by Nick Webb
“Look, Sara, we don’t have time. We’re dead in twenty seconds unless you do something. Anything.”
Her breathing grew calm. Finally, she said, “Well, here goes nothing.”
She started pounding on the plasma line with her fist.
“What are you doing?” He started to hyperventilate a little himself.
“Being persuasive,” she grunted, in between blows.
Oh my god, we’re going to die.
She pounded harder. He tried to breath regularly. “Are you sure that’s going to do anything? It only works in the movies—”
But the shuddering whine of the engine cut him off, and she laughed triumphantly.
Holy shit, it actually worked.
“Hold on to something….” He pushed the accelerator to maximum—as high as it could go while running off auxiliaries, which was still capable of producing a dangerous amount of thrust if one was not properly secured.
She grunted as the fighter started to swivel. Zivic managed to get the belly of the craft aimed at the planet, and then point the nose, slowly, toward the horizon, and then above it. The roar from the engines overtook the roar of reentry, and the plasma lines began to whine in protest.
“Those things going to hold?” He risked a glance back at her.
“Yeah. If they don’t I’ll beat the shit out of them again,” she said.
I think I like this one. “Ok, here we go. Things are about to get really rough.”
“Rougher?”
“Touché.” The accelerator depressed to maximum, and three g’s of relentless force thrust him back into his seat. He heard her swear up a storm as she was mashed against the rear of the cockpit, and he prayed she managed to keep her limbs from falling down into the access plate or her bones would snap in an instant.
Ten seconds later, it was over. The red compression wave dissipated, and his instruments informed him that they’d achieved a stable orbit.
“Well,” he began. “That’s a supposedly fun thing that I’ll never do again.”
“You call that fun?” She pulled herself up to a sitting position from where she’d fallen after the thrust had cut out.
“If it means we get to live at the end, then yes.” He looked all around the fighter at the area of space they were in. Bolivar appeared peaceful and blue below them, in contrast to the still expanding glowing wreckage of the former Watchdog Station. There was nothing salvageable. The reactor going critical was enough to heat every remaining particle of the slag cloud up past a few thousand degrees, and even through the thick composite glass of the cockpit windows he could feel the radiated heat from the debris. It was like a small, diffuse sun.
The woman, Sara, stared transfixed out the window, up at the glowing wreckage cloud. “I knew people there. It was my home.” She murmured the words in a flat, monotone voice, as if still in shock and not believing what she was seeing. “They’re all dead, aren’t they? No one else made it out but us.”
He frowned, his last memories of the escape from the station flooding back to him. “No, we weren’t the only ones. There were two others. Two IDF guys, like me.” He glanced back at her uniform. “Contractor, right?”
“Yeah. Shovik-Orion.”
He nodded. That was the main commercial supplier of equipment to the station, especially the high-grade military stuff. The fighters, some of the station’s armaments. The massive multi-world conglomerate had a few competitors, Howe-Wang Enterprises, Luminaris Corp, Blue Sky Development, but none of them were quite the “one-stop-shop” like Shovik-Orion.
That man. The one killed, execution style, by the murderers….
“Did you know a guy, another contractor there at the station, who was—” He tried to remember the man. Luckily, the adrenaline rushing through his brain at the time had etched every detail into memory like dynamite-proof stone. “Short, balding, a little goatee, talked like he was from Britannia—”
“Jerry Underwood? Yeah. Did you know him? Was he—” she paused, glancing up at the glowing slag set against the peaceful backdrop of stars.
“He’s dead, yes.” He wondered how much he should tell her. What he’d seen had the hallmarks of organized crime, or a large political-military-industrial conspiracy, or … something. Did he want to draw her into that? Did he want to get drawn into that? He followed her gaze up to the expanding cloud. Damn. He was already drawn into it. Both of them.
“He was shot.” Zivic turned to her, watching the horror begin to spread over her face. “The two IDF guys I was talking about. They shot him point blank, right in the forehead, just a few minutes before I picked you up.”
