Sivarek looked at him strangely, but Xon was lost in memories.
“Uh...” Sivarek said, “maybe we should go see if Seutter's had any luck back at the camp?”
The emergency camp had been set up on a grassy expanse by the side of a small lake. Lieutenant Reynard was directing the erection of the dome-like shelters which would be their home until rescue came.
Graham Seutter sat on a cylindrical chair whose base conformed to the uneven terrain. He examined one of the gauntlets from the Valorian armor as Sivarek and Xon approached.
Don’t want to offend him again, Sivarek thought.
Ok, just keep it concise and professional…
“So, uh, Mister Seutter,” Sivarek asked, “did you find anything, uh...”
Seutter smiled coldly. “Did I crack the secrets of Valorian technology with my psychic powers? No,`fraid not. The gauntlets project their will and redirect energy, while the headbands they wear under their helmets amplify Psionicism and route it to the gauntlets.”
He picked up a slim headband of gray ceramic material and showed it to Sivarek. “It's incredibly simple, and I can't even begin to explain how it works.”
“Nor can I,” Xon said. “But I do know that the bands also provide a connection to the shared Valorian consciousness.”
Seutter shrugged. “Your point?”
“My point is that what one knows, they all know. More Templars are certainly on their way. If you eavesdropped on them, we might be better able to prepare.”
Seutter scowled. “That's insane. I'd end up some Valorian gestalt's new sex fantasy.”
Sivarek shook his head. “Oh, no, I'm sure they wouldn't find you attractive.”
The Psionicist gave him a cold stare.
Okay, Sivarek thought, sighing inwardly. Bad joke, humor was always hard for me…
Xon sighed. “Maybe you're right. I should be the one to try it... My neural blocking device might prove an impediment, but I could probably push through.”
Seutter hissed in disdain. “You're so transparent when you try to be clever, Xon! You'd probably enjoy being a group sex slave... No, the only chance of success is with a trained Psionicist. But I want my drug, for afterward. I know you have some.”
Xon nodded. He reached into his pocket and handed the Psionicist a few vials of suppressant. “This is all that's left until I can synthesize more. It's got to last.”
Seutter nodded towards Sivarek. “Hey, nano-brain, go tell the Commander what we're doing. We'll see if she consents to this madness...”
Sivarek nodded, and headed toward where Commander Brattain was approaching.
He explained Xon’s plan to the Commander, and was surprised by her response.
“Well, it sounds reasonable,” she said.
Lieutenant Reynard, who had joined their little meeting, nodded in agreement.
“Reasonable?” Seutter said. “That’s all you can say?”
Reynard shrugged. “It's the only way to make plans for our survival. Could also provide valuable intelligence for Fleet Command.”
Seutter held his hands up in mock protest. “Oh, stop. Your concern for my safety is utterly embarrassing.”
“No one's making you do it,” Xon reminded him. “I'll go in with you, guide you through…”
“I don't need your help. I'll come back just to spite you.” He gently placed the telepathic band on his head.
Sivarek thought that he should say something.
“Uh, Seutter... good luck.”
Seutter glanced at him, but said nothing.
The Psionicist closed his eyes and took a deep breath...
#
The loud murmur of a thousand conversations drones behind—
Weightless in the dark interior of a ship. No visible controls. Pale, spidery hands and prehensile feet drift before us—
From behind faceplates, we see a gray-brown world with no signs of civilization—
Suitless Valorians float inside a huge vessel.
Elsewhere… On the surface…
Infidels! But they can be of use…
Emaciated human males in ragged clothing toil in a compound.
Huge, alien devices surround the workers—
#
Brattain was starting to think that this “eavesdropping” might have been a bad idea… Especially when Seutter began to spasm, his entire body shaking as if in a seizure.
“Graham, pull back!” Xon advised. “Drift to the edge and just eavesdrop!”
A calm slowly came over the Psionicist, his eyes still closed. He stopped shaking.
