar system, the farthest humans had reached, was typically rejuvenating. However, this time Burdette felt anxious. Time was escaping him.
When resupply transports for various naval outposts first departed Earth, all hands were on deck: the commander, a first officer, a staff noncommissioned officer, and six crewmen. Shortly thereafter, half the crew went into hibernation. After a month, they were awakened while the other half hibernated.
Commander Burdette had spent the first month awake and at the helm while the first officer had hibernated. Then they had switched off and Burdette had slept. Now that they were approaching Veritas, all hands were again on deck for their arrival at orbiting navy outpost Blue Orchid.
After his shower, Burdette donned his uniform, which he’d pressed carefully before he’d slept. He’d decided that just before arrival was the best time to let Chief Banks know. Telling him at the outset would only make him stew.
* * *
Burdette entered the bridge. Chief Banks stared out the forward windows at Veritas, entranced by the purple oceans, landmasses of reds, browns, tans, and greens, and clouds of gold. The heart of the galaxy, known by no other name than the Milky Way, hung behind Veritas. Veritas’s sister planet, Juno, trailed perpetually in orbit by over two million miles. It was an intoxicating view.
Two navy crewmen and the first officer were in front of Banks, operating flight controls for the approach. A vast array of holographic panels was illuminated over the top of old-style buttons and switches. Although the controls were older than the crewmen, they were maintained, cleaned, and labeled as if new. Having a fallback system in deep space was essential.
“Chief?”
Banks turned with a mild start, came to attention, and saluted. “Attention on deck! Commander, welcome back.”
The chief saluted, and Burdette returned the salute smartly. It was strange to greet waking personnel with “good morning,” as the concept of day versus night was ambiguous in space flight.
“Thank you, Chief.”
The first officer, Navy Lieutenant Angela Bickerstaff, approached and saluted. “Welcome back, sir.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Burdette said, returning her salute. “I trust everything went well.”
“Without a hitch, sir.”
“Very well, Lieutenant. You are hereby relieved of command, and I now assume responsibility for this vessel. As you were.”
“Aye, aye, sir. As you please.” She returned to her duties.
It was a minor formality, but keeping to protocols, like paying attention to the tiniest details, was important to everyone aboard. Sloppiness could easily result in total disaster.
Burdette greeted the crewmen and caught up on small talk. To him, it was as if he had spoken with them only a few hours ago. For those awake, it had been weeks since they’d seen their commanding officer. Three more crewmembers who’d been in sleep rotation also came aboard the bridge.
Burdette gave out assignments, as per routine for docking with US Navy outpost Blue Orchid, which had been orbiting Veritas for a decade.
The planet had once been abuzz with mining activity. Several orbiting corporate stations provided support for operations on the planet’s surface. The navy provided an outpost to protect against piracy. However, the long-term effects of the atmosphere on Veritas proved too dangerous. Mining ceased, and the planet was evacuated.
The US Navy kept Blue Orchid on station for strategic and undisclosed purposes. Everyone and everything involved in missions to Veritas were off the record. It was a black operation with a secret defense budget, a budget that was about to be cut.
“Chief, may I have a word with you, in private?”
Chief Banks nodded and followed Burdette to the rear of the bridge.
The particulars of flights to Veritas were on a need-to-know basis. Transport crews knew little about the true nature of the special outpost. For them, it was largely another resupply trip, similar to those supporting other mining planets.
Chief Banks knew more than the others did, even more than Lieutenant Bickerstaff. Burdette had brought Banks in a few years prior on a limited basis, so Banks could be his eyes and ears while Burdette hibernated.
“What’s on your mind, sir?”
“How are the candidates doing?” Burdette asked, a preamble of small talk. Hand-selected by Burdette, candidates for a cadre of clandestine fighters had to undergo a qualifying mission on Veritas. The candidates spent the entire flight in hibernation.
“Sleeping like bears, sir.”
“Good, good. We’ll start the wake-up sequence shortly.”
“There aren’t very many of them anymore, are there? Only twelve this trip? Wasn’t too long ago this ship would haul forty at a time.”
“It’s getting harder to recruit. Ever since the change in US military mission, it’s not easy to find good candidates.”
“What about STU?”
“Global Alliance has been tagging every one of them for a year now. They want to keep tabs on our best guys at all times.”
Tags were tracking chips embedded in soldiers’ abdomens. The US objected to the practice for reasons of sovereignty, but was overridden by the Global Alliance.
“These guys aren’t tagged?”
“Plucked them out of recruit training before they could be.”
“Hmm…sounds risky, no track record.” In previous years, operative candidates had had a few years’ experience to indicate how they’d perform in the field.
“I have to go on their potential. It certainly adds to the importance of this mission.”
“Aren’t our guys tagged, too?”