“Jerry,” she began. “No. Why would someone do that? Are you sure you saw what you—”
“I’m sure. Look, Sara—” he paused, waiting for her last name.
“Batak.”
“Look, Sara Batak, I’m Ethan Zivic. IDF’s in my blood. My mom was a fighter pilot before she died. Fought in the Second Swarm War. My dad too. He’s a big shot IDF guy now, and knows lots of people high up. I think we need to go find him. I don’t know who we can trust right now, after seeing those two officers blow away Underwood. They might be expecting to be the only survivors of that place, and wouldn’t take kindly to, you know, witnesses.”
Her face hardened. “You don’t suppose there are more of them in IDF? Do you think they were lone wolves, or is this something bigger?”
He shrugged. “What with Sangre de Cristo a few weeks ago and the GPC insurgency? This could all be a part of that. And if they found out that there were witnesses to … whatever it was I witnessed … let’s just say I think we should keep a low profile until we can figure out who we can trust.”
“You don’t think we should go down to CENTCOM Bolivar and report in?”
He shook his head. “I don’t. I think we should go find my dad. Like I said, he’s well connected—really high up at IDF, like probably an admiral by now, and … I trust him.”
She eyed him with what he guessed was mild suspicion. “Probably an admiral? Trust him? You don’t sound terribly convinced….”
That’s because I’m not, he wanted to say. But that would be silly. Just because he had a bad relationship with his pops didn’t mean the guy couldn’t be trusted. Bad relationship wasn’t quite the right term. Nonexistent would be better, though that would imply they hadn’t had enough contact for the old jackass to disapprove of his son’s career choices and general lack of turning out just like him.
“Nah, he’s ok. He’s an old war hero, and everyone trusts him. We need to find him, and tell him what happened. He’ll know what to do with it. I just … after seeing Underwood get blown away by two guys in IDF uniforms, I’m not sure I trust anyone in an IDF uniform right now.”
She was still in too much shock to argue. “You think he’ll know what to do?”
He nodded, and pressed on the accelerator, aiming for one of the civilian rescue ships that had deployed into orbit, hard at work responding to the hundreds of civilian vessels that had been affected by the mysterious alien ship, and the subsequent blast of Watchdog Station. “He always knows what to do. Especially when it’s someone else’s problems.”
Like mine.
Chapter Fifteen
Irigoyen Sector, Bolivar System, Ido
Bridge, ISS Independence
Flashes of the Second Swarm War erupted into Proctor’s memory. All those artificial singularity devices the Swarm carriers launched at Earth, and dozens of other United Earth planets, devastated cities and killed hundreds of millions. Four months of horror, sacrifice, and unthinkable numbers of dead. And through it all, the fear that at any moment a Swarm fleet would appear suddenly over the next UE world, launching dozens of singularities towards the surface. Sucking billions of tons of matter in, then blasting outward, consuming entire cities in seconds. Even the most destructive thermonuclear weapon humanity had ever tested couldn’t hold a candle to a single Swarm singularity device.
Which meant it was t
ime to leave. Whatever was increasing the mass of Ido was … well, whatever it was, it was suspiciously and dangerously like what the Swarm had thrown at them before.
But the Swarm is dead, isn’t it? I killed the last ship myself.
“Get us out of here. Now. Signal a general retreat. Everyone regroups at Bolivar.”
Whitehorse looked up at the screen suddenly, as if expecting to see a new deadly threat. “Ma’am?”
Commander Yarbrough, who’d remained mostly silent throughout the engagement ever since the gruesome death of Captain Prucha, took a few steps to the center of the bridge. “What now?”
“Is the mass still increasing?” Proctor asked, without acknowledging the question.
Whitehorse nodded. “Another point zero zero zero zero one percent increase.”
“Could the sensors be miscalibrated?” Yarbrough asked. “We did sustain heavy damage. There might be a trickle power buildup along the sensor array that could explain the readings.”