“Ships... Colonists... Earth...” he gasped.
“Wait a minute. Earth? Earth's in Republican space,” Brattain advised. “Focus on that.”
Although…
What would the Valorians be doing in Republican territory?
Seutter continued: “...they call it Purgatory, but it's old Earth... Colonists are there. They’ve been taking them.”
#
Colonists in large fields and orchards, farming. One, a brawny dark-skinned man with heavy braids, stops to rest.
A gauntleted arm rises. He is engulfed in fire—
He screams and writhes but the fire is gone as suddenly as it came. He angrily returns to work—
Still more Colonists laboring in a rice field. One collapses face-down in the water, dead.
Another Colonist glances viciously at us and picks up the dead Colonist. He carries him to a large vat—
The boiling vat is filled with human remains. Colonists skim the liquid and bring up the bones.
The bones are carried to a grisly assembly line where Colonists sort the bones by size for use in armor. Nearby, a machine connected to another vat pumps a thick, organic slurry into a circular mold.
In the center of the mold is a gray ship-frame, like the glistening skeleton of a starship waiting to be born—
#
Brattain and the others listened intently as Seutter described the horrors he saw. Brattain felt a cold fear in her chest… Disgust choking her…
Their armor, that ship… Organic.
Do they need human DNA to help them bond with their tech? Human DNA—and apparently even human bodies…
Seutter explained: “...the organic material is cultured, grown from human remains. Then charged, and it molds itself to the ship-frames... The women are kept separated in the orbital breeding chambers...”
#
An organic, hive-like environment, in orbit. Rows of Colonist women in bizarre cocoons that grow from thick corded tissue like grapes on a stem.
The women are pregnant. Tentacle-tubes run into their mouths and feed them.
A number of suitless Valorians scuttle around like spiders, horribly nimble in the zero-g.
One of the Colonist Women gives birth. Three suitless Valorians scuttle over. One holds a tentacle which vacuums up the blobs of amniotic fluid in the air.
The baby is produced, cleaned, and cut from its umbilical cord. Two of the Valorians sew up the woman with a glistening organic thread, while the third scurries off with the baby.
One voice becomes more distinct from the telepathic cacophony.
He is their leader.
He is called Enoch.
He announces: “These ignorant servants of the Republic are purified through their labors, their Souls brought to salvation through us.”
#
Seutter sat expressionless, speaking in a voice that was clearly not his own.
Was he possessed again, Brattain wondered?
He rasped: “While these Goliaths wrestle, we—who have not mocked God's work by disrupting the natural cycle of our bodies, who have not replaced our living flesh with machines—shall topple these foul empires into the and inherit the Kingdom of Heaven. So it is written…”
Xon, tears streaming, wrenched the band off Seutter's head.
Seutter shivered, as if violated. He gulped for air—then grabbed his injector and gave himself a dose of supp
ressant.
Xon sat down on the ground, clutching his head.
“God help me,” he sobbed. “I didn't know... I never knew that they were doing this.”
29
The officer’s mess on the flagship Mars was, in reality, a spacious banquet hall. A few select officers–including Wesley’s feisty XO Volkov, Lieutenants Silva, Akong and Tzo, and the ship’s Psionicist, Master Cleonus—sat at the luxuriously appointed table with Wesley and First Consul Wells.
They were finishing up an extravagant feast, much of the food still untouched. The main course, a roast of Aurisian spear-seal, had been prepared to perfection, the slices of meat topped with a sauce of oak-aged rum and Colonial-grown tree fruits.
The dessert of sweet cinnamon beet-cake had been one of Wesley’s childhood favorites; but he was too tense, too excited to eat much of it now. Still, he tried to play calm for Wells.
As uniformed waiters cleared the table, the First Consul turned to Wesley. “Well, Captain, certainly no one could fault the table you set. I've rarely had a finer meal.”
