by Matt Levin
“We are not here to fight. We just want a chance to restart our lives after our home was attacked. I know this planet was nearly destroyed through war, and the landscape still bears the scars of a conflict from long ago. But we can move past that. In time, Calimor can become the conduit through which trade flows from one end of the system to the other: the gateway to the outer rim it was always meant to be.
“But all that will disappear if you insist on killing each other. I won’t stand for a needless, bloody conflict. Neither will my crew.” She paused and looked at both Boyd and Derek again. Both men wore grim expressions.
“I am joined by Boyd Makrum,” she said, “a Calimor native who spent most of his adult years on Obrigan before leaving everything behind to help my people. And Derek Hozan from Ikkren, who’s flown from one end of the outer rim to the other. Together, we represent all inhabitants from every corner of this system—old and new.
“If you can’t imagine a better future beyond this war, then you’ll have to blow up our ship first. Just realize who it is you’re killing.”
All her life, Nadia had believed in the power of symbols. As she had grown up, she had learned that sometimes she had to sideline her ideals and adopt the practical language of the political class.
Now, she had no cards left to play but to draw attention to the weighty symbolism of the moment. The New Arcena defense forces and the Union military represented only factional interests and narrow-minded suspicion. Her crew represented so much more. They were the Natonus System, growing past old hatreds under a shared roof.
“Make your choice,” she said finally. “And make it well.”
Nadia ended her transmission. The computer confirmed that both sides had received her message. She had done all she could. Taking in a deep breath, she closed her eyes and tried to find a sense of calm amid the blaring alarms.
Reopening her eyes and exhaling, she stretched her arms out to grasp Boyd and Derek’s hands. Both men readily accepted hers. And then, despite some hesitation, they too joined their hands, completing the triangle. Enjoying each other’s company. After all, there was nothing left to do.
Except wait.
. . .
Tricia still couldn’t believe it. The man who had been overseeing the Offspring’s accounts the entire time—presumably, their leader—was Owen Yorteb? Tricia was grateful that the document was on the device fastened to her wrist. If it had been a datapad, she might have dropped it.
Owen had been one of her joint chiefs for the better part of the last decade. Before that, he had been one of her top commanders, fiercely loyal and highly competent. This had to be a fabrication. A desperate attempt at sowing discord among Tricia’s command staff from a cornered adversary.
But Owen had established his reputation during the war with the Horde, where he had been far more willing than other field commanders to lay waste to the enemy. Ever since, he had seemed virulently opposed to any group beyond the Union’s sphere of influence. And he had been privy to the existence of the refugee cryo vessel from the get-go. Had his intense xenophobia been fermenting right before her eyes for years?
As Tricia continued to deliberate whether to believe or reject Isadora’s message, she heard shouting coming from the CIC. Frowning, she closed the file on her wrist terminal and headed back into the command room.
When she entered, the source of the commotion was immediately obvious: Philip and Owen were shouting at each other. As always, Philip seemed poised and dignified, whereas Owen looked like he was ready to vomit pure venom.
“You are not authorized to carry out a strike on the Exemplar,” Philip said.
“I am the foremost ground officer in the Union military!” Owen blasted back. “We needed to send a missile barrage at that ship yesterday. The damn newars could be preparing for a decisive strike against our forces while our targeting systems are haywire!”
From the nearby comms terminal, Nadia’s sign-off sounded: “Make your choice,” Nadia said. “And make it well.”
Make your choice indeed, Tricia thought. She was leaning toward Owen not having been lying to her for the past year, nor being the mastermind behind a dangerous nativist cell, but there was only one way to find out.
“Everyone shut the fuck up,” she said.
Everyone shut the fuck up.
“Excuse me, ma’am?” Owen said.
Tricia pressed a button on her wrist terminal, bringing up the file Isadora had sent her. “I just received this from Isadora Satoro,” Tricia said, scrolling down so that Owen’s holographic name was visible to everyone in the room. “Care to explain what this means?”
