by Matt Levin
There was something comfortable about the ship design. Its neutral colors and functionalist minimalism reminded him of the lunar EDF barracks where he used to live. Somehow, the Preserver felt like home.
Russ paused at a viewscreen along the hallway, showing a section of space off the ship’s starboard side. Even if the Union fleet was holding position next to them, the distances in space were so great that he could only make out three warships, each dozens of kilometers away.
His heartbeat quickened. He noticed his veins bulging as he gripped the edge of the viewscreen. If the damn Union wanted them to feel welcome in Natonus, then why did they feel the need to maintain a visual reminder of how easily they could annihilate every single refugee in the blink of an eye?
The Union prime minister had played it coy in her first meeting with Isadora. Tricia Favan’s disingenuity had almost made Russ want to interject, but the Union marines had given him pause. Just another reminder about who held all the cards.
Tricia hadn’t said it out loud, but her message was clear: the Union was in charge, and any challenge to their authority would be met with overwhelming force. Pausing at the door to the meeting room, he realized it was now his job to make sure Isadora and the rest understood the implicit threat.
The lush smell of brewing coffee blanketed his nostrils as he walked in. Isadora was standing at the far end of the conference room, pouring out coffee into four stainless steel mugs. “I thought I’d incentivize you all to come,” Isadora said, casting a wry grin at the others over her shoulder.
Russ thanked her as she set a mug down in front of him. “I know we’re all still dealing with the shock of it all,” Isadora said, sitting down at the head of the conference table. “Is everyone doing okay?”
“I checked on the status of my parents,” Nadia said. A tense silence hung in the air after her pause. “Both pods are still intact.”
Isadora gave the other woman a warm smile. “I’m glad to hear that.”
“Thanks,” Nadia said, rubbing her coffee mug with her thumb.
Thank you ma’am, Russ wanted to correct her. Isadora didn’t have an official title, but she was serving as their leader for the time being. If Nadia had been in the EDF, she would have gotten her ass chewed out by now for not showing proper deference.
Looking over at Isadora, however, Russ couldn’t make out any sign of annoyance on the woman’s face. Was she really going to let blatant insubordination slide?
“As for my actual job,” Nadia continued, “we still need to wait on settlement charters before we make any concrete plans, but I’ve been in touch with local housing advocacy nonprofits and community organizations on Sarsi and Obrigan: the two most habitable planets in the system. Tentatively, it seems that they’re willing to coordinate with us on drawing up settlement plans.”
Of course they are, Russ wanted to say, because nonprofit work attracts a certain kind of person. The kind who isn’t representative of the wider population.
“But,” Nadia continued, “I don’t think we should rule anything out. Even some of the outer rim planets have plenty of viable land, and are sparsely populated. We could consider contacting some of the frontier groups.”
Had Nadia not read the reports the Union had sent over? The outer rim was dangerous, populated by the kinds of miscreants who couldn’t make it in civilized society. The fact that Nadia seemed unconcerned by that didn’t bode particularly well for their settlement expert. Russ sipped his coffee and glared at her over the rim of his mug.
“We’ll consider it,” Isadora said carefully, refraining from direct eye contact with Nadia. Probably because she knows settling the outer rim is a stupid idea, Russ thought. “But I want to hear what else we’ve been up to,” Isadora continued.
“I’ve been going through the data on all the remaining pods,” Vincent said. No mention of family, Russ noted, but that could just mean that no one came out with him, like with Russ. Or that they had been part of the 10 million that died in transit.
“I think I’ve made progress on creating a skill set database for the crew,” Vincent continued. “Once we get settlements set up, that means we can quickly figure out who to bring out of cryo.
“And in the meantime, we should consider bringing out a skeleton crew to assist us in our work. I catalogued the nutra that the Union sent over, which comes in at a little under 15,000 bars, each with 500 calories. That means we could support a population of twenty people for about half a year.”
Isadora looked impressed. “That’s a lot of work,” she said. “I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say I wouldn’t mind a few extra hands on deck. And hopefully six months should give us time to get permanent settlements up and running.
“And,” she continued, “if you wouldn’t mind, could you forward your database to the rest of us when you get a chance?”
I want to see that report on my desk ASAP, Russ wanted to correct her.
“You got it,” Vincent said.
Yes ma’am, he thought. This was getting tiring.
Isadora turned to face him. “What have you been up to, Russ?”
He cleared his throat, put down his mug, and leaned forward. “Mostly just reviewing the Union’s military capacity, ma’am. As well as the other major players in the system.”
Isadora arched an eyebrow. “Are we going to war?”
“No ma’am. But I’ve learned it’s always better to be prepared.”
Nadia’s face scrunched as she shot him a quizzical look. “Shouldn’t we be focusing all our resources on settlement? On helping our people? How will sizing up the others in this system help anyone?”
Russ just stared at her coolly, marking her down as one of those types that just didn’t get it. Wouldn’t be a problem as long as she stayed out of his way.
Isadora held up a hand, implicitly shushing the other woman. “Let’s hear him out.”