Wesley smiled, hoping that the expression seemed sincere and warm enough. “Thank you, Sir. I've found that morale and menus go hand-in-hand.”
“A very insightful observation.”
There were chuckles from the Officers. They rose and filed out, sensing that their Captain wanted to be alone with his prestigious guest.
“It was an honor to meet you, Sir,” Commander Volkov purred, stroking one of her surgically-crafted cat ears flirtatiously. “Very exciting.”
Wells kissed her proffered hand. “My, my Commander. Alas, if only I was younger, I could show you exactly how much your feral beauty excites me, hmm?”
The Psionicist, Cleonus—a robust man of middle years—smiled more reservedly at Wells. “Yes, it was truly informative. Thank you for your kind attentions to our humble ship, Sir.”
Then, the others departed, leaving Wells and Wesley alone.
“So….” The First Consul said, “onto the business at hand. What's your opinion of this Commander Lisette Brattain? I understand the two of you were...”
By the people, he would have to bring up Liz, Wesley thought, annoyed.
I should have had the foresight to cancel that contract long ago, long before the Juno disaster. I know it doesn’t reflect well on me that I continued with such an unpromising fiancée for so long…
“She was my betrothed, yessir. Former betrothed. An old family arrangement, not my idea. I recently dissolved it. As an officer, I'd rate her competent but lacking initiative. Very dependent on guidelines. I think she'll fall in line.”
Wells nodded. “Indeed. And to think she's what's left of the great Brattain family. At least her father, even with his checkered service record, managed to die a hero. Still, I'll take the advantages I can get.”
“With all due respect, sir, why all this trouble over one crashed ship?”
Wells smiled broadly. “You have a fine career ahead of you, Captain Fitzgerald. You may find it easier to serve in idealistic ignorance, for now.”
Wesley considered this for a moment.
Was this a test?
He said I might find it “easier.”
But a leader doesn’t choose the easy path over the path of knowledge…
“I'd like to understand,” he told Wells.
The First Consul shrugged. “Very well. Our war against the Corporate Worlds is not going as we hoped. They’ve retreated for the moment… But they’re regrouping. Their backs are to the wall, and they'll fight us with all their mechanized fury. We might finally conquer them and bring an end to these wars, but we need the new weaponry the Valorians can give us. And so, I've allowed them to abduct Colonists from our space—not Republic citizens, mind, but these self-proclaimed “free people” on the fringes—and make whatever uses of them they wish. The Musashi threatens the secrecy of this arrangement. We have to guarantee the silence of that crew, possibly even turn over soldiers of the Republic to those monsters... Who could understand?”
Wells extended his palms in a pleading gesture.
Wesley sat back, troubled.
I was always taught that the Fleet was the best of the best; my brothers and sisters, my peers. I never imagined having to betray my comrades to such an extreme. Even the crew of a washed-up vessel like the Musashi are still Navy, still family.
But there are higher loyalties, aren’t there?
He’s testing me again… Can I make the difficult choice, he wants to know?
Yes.
Yes, I can.
He looked back to the First Consul with hardening resolve. “I understand. The Republic is worth more than any of the people who compose it... it's an ideal. Individuals make sacrifices so it can survive. Because it has to survive.”
Wells nodded somberly; but his grandfatherly face now wore a pleased smile. “If a soldier on the front lines can understand, then perhaps it hasn't all been for nothing. She needs people like you, Wesley. People... who could take my place.”
30
Brattain, Reynard, Xon, Seutter, Molokos, and Cruz sat inside one of the nanoweave emergency shelters, near the lakeside. The chill night outside was strangely silent; there were no insects or prowling nightbirds on this barren moon. A small fusion generator provided power for a small heating unit, and to light the inner surface of the shelter.
Cruz sighed. “I’m sick of sitting here, Commander. We gotta let the Fleet know what's going on! I could fly a shuttle to the nearest relay, send a message, maybe?”