“Once they’re officially trained, but our tags are encrypted. Failed candidates don’t get our tags.”
“Any good ones in this bunch?” Banks asked.
“They’re all good, Chief. A few are particularly motivated—uniquely qualified, even.”
Banks looked thoughtfully toward Veritas. “I know it’s none of my business, sir, but I couldn’t help noticing some of the names on the hibernation unit screens. I saw one of them is named Kerrington. Is that like the vice president?”
Only Burdette had access to the candidates’ dossiers, but the names of the sleeping candidates in transport were evident during routine monitoring of their health statistics.
“Former vice president.”
“But isn’t Vice President Kerrington in cahoots with the Global Alliance?”
“There are rumors of his ambitions. It might be beneficial to have his son as one of ours.”
“Hmm…sounds risky.”
“Chief, you might observe some unusual things about the candidates that I’m going to ask you to ignore. And put a lid on any scuttlebutt you hear.”
Banks eyed him. “Everyone already knows you’ve got a lot of women in this cycle.”
“Five of the twelve. We need them, too. Each of them has demonstrated potential.”
“I’ll say. One of them…” he said, clearing his throat, “shows a lot of potential.” Banks grinned, cupping his hands in front of his chest.
Burdette smiled. “I know, I know. I’ll ask you to ignore that—those—too.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop the scuttlebutt on that one, sir.”
“F
air enough, but do your best.”
Burdette let the moment pass, then assumed a serious tone. “Chief, I have both good news and bad news.”
Banks raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“First, the good news. The Interstellar Mining Corporation has released all claims to Veritas. Veritas is now ours—unofficially. It was fairly easy to convince them that Veritas is too distant and the atmosphere too hazardous to be viable. And—they buckled under the weight of the class-action lawsuits from the families of permanently disabled workers.”
“Brain damage?”
“Every one of them. Interstellar had to cut its losses.”
“Man, that’s trillions down the drain.”
“Probably another trillion settling the suits.”
“The damn lawyers are gonna make out like bandits,” Banks said disdainfully.
“They always do. The Department of Defense has, more or less, expunged all records on Veritas. As far as the Global Alliance is concerned, Veritas is just a memory.”
“That’s great news, sir. What’s the bad news?”
“The Global Alliance is imposing greater scrutiny on military budgets for sovereign nations. They’re forcing the DOD to cut back severely.”
“We’re getting cut?” Banks asked with hushed alarm.
“Essentially.”
Banks folded his arms, smacked a chubby hand to his face, and scowled. “So that’s it? Just like that? The end of Black Saber?”
The elite clandestine force was the last weapon of resistance the US military had against the authoritarian control of the Carthenogens and the Global Alliance. Burdette read the expression of astonished dread on Banks’s face, which is why he held the news until now.
Burdette’s face brightened. “Not necessarily.”
Banks frowned. “How so?”
“Certain private enterprises may be interested in keeping an ace up their sleeves. The Carthenogens aren’t doing anything to protect space routes like they assured us they would. Other parties may have to step up to the task.”
“Who? Magellan? Berkshire? Allegiant?” Banks pushed. There were two dozen such mining corporations operating on planets that were weeks closer to Earth.
“I can’t say exactly—yet,” Burdette said.
“Oh, don’t tell me it’s the Krauts!” Banks’s eyes went wide.
“No. No German companies,” Burdette assured him.
Banks showed some relief, despite the gravity of the news. “You think the Global Alliance is gonna let private companies have private armies?”
Burdette gave him a knowing look. “Every company maintains its own security personnel. We’re going to see about burying Black Saber deep within one of their organizations. It’s much easier for them to shuffle funds.”
“What does that mean for us?”
“Well, this is my last trip to Veritas. After this, I’m officially retiring from the navy. But I’ll be doing consulting and raising money from private sources to continue these efforts. There’s a lot at stake in the next year or two.”
“What about me and the crew?” Banks asked.
“I would recommend you retire also—and quickly. There may be an inquisition of anyone associated with off-planet military operations.”
“But I’ve only got twenty years in. I’ll only get 50 percent pension,” Banks said.
“I have arranged an alternate opportunity that could be quite lucrative.”
“What’s that?”
“Magellan,” Burdette said.
“How lucrative?”
“About four times what you make now.”
Banks whistled and rolled his eyes.
“But you’d have to be off-planet, which is probably a good place to be for a while.”
“How about the crew?”
“They can either get out when their contracts are up, or we’ll find them another home in the navy—something aboveboard, something remote. I’m certain they’d be of value in the private sector running mining transports.”
“With Magellan?”
“Among others.”
“Is that who’s going to fund Black Saber?”
Burdette shrugged. “Among others. But it’s best you deny knowledge of any of this. For all anyone on Earth knows, you fly navy cargo vessels.”