Tricia had an expectation for what was about to happen. Owen was going to vigorously deny everything and act offended that she would even entertain the idea that he had been going behind her back. Everyone else would wonder whether she had gone off the deep end. How could she doubt Owen Yorteb of all people’s loyalty? Exactly, she’d say, that’s what I thought. And then they’d all go back to figuring out what the hell to do about the refugee settlement and the Exemplar.
So it threw her for a loop when Owen reached for the pistol at his hip.
. . .
Isadora’s heart leapt at the mere mention of her settlement adviser. “Nadia has landed the Exemplar between us and the Union,” Russ explained. It had been months since Isadora had seen Nadia at all, and having her here in the midst of the crisis was no small comfort. “And she’s activated her missile scrambling system. Neither us nor the Union can get a lock on each other.”
Isadora walked closer to the central holographic projector, where a faint speck showed the Exemplar lying in a valley separating the two sides.
“The Union artillery units have switched their targeting systems to manual. They’re focusing on the Exemplar,” Riley called out, her voice cutting through the chatter.
Relief at seeing Nadia again turned to terror. The Exemplar’s scrambling system could only prevent a projectile barrage for a time. If the Union kept throwing missiles at the ship, they’d take it out.
“We’ve lost our targeting lock on the Union artillery units!” Riley shouted. Isadora got the sudden feeling that Riley was talking to Russ, not her.
Russ furrowed his brow. “If the Union destroys the Exemplar first, they’ll get free shots at us while we’re still getting our targeting systems back online.” He looked up at Isadora, a thousand-yard stare in his eyes. “We have to fire on the Exemplar too. We don’t have a choice.”
That was when Nadia’s voice boomed over all receiving comms transmitters in the room. “I am Nadia Jibor of the refugee survey vessel Exemplar,” Nadia’s voice reverberated throughout the room. “I don’t know what has caused everyone here to rush blindly into war, but I do know that would be a mistake.”
“The Union is preparing to fire!” Riley shouted.
“We have to do it. We have to do it,” Russ kept repeating to himself. “Goddammit!” he suddenly screamed, slamming his fist down on the nearest desk with enough force that Isadora was surprised it didn’t break. “God fucking dammit!” His face had turned red—noticeable even against the red-orange lighting—while a vein on his forehead bulged.
Cold fear sliced through Isadora’s torso. She had seen Russ angry and paranoid, but never like he was about to erupt. What is Russ capable of? she thought.
Isadora’s eyes frantically darted over to Katrina, who had a look of sheer panic on her face. “Do something,” Katrina mouthed.
“We are not here to fight,” Nadia’s voice continued over the comm system. “We just want a chance to restart our lives after our home was attacked. I know this planet was nearly destroyed through war, and the landscape still bears the scars of a conflict from long ago. But we can move past that…”
“Switch our turret systems to manual and target the Exemplar!” Russ shouted above the noise.
Isadora stepped even closer to the holographic projector, mesmerized by the Exemplar. For a second, as she continued to l
isten to Nadia’s message, she forgot that it was her settlement adviser speaking. It was as though the words were coming from Meredith.
Isadora recognized the tone as the defiant idealism Meredith adopted every time an argument came up. If Meredith were awake, she’d be with Nadia right now. Throwing herself between two armies intent on nothing besides needless killing.
“All batteries are now focused on the Exemplar,” one of the controllers said to Russ.
“Stop,” Isadora said. All the noise drowned her out.
“Ma’am?” Riley asked quietly, looking at Isadora for the first time.
Isadora drew in a sharp breath, and her chest inflated. “STOP!” she shouted.
All noise in the room ceased.
Isadora felt a dozen pairs of eyes focus on her. “Deactivate all our defense turrets. Stand down.”
“Ma’am, what the hell are you—” Russ said.