Brattain shook her head. “No, Ensign… Xue… I know how you feel, believe me. Besides, the bay door’s not operational yet, anyway… We might not even be able to launch shuttles at all.”
Cruz shifted in her seat, still restless… But she looked to Brattain and nodded in agreement. “Alright, Commander, gotchya. Just wish there was more we could do.”
Brattain studied Cruz. She displayed no holo-tattoos now; her lips were a normal pink color, and her disheveled hair had reverted to its natural chestnut brown shade—probably because the nano-stylers she used in it had been lost in the crash. She clutched a blanket around her shoulders for extra warmth…
So small, she looks like a child. She’s frightened—I think we all are—but she’s determined.
There’s real drive and passion under that bad-girl exterior. And strength that belies her stature.
Reynard touched Cruz’s shoulder. “She’s right, Xue. All we can do is wait for the rescue ship. Fleet Command should authorize a recon of Earth, once we tell them what we’ve learned.”
“They better,” Cruz replied. “Those bastards killed our people!”
Molokos glanced at her. He’d been silent for hours… But an angry fire burned in the Drone’s pale eyes.
Now, he finally spoke, growling: “The Captain’s dead, and we’re just sitting here!”
Captain Kane would have quoted some bit of his philosophy, something about cultivating patience or time being an illusion or… something, right?
All I can do is try to stay strong and keep them focused.
They’re all looking to me now, and at least I’m less nervous than I would have thought I’d be, considering the circumstances…
“I'm sorry,” she said. “But we don't seem to have much choice.”
Sivarek, shifting nervously in his seat, slowly raised his right hand. “Uhh... Commander? Maybe we do...”
Brattain looked the Engineer. It was hard to read his expression behind those inhuman scanner eyes of his, but he seemed agitated—like a child who can’t wait to talk about something that excites him.
“You have a suggestion, Mister Sivarek?”
He nodded. “It might be possible to repair the ship. I think I can... Well, it seems possible that I could use unprogrammed medical nanos to affect repairs. More of a refit, actually... Diamond fiber-weave hull, improved thrust maneuvering based on newer destroyer designs…”
“But can we do that here? This isn’t
a factory or shipyard.”
Sivarek nodded eagerly. “Yes! Well... this rock is rich in carbon deposits. And the lake would make a great suspension tank... The water has traces of, um, industrial pollutants from the old mining operations, but I think I can incorporate them chemically into the process. I may've even found a way to incorporate the Valorian endoskeleton into the design, to improve Psionics. No guarantees on that, though.”
Reynard rolled his eyes and snorted in derision. “You'd need construction computers to guide the nanos, and even then… Commander, I’m sorry, but he’s clearly lost touch with reality.”
“No!” Sivarek protested. Brattain was surprised at the passion in the meek Engineer’s voice. “Sorry, but I believe... I mean, not to be immodest, but I think...”
He pulled out a handheld holo-projector. The image showed the ruined Musashi immersed in the lake. A shiny cocoon covered it...
Zooming in microscopically, the holo showed thousands of nanos weaving fibers like robotic spiders.
Sivarek explained: “I've memorized every detail of the schematics and trained myself to interact with nanos directly. I… uh… I started working on these plans a long time ago. The Longina would have been okay as a test case, but Captain Singh just laughed at me when I suggested it. But when I was assigned to Musashi, I realized she’d be perfect. The old-style ablative armor has the perfect composition to be converted to a diamond nanothread shell. The threads just need to be woven all at once, for structural support… And the whole ship would have to be dipped in, umm, a liquid medium. But we can do that with the lake. And, uh…” he laughed nervously, “The Engineer’s Guild isn’t here to task for permits or proposals before I do it. Besides, the ship… The ship wants to be more than she is, than she has been. She wants to grow, to change. Like… she’s a caterpillar looking for butterfly wings. I’ve sensed that.”
Space Cruiser Musashi: a space opera novel Page 15