“What about our guys in the field?”
“I’ll work on funding for them.”
“Sounds risky. How long have we got on the government teat?”
“About six months. A few more mission cycles, maybe. We’ve got a lot of recruits we’re watching in the pipeline. There’s a lot at play back on Earth. Some big changes are in the works. We’ve got to get as many operators trained and into the field while we can.”
“How come so few this cycle?” Banks asked.
“It’s not so much about how many, but about whom,” Burdette said.
“Kerrington?” Banks whispered, arching a brow.
“Among others.”
* * *
Vaughn Killian stood alone in the middle of an expanse of white desert hardpan. In the distance, he could see black mountains. It was neither hot nor windy, just bright—and hopelessly empty.
He looked down and saw that he was dressed in the formal attire of his private school: a blue blazer adorned with the school’s crest, slacks, white oxford shirt, and tie. He enjoyed wearing the uniform. It made him feel like everything was right.
He looked up, and, in the distance, saw two people. He recognized them immediately as his parents. His mother’s signature robin’s-egg blue suit was unmistakable. As always, his father stood dutifully by her side. Homesickness and deep sorrow sloshed through him.
Killian looked back and forth to find some explanation for his situation. Blinding desert hardpan stretched on into emptiness.
He looked down again. Before him lay Felicia, dressed in her school blazer and plaid skirt. Hands at her side, her platinum hair was combed and swept neatly to her right side, her eyes closed. She looked as if she’d been laid out on a morgue table.
He longed for her, for the normalcy of the life he might have had.
Killian knelt by her side and reached out to touch her face, to feel her flesh. As his fingertips neared her skin, a breeze arose, sweeping away her body like so much ash. In a few moments, she was gone.
He stood and turned his attention back toward his parents. They were within fifty feet, close enough that there was no mistaking their faces. They gazed back at him without expression. They didn’t seem angry or sorrowful, just blank. But they clearly recognized him.
“I miss you terribly,” Killian said.
They said nothing.
“More than my heart can bear.” His voice quivered.
Anguish flushed through his body.
He blinked. In his parents’ place was a Carthenogen, dressed in typical attire: an ivory-colored robe with a high collar. The Carthenogen’s almond-shaped eyes stared blankly at him, much like his parents’ had done. Except the Carthenogen blinked twice.
Killian’s anguish was replaced immediately by loathing. He didn’t feel rage, which would have been futile. He could do nothing to the Carthenogens. They were everywhere, so it was pointless to feel rage toward this solitary one.
And yet there it was, an intense loathing.
He heard no noise, saw no flashes of light, had no reason to turn, but he did turn, startled by what he saw: the temple Wat Arun in Bangkok. He knew it well. He also recognized many of the high-rise office buildings and hotels that surrounded it. Everything appeared pristine.
Rather than the normal cacophony of Bangkok, the temple was as quiet as light shining through tall grass. Hundreds of Thai people walked about as if it were a normal day, only they were nude. No one seemed to be aware of that fact. They walked around, avoidi
ng eye contact. They didn’t seem to be aware of him standing there.
He looked down and realized his school uniform was in tatters. He felt both curious and awkward. He didn’t want to lose the tatters and find himself naked.
The people began to take flight. They strode for a moment while floating, as if walking on the ground. Soon, their arms and legs dangled freely as they drifted upward like soap bubbles. The people didn’t react at all, just stared forward blankly.
The curious feeling Killian had experienced for a moment turned to hair-raising alarm. Something was terribly wrong.
“It’s time to wake up.”
Killian snapped his head to the right and saw his father within arm’s length. He poured over his father’s face, as if it were the last time he’d ever get to see it.
“What?”
“It’s time to wake up,” his father repeated, except in a female voice.
Killian jerked his attention to the left.
The people were gone, and in the moment he recognized that, the silence was broken by a deep explosion from within an ultra-modern building in the foreground. Glass flew in all directions, followed by balls of orange-and-red flames encrusted in evil black smoke.
Killian woke with a start.
He felt mild panic as he grasped at his whereabouts. A chill of fresh air swept over him and into his lungs. Light came from beneath his prone body, reflecting off the thick blue glass curved over him as the hibernation tube whisked open.
His brain swam as if being squeezed and wrung out. Nausea swept through him. He turned instinctively to the side so as not to vomit on himself. His stomach heaved, but nothing came out. He heaved twice more—still no payoff.
“It’s time to wake up,” an automated feminine voice cooed.
Killian tried to put together where he was. He propped himself up on one arm, head swimming. He saw other beds of blue glass and white metal similar to his own. Bodies stirred within the wavy blue glass of the other units. He read the shiny blue metallic letters on the unit next to his: “Ursus Hibernation Systems.” The end cap of the units across the aisle had a blue backlit logo of a bear’s head.