“—that’s a direct order!” Isadora snapped. She walked over from the projector to stand face-to-face with her security adviser. He was taller than her, but she straightened her back and looked him dead in the eye. “I’m telling you to stand down,” Isadora said, gritting her teeth. “Are you incapable of following my orders?”
Russ had never disobeyed her before, but they had never been in a situation like this. Out of her peripheral vision, she could see everyone else’s eyes racing back and forth between the two of them.
The thousand-yard stare was still clouding Russ’ eyes. It was like he wasn’t even in the room with her. Like he was trapped on a mental battlefield, the fog of war drowning out all reason and logic.
And then slowly, his eyes softened. He looked at her with confusion instead of malice. “Are you—” he said.
“—do it!” Isadora snapped. Russ turned to the controller and nodded his head.
The controllers clacked away on their keyboards, and the holographic projection showed the various defense turrets lining the colony power down. One by one, each one fizzled out from a bright neon green into a muted grey.
All they could do now was wait to see how the Union responded.
. . .
Tricia’s old military instincts probably kept her alive. She ducked below a terminal station just before a series of plasma bolts flashed out from Owen Yorteb’s muzzle. Two bolts streaked overhead and struck a pair of officers behind her. Both crumpled to the ground.
Two of the marines standing guard at the door leveled their rifles at the general, but another series of plasma blasts took both of them out. Peeking out from behind her cover, Tricia noticed two marines next to the general with their rifles at the ready. Accomplices, she thought. How deep did Owen’s infiltration go?
Tricia knew she had no hope of emotionally processing Owen’s duplicity. All she could do was try to survive and sort it out later. As she pressed herself against the console, another soldier went down to her left, a glazed look in the man’s eyes.
She heard a flurry of plasma fire exchange, followed by two dull thuds, followed by a grunt coming from a voice she was almost sure was Philip’s. If the admiral had gone down, that probably meant she was on her own now. It sounded like he had at least taken one of the traitorous marines with him.
If her closest confidant was dead, she’d be brokenhearted. But grieving had to take a backseat to getting out alive. Tricia made a mad dash for the dead soldier to her left. Two plasma bolts landed on either side of her hand as it stretched out and wrapped around the dead man’s rifle.
Tricia jerked her hand back. Apparently, her own troopers were willing to kill her in some mad attempt to destroy the refugees. Good to know.
She took her jacket off and tossed it to her right. Sure enough, as soon as the jacket flew past the safety of the console, plasma bolts ripped through the fabric. Tricia stood up, took aim at the soldier, and fired her weapon. The marine let out a groan and collapsed.
Her eyes scanned the CIC quickly. Most everyone had gone down, although a couple of wounded officers were still moving. The lights were all shot out, so only a flickering emergency light provided any illumination.
The only one still standing was Owen. The general had moved over to a weapons control station on the far side of the CIC, where he was typing furiously on the terminal. He’s going to nuke the colony, Tricia realized. Why bother ordering the ground team to fire on New Arcena when he could just obliterate the entire colony from orbit?
Owen reacted before she could, however, and a flurry of plasma bolts in her direction sent her scurrying for cover behind the central projection table. With the alarms going off, security teams would be racing to the CIC right now. But if Owen worked unimpeded, it wouldn’t matter. New Arcena would be a smoking crater by the time the marines arrived.
She could try to go for it. But she had no idea if she could take Owen in a one-on-one gun fight, and it might be suicidal to try. When she was the only person in the Natonus System who could prevent the refugees from evaporating in a nuclear inferno, dying would be unproductive.
No. She had to use other means. She pulled up her wrist terminal, frantically composing a message to the captain of the other warship that had accompanied the Endeavor. Shoot out the Endeavor’s missile silos NOW, Tricia wrote tersely, hoping the message would reach the other warship’s captain before Owen authorized a nuclear strike. She was confident the other vessel’s point-defense laser turrets could slice through the Endeavor’s batteries, rendering them inert while keeping the rest of the ship intact.