Proctor shook her head and stood up, jabbing a finger towards the moon on the screen. “No. It did something to Ido. The moon’s going to blow, and I want to be as far away as possible from it when it does. Ensign Riisa, now, please. Take us back to Bolivar.” She punched the comm button on her armrest. “Ballsy, are the fighters in?”
“But how do you know that, Admiral?” continued Yarbrough, before Volz could respond from the fighter deck. “There’s no indication whatsoever that Ido is going to explode. Is this just a hunch?”
She shot him through with a withering glance, full of annoyance. “Yes, Commander, it’s called a friggin’ hunch. You know how many battles I lived through thirty years ago? How many times Captain Granger and I had to rely on our hunches to get us through to another day? Twenty-three. Twenty-five if you count that first battle for Earth as three separate battles, which it sure as hell felt like. And I saw enough of those artificial singularity bombs to know that any time you see something’s mass increase—especially in an inexplicable way like we see down there, then you get the hell out. Fast.”
Volz’s voice pierced through the conversation. “Yeah Shelby, we got everyone.”
Proctor glanced one more time sidelong at Yarbrough. “We done?”
From his frustrated expression, it was clear he wasn’t, but he gave a quick, exasperated nod. He apparently dealt with stress by fretting over numbers and specifics. But anal retention was not going to win them a war.
“Ensign, now please,” said Proctor.
“Course, Ma’am?”
“Back to Bolivar. At least there we can watch and see whatever the hell is going to happen to this moon.”
Ido continued rotating slowly beneath them, and then it was gone as they t-jumped away, replaced by a starfield, until the camera shifted towards Bolivar, and the wreckage of the IDF station that had just been slagged in orbit. Proctor let out a long, slow breath. Safe for now. “Now the damn thing’s probably moved on to another system.”
Ensign Riisa, young as she was, breathed deeply now that the immediate danger had passed, looking around the bridge erratically. She fixated on the stained ring of blood on the deck where Captain Prucha had fallen. “What do they want?” she murmured.
Proctor stared at the ring of blood along with her. “I don’t know. But if it’s the Swarm, or anything similar to the Swarm, then the answer is clear.”
“They want us dead.”
Chapter Sixteen
Irigoyen Sector, Bolivar System, Bolivar
High orbit
The intra-system comm traffic was a mess, with literally hundreds of ships disabled or underpowered from the havoc caused by both the mystery ship, the ensuing battle, and the explosion of Watchdog Station, and Zivic had a hell of a time getting through to the civilian rescue vessel Miguel S. Urquiza—a massive old colonial transport ship with a dozen cargo bays meant for moving large amounts of goods to sustain new colonies that hadn’t reached self-sufficiency yet.
“That’s what I’m telling you, ma’am, our inertial motivators are out, and we need to dock with you folks since we’ll never be able to make it down to the surface—”
The traffic coordinator on the colonial ship interrupted. “I understand that, sir, but what I’m telling you is that space here is at a premium right now on the Urquiza, and that all military ships unable to reach the surface are advised to wait for the Bolivaran defense fleet to return, or hitch a ride on one of the other IDF ships in the vicinity.”
She sounded snippy and curt, and Zivic imagined a boring administrator in a drab gray business suit in a drab gray bureaucratic office with drab gray furniture and ugly bare walls. “Look, Mrs….?”
“Chalmers. Miss Chalmers.”
“Look, Miss Chalmers, we’re not going to make it over here. Besides the motivator being out—” he glanced at Batak, with a questioning look, but she only shrugged. “Besides the motivator, ma’am, our life support is on the fritz. I’m not entirely convinced we’re going to make it here….”