“Thank you ma’am,” Russ said, clearing his throat again. “The short version is that we’d be doing ourselves a disservice if we really got into it with the Union. They control the vast majority of the Natonus System’s manufacturing capabilities, they’re at least somewhat in control of six of the system’s nine planets, and their fleets have total control of space. They can go wherever they want and do whatever they want.
“But they’re not the only players. There’s a lively black market here, according to the reports I’ve read, with a single organization known as the Syndicate mostly controlling the criminal underground. I’m sure they’re already figuring out ways they can make money off of our arrival.
“And then there’s the outer rim. We’ve arrived in a pretty dangerous neighborhood: on one hand, there’s a military government on the planet Enther called the Junta, which has been expanding into the other rim worlds while fighting off some religious extremist cell on their own world. Their navy is nowhere close to the Union’s size, but they still have at least a dozen aging warships.
“Lastly, there’s an independent group of settlers on the farthest planet from the sun. A decade ago, they organized themselves into a mutual defense organization called the Horde. They’ve been duking it out with Junta forces recently. And although they don’t have a traditional navy, they have a legion of short-range gunships.”
As Russ went on, Isadora’s eyebrows slowly crept up her forehead. She made a two-handed fist and pressed her mouth to her thumbs, drinking in his information. “You’ve clearly done your homework,” she said.
“It’s my job, ma’am.”
But it was more than that. For Russ, it was duty. A duty to every other EDF enlistee he’d ever worked with, especially the ones who died to protect the evacuation. Throwing himself into his work was the best relief from the guilt over the circumstances that had led to the ship’s computer zeroing in on him as the most qualified individual to serve as Isadora’s security adviser.
“That last part,” Isadora continued, “you said there are two factions skirmishing out here in the outer rim?
”
“Yes ma’am. The Horde and the Junta. Neither have the ships or the technology to challenge the Union, but it doesn’t seem like they want to. They’re content fighting over scraps out here.”
“They’ve been forced out here, whether through war or population pressure or economic inflation. We can’t write them off,” Nadia said.
“We don’t know yet why any of these people came out here,” Isadora said. “Until we learn otherwise, we should be careful in our dealings with them.”
Russ already liked Isadora’s instincts. Believing that the ship’s computer had somehow selected the right person for her impossible task made it easier to accept that, just maybe, it had also selected the right person for his impossible task.
“And what’s more, we’re completely vulnerable,” Russ continued. “The Preserver has no defenses. All our fighting forces are in cryo. My first recommendation would be to use Vincent’s database, figure out everyone who has military training, and bring as many out of cryo as we can support. That way we could at least hold the ship. And then we need to find some way to barter for ship armaments.”
Nadia had just seemed perplexed before, but increasingly she regarded him with a dark look painted across her features. “We can’t waste resources on this. No one’s shown any signs of hostility toward us. You’d just be getting us into trouble before we can even provide for ourselves.”
“I’m the security adviser,” Russ said, making direct eye contact with Nadia from across the table. “In the business, you come up with three scenarios: best, most likely, and worst. It’s my job to make sure we’re prepared for the last one.”
Vincent just looked back and forth between the two of them silently. He had been having trouble maintaining eye contact the whole time he was giving his report to Isadora. It didn’t surprise Russ that Vincent was even less willing to engage in his and Nadia’s back-and-forth.
Isadora had been content to let their argument play out, but at last she placed both her palms on the table. “I appreciate both of your candor,” she said in a soft but stern voice. “Ultimately, however—”
An overhead panel suddenly lit up, indicating that the ship’s computer had an urgent message for them.
Isadora closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and placed her hands in her lap. “What is it, computer?” she said at last.
“We have just received word from the Union. The results of the ballot measures on settlement charters for our people are coming in…”
CHAPTER 4
* * *
Tricia Favan looked into the rearview mirror of the aircar and hardly recognized the baggy, drooping eyes staring back at her. A month-long trip back from the outer reaches of Natonese space aboard a starship would take its toll on anyone. That was the lie she chose to comfort herself with today.
Rain pooled on the window of the aircar. The prime minister pressed her forehead against the pane, looking out past the droplets over the capital city of the planet Obrigan. Obrigan City, the original settlers back in the 2310s had called it: the beating heart of the Natonus System. Mostly thanks to a supposedly optimal combination of algae and bacteria life that made the planet highly conducive to human settlement without terraforming.
Normally, the reflected glare of the Natonus star on the glossy windows of an ocean of skyscrapers might have blinded her. They were like weeds, she thought, the lairs of the corporate titans who thought their wealth gave them the right to rule the system. Practically every other prime minister had let them. Not her.
The aircar descended through the city until the giant platforms that served as arteries for pedestrian traffic came into view. A decade ago, it might have been impossible to see anything through dense lanes of aircars. Now, large public trams ferried commuters without need for private vehicle ownership. Another testament to her leadership.
As the aircar followed the arterial platforms to the city’s downtown, home to the Government-General offices, they passed by a large assembly of individuals gathered outside of a factory building.
“What’s going on?” Tricia asked her driver, leaning forward.