Received, came the reply from the other captain. Can I ask what the hell is going on? Tricia breathed a sigh of relief.
Owen continued to type away at the weapons control station, when a sudden “What the hell?” escaped his mouth.
Tricia seized the opportunity to burst out of cover and fire off a salvo at the general. He dodged the bolts easily and fired a round of his own at her. The bolt struck Tricia’s gun hand. She dropped the rifle, clutched her hand in pain, and collapsed to the ground.
The ominous thump of Owen’s boots interrupted the alarms as he closed in on her. “You’re a damn traitor,” the general said as he circled the projector. “You’re supposed to protect our people. And yet, you’ve sided with the invaders. You’ve sold us all out.”
The door to the CIC opened. Tricia looked over to her right and saw a dozen marines sprint inside, their weapons all brought to bear. “Hands up!” one of them stammered. Once Tricia heard Owen place his handgun on the floor, she stood up.
She gave the general a smug grin. He only glared back. Then she turned to the soldiers, most of whom looked genuinely shocked. She knew Owen was popular with the rank and file, so seeing him standing menacingly over the dead bodies of some of their colleagues must’ve caused a spectacular kind of cognitive dissonance.
“Take him away,” she said. “Then, call up a med team and see what you can do for the wounded.” Owen continued to hurl vitriol at her as a couple of soldiers hauled him out of the CIC, wide-eyed the entire time. The others ran over to the wounded marines and officers, applying gauze and healing gel where possible.
Tricia collapsed against the projector and finally tried to process it all. Owen had been sitting on her shoulder, voicing skepticism of the refugees ever since the start. He was the one—the only one, she realized in hindsight—who seemed to ponder the possibility that the refugees might actually be invaders.
Even as her brain pieced things together logically, her emotions lagged far behind. How could she not have noticed what was going on beneath her very nose? Had she just been sleepwalking for the past few years? Looking around at all the dead and the wounded, the costs of her withdrawal were all too apparent.
But the body counts would only get higher if the ground team on Calimor got into a shootout with the refugees. Still clutching her injured hand, she worked her way to the input terminal on the other side of the projector. She typed out a set of orders to the marines and artillery crew on the surface. Stand down, the message read. Cease all
provocative activities.
She sighed. The only thing she hated more than expressing sincere gratitude was issuing a sincere apology, and she was about to have to do both. She typed out a meeting request with Isadora, dispatched it to the refugee colony, and then turned to help tend to the wounded.
CHAPTER 41
* * *
It had been a tense few moments in the underground bunker. Everyone was still looking back and forth between Isadora and Russ, or wondering whether Isadora’s stand-down order had just doomed them all. The console in front of Riley chirped. “Ma’am?” Riley said, her voice soft. “It looks like the Union is standing down too. Their artillery units have gone offline.”
Isadora closed her eyes as the jumble of fears that had built up inside of her diffused. “We’re getting a transmission from one of the Union warships in orbit,” Riley continued. “It’s...from the prime minister. She’s sending transports to recall her ground forces. And she’s requesting a meeting.”
“Forward that to my wrister. I’ll respond shortly,” Isadora said. “But first,” she said, spinning to face Russ, “we need to talk. In the hallway.”
Everyone froze mid-action as they watched Isadora and Russ depart.
Aided by her newfound clarity, Isadora tried to compose her thoughts. For half a year, she had been going along with everything Russ had recommended. Staffing her colony with a sizable chunk of soldiers and reservists? Getting into bed with a ruthless black market empire? Refusing to communicate with the Union regarding vital information about Offspring infiltration of Tricia’s inner circle?
Each step of the way had seemed reasonable at the time. But now that she was standing at the end of the road looking back, Isadora wished that at some point, she’d developed the backbone to push back. It had nearly cost Nadia’s life. And her death would have only been the beginning.