She sounded like a comm broadcast on auto-repeat. “I understand that, sir, but what I’m telling you is that space is at a premium, and strictly reserved for damaged civilian craft, of which we have quite a backlog, some in worse condition than you. You’ll just have to hold on until—”
He rolled his eyes towards Batak, who rolled hers in return. She shared his disgust, apparently. And then it hit him—he’d been staring at the answer without realizing it. “Miss Chalmers. I neglected to mention that my shipmate here is a civilian. A contractor that was working at Watchdog Station. Surely that qualifies us to land?”
A pause.
The traffic coordinator’s voice stayed the same—neutral and bland. “Landing approved. Stand by for approach vector and landing coordinates.”
“Thank you,” he said, with a tad more sarcasm than he intended, and flipped the comm off.
Batak rolled her eyes again. “All I could imagine was some drab gray business suit lady in some drab gray office with boring inspirational posters on the wall.”
In spite of the shock of what they’d just gone through, he grinned—they were clearly on the same wavelength. “Marry me?”
She shook her head and held up a wagging finger. “Sorry, I only marry boring assholes. And then I divorce their asses when they don’t buy me shit.”
“Sounds like you’ve had a fun life.” He eyed her again, she couldn’t be older than twenty-five, tops. “Married already?”
“Twice. Divorced twice. Yeah, I know how to pick ‘em.” She shifted around on the floor behind the seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. “In all fairness, the second divorce was twenty-five percent my fault.”
“Oh?” He pushed the fighter’s controls along the approach vector that the civilian transport beamed to him.
“Well, I figure I was fifty percent responsible for the wedding, and zero percent responsible for the divorce, so that comes out to an even twenty-five.”
“I’m not sure that math works out….”
She sighed in mock exasperation. “It never does.”
The fighter settled into its approach vector, and Zivic switched it over to autopilot, letting the computer coordinate the details with the transport’s computers. In spite of their lighthearted conversation, all he could think about was that poor contractor. Jerry Underwood. His body tumbling gently in the zero-g, blood streaming out of his forehead, forming a spiral as the corpse rotated. He knew he’d have nightmares about it the rest of his life.
“Look. We’ve got to figure this out. Until I know what’s going on, I don’t know who we can trust.” He pulled up the computer and linked to the civilian network through the data connection with the transport. “Do you know what Jerry was working on?”
She shook her head. “He was one of the supervisors. I was just a grunt working on the shuttle bay deck.”
“Hmm,” he began, “I can’t even find my pops. His location is classified. Hold on, let me switch over to the military network
….”
She kept shaking her head intermittently. Damn, she was still in shock. “I just can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill Jerry. He was such a nice guy. Never snapped at me. Was always helpful. Cheery. Smiling.” She finally looked up at him. “Why? Who would do this?”
“Bad guys.” He connected to the network and repeated the search. “Ok, looks like dad’s location is even classified on the military network. Which means it’s actually classified and not just protected info. He must be up to something big.”
“You said his killers were wearing IDF uniforms?” she asked.
“Yep. That doesn’t necessarily mean they were IDF,” he paused, considering. “But … it probably does. No idea. Let’s … let’s just get over there, collect ourselves, maybe grab a drink, and then huddle.”
“Huddle?”
“Yeah. Old football term. Something I did a lot—old pops loved making me play football.”
“You don’t like your dad, do you.”
“Was it that obvious?” The fighter sailed past the shuttle bay doors on the transport. “Ok, here we go. Prepare for landing. Might bump a little.”
It did bump a little, but she looked like she weathered it ok. Once the fighter’s engines powered down, he finally realized that his entire body had been tense, so he focused on relaxing. No sense in passing out once he jumped down from the hatch.
He hit the deck, and reached up to help Batak down. “There you go, watch your head there. That’s it.”
She landed with a grunt—she might be injured, so he made a mental note to get her to the transport’s sickbay. In fact, she looked dazed. She’d probably need help checking in with the deck staff on duty. He turned to lead them to processing, and immediately stopped in his tracks.
Two security officers blocked his path. One of the men unholstered a gun, while the other brandished handcuffs. He heard Batak mumble under her breath. “It don’t rain, but it shitstorms.”