“Employee walkout, ma’am,” the driver said. “There’s been a lot of growing concern about Ferm Steel Corp’s plans to outsource to Rhavego. Employees announced a strike about a month ago.”
Normally Tricia would have preferred to stay aware of any major happenings in the system’s capital city. But after over two months in space, she figured plenty had slipped by. The arrival of the refugees had subsumed all else in her headspace.
“Take us down. I want to talk to them,” Tricia said.
The security detail accompanying her almost fell over themselves to protest. “That isn’t a good idea ma’am” and “We can’t guarantee your safety” and “Anyone could be down there” turned into a single sentence.
The three agents’ indignation made sense, she figured, since it was their job to jump in front of a plasma bolt for her if anyone got any ideas. But her security detail should’ve been desensitized to her doing stupid shit. The fact they were actually speaking up this time must mean this idea was incredibly stupid.
“Fine, fine,” Tricia said. “Bad idea.” The aircar continued forward, giving her a view of the protesting crowds from her window. A small part of her still yearned to join them.
Politics was mostly bullshit to her. She sat in an office and signed laws that her advisers told her, several months later, had improved access to medical care by .36% in some small town she had never been to on some planet she rarely visited. Or whatever. Some days she desperately wanted anything to make it all feel real again.
She knew plenty of politicians who’d shy away from a picket line. It wasn’t exactly the kind of crowd most of her colleagues preferred to associate with. They’d spend their nights at the top of the city’s skyscrapers, sipping wine with some donor or influencer, their thoughts barely lingering on the millions that inhabited the lower platforms so far below.
But she also figured she was at least partially responsible for the outsourcing. A decade ago, she had passed a universal income law for all Union citizens. But then the iron ore miners on the planet Rhavego stopped working in response. So the mining companies imported machines to replace them, and soon the entire mining world was a hotspot for automated labor. That was politics: a negative consequence for every well-intentioned action. And bullshit. Couldn’t forget that.
Maybe the strikers would connect the dots and hurl abuse at her. She couldn’t even fully blame them. She no longer felt much of a desire to leave the comfortable interior of the aircar.
Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a small contingent of protesters at the back holding signs that read NATONUS PEOPLE’S ALLIANCE on them. Assholes. The NPA was one of the dozen anti-refugee groups that had scurried out of the shadows ever since she declassified the Union’s intel on the approaching Preserver.
Tricia couldn’t help but like the refugees. Especially that Isadora one. Awkward, yes, but damn if it didn’t endear Isadora to her when the other woman refused to pass over their intelligence unless the Union first provided them food.
Naturally, Tricia was going to give them food regardless—why would she have overstocked her warships to the tune of 15,000 nutra bars if she didn’t intend to lend the sleepers a helping hand—but she loved having Isadora stare her down and demand a trade. Being surrounded by sycophantic, flattering windbags made Tricia appreciate someone like Isadora all the more.
Speaking of sycophantic, flattering windbags, their aircar was quickly approaching the Government-General at the heart of the city. She didn’t relish the prospect of a reunion with her aides. Most of them were trust-fund kids who had attended too-expensive colleges so they could learn how to write vacuous essays about how they were so passionate to just make a difference in the system in order to get a job with her administration.
She claimed to represent a political entity called the Workers’ Party, but these were the kind of assholes
that worked for her. The absurdity forced a dramatic sigh out of her as they approached the government building. Time to go face the music.
. . .
Tricia had always liked the Government-General. The inner corridors, once you got past the security wing, had a dignified, refined look to them that screamed welcome to the halls of power every time she stepped through the doors. The architecture was old-Earth classical, with small pieces of the ancient colonial craft that had brought her ancestors across the galaxy to the Natonus System seamlessly woven in to commemorate the Natonese people’s collective history.
Tricia pressed her thumb into a scanner and walked through a metal detector. The security guard gave her an expressionless, approving nod. “Still afraid my evil twin’s gonna come try to take over?” she asked. The guard just stared back in response.
Almost as soon as she exited into the entrance corridor, with an arching ceiling overhead and fluted columns on either side, two of her aids nearly broke into a sprint running at her.
“Madam Prime Minister! We need to talk about—” one of them shouted breathlessly.
“—can’t right now,” Tricia interrupted. “Security meeting,” she lied. Her meetings with her military advisers in the situation room was one of the few, sweet sources of relief from the prattling of her aides and advisers.
“But that’s not for—” the other aide protested.
“—schedule change,” Tricia shot back. “Sorry, don’t have time to talk.” She left the two young women exchanging confused glances and took a grand staircase down to the underground bunker beneath the Government-General. She placed her keycard in a slot outside a thick door, which slid open right after.
The situation room was bathed in blue light, with a holographic projection of the Natonus System displayed in the middle of a circular table. Nine worlds lumbered around the Natonus sun in slow orbit. Green specks showed deployments of Union fleets throughout the system, yellow showed all civilian and commercial traffic, while orange and purple blips represented Horde and Junta ships in the outer rim, respectively. Then, beyond the orbit of the ninth planet, a single blue speck indicated the Preserver.