Legend

by Webb, Nick

  “A lot.”

  More nodding. “A lot.” He glanced up at Sepulveda. “You might want to get comfortable, sir. Might take awhile.”

  “You’ve got an hour, Commander. I’ve got a campaign stop on Bolivar I don’t want to be late for. God knows if Senator Cooper can finish her campaign event there with a laceration on her leg, surely I can show up at the agreed-upon time.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll see what I can do.”

  The little man pulled up what must have been ten different holo-monitor projections in front of him and began furiously waving through, entering a string of commands here, pausing to stare intently at the occasional video feed, shaking his head, and waving it away to focus on the next one.

  Sepulveda felt his chair sway. Just a bit.

  “What was that?”

  Felt glanced up. “Sir?”

  “My chair just moved a bit. Didn’t you feel it?”

  “Can’t say that I did, sir. Maybe it’s just the artificial—”

  Before he could finish, the entire room seemed to jolt upward a meter, and when it stopped, Sepulveda found himself flying upward, still seated in the chair, before crashing back down to the deck. Painfully.

  “Goddammit. What the hell was that?”

  Commander Felt’s face looked drained of blood. After flying up into the air, he hadn’t managed to land on his chair like Sepulveda had, but had tumbled onto the floor. “I . . . I don’t know, sir.”

  A simultaneous flush of anger and fear burned in his face, neck, and chest, and he pointed wildly to the door. “Well? Go find out!”

  Before Felt could come to his senses and rush out the door, it opened to reveal one of his lieutenants rushing in, escorted by Sepulveda’s two Secret Service officers. Blood streamed down the lieutenant’s forehead, indicating he hadn’t fared so well in the crash moments before.

  “It’s Interstellar One!”

  Sepulveda struggled to his feet—his back and ass ached from where he’d landed on the chair. “What happened?”

  “It’s— it’s gone sir. Destroyed.”

  The lieutenant’s words seemed to snap Commander Felt out of his shock and his battle training finally kicked in. He waved some monitors to life and scrolled through the tactical displays. “Oh my God.”

  “What?” demanded Sepulveda.

  “Two ships. Both of them with weapons system powered up, one of them showing signs of having just fired all its railguns.” He looked up, saying the words as if he didn’t quite believe them. “We’re . . . we’re under attack.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Savannah Sector

  Nova Nairobi, High Orbit

  ISS Indendence

  Bridge

  Admiral Proctor tapped the send button on her console. She didn’t often use the meta-space comms interface—it was almost always the comms officer that handled it for her.

  But this time was different. This time it had to be by her own hand.

  Because she was asking people to freely give up their lives.

  TO ALL IDF OFFICERS STATIONED ON EARTH, the message had begun. She’d broadcast messages to tens of thousands of people before, most recently at the battle of Penumbra. When she was Fleet Admiral of IDF, back what felt like lifetimes ago, she regularly addressed the whole of the fleet.

  But it was never so personal. It had always been either the yearly fleet update message she sent out to all personnel, or the like. Never something like this.

  TIME IS SHORT, AND YOUR NATION NEEDS YOU. YOUR CIVILIZATION NEEDS YOU. THE WORLD OF PARADISO IS UNDER IMMINENT THREAT OF ATTACK. THERE IS A MISSION FOR WHICH I NEED ONE HUNDRED VOLUNTEERS. HIGH RISK. HIGH REWARD. DEATH IS NOT CERTAIN, BUT LIKELY. PAYOFF IS SAFETY FOR EARTH AND ALL UNITED EARTH WORLDS. PREFERENCE GIVEN FOR STARSHIP SERVICE EXPERIENCE AND TACTICAL AND OPERATIONAL EXPERIENCE.

  It went on. Details about where to report, when, other operational details. But she ended it on a personal note.

  I’M SORRY. I WISH I COULD SERVE WITH YOU IN HAPPIER TIMES. LIKE MOST OF YOU, I’VE RECENTLY LOST FAMILY. FRIENDS. STUDENTS. MY LIFE WAS ON BRITANNIA, AND NOW THAT LIFE IS GONE. I HAVE NIGHTMARES EVERY NIGHT WHERE I RELIVE THE DAY I WATCHED MY WORLD DIE. I SWORE THAT DAY WOULD NEVER HAPPEN AGAIN, AND IT IS IN THAT SPIRIT I WRITE TO YOU TODAY. TO HELP ME HONOR THAT VOW. I CAN’T DO IT ALONE. WE CAN’T DO IT ALONE. WE’RE IN THIS TOGETHER.

  Soon, every data pad of every IDF officer on Earth would beep with an urgent message from the former Fleet Admiral of IDF, endorsed by the current leader of IDF, Admiral Oppenheimer, who minutes ago had given his approval for the plan. Every officer would read it. And hopefully, when she arrived at Earth in a few hours, she’d be picking up at least one hundred volunteers for their one-way mission.

  “We’re in this together,” she murmured to herself. Unt’unt’wa.

  “Ma’am?” said Ensign Sampono next to her. The comms officer had graciously given up her chair to let the Admiral enter the message, and was working on something at the adjacent station.

  “That’s what I said at the New York City parade. After the battle of Penumbra. Most people thought it was a downer of a speech,” she added with a chuckle. “Basically called out half of humanity for tribalism and xenophobia. Biggest Debbie-downer, wash-behind-your-ears mom-speech of my life. But that was my message then. We’re in this together. And yet now, here we are. Alone and divided.”

  Ensign Sampono swiveled her chair toward her. “Are you thinking of asking for help with this battle?”

  Proctor shook her head. “How can I? It’s a one-way mission. Ask the Dolmasi and the Skiohra to send ships to fight what will most likely be a rout? I know what the answer will be.”

  “They may surprise you.”

  “No. Nations don’t have friends. They have interests. If there’s no national security reason for them to be there, then they won’t.”

  “Isn’t maintaining a good relationship with United Earth reason enough?”

  “These days? We took a big hit at Britannia. And with the GPC on the rise, the Russian Confederation as stubborn as ever, the Caliphate pacifistic and withdrawn, and the CIDR still with a blood lust against the Dolmasi for attacking Mao Prime a few months back? The Dolmasi aren’t entirely sure they see us as a worthy ally, or even a worthy foe for that matter. And the Skiohra, ever since their discovery of their homeworld, have withdrawn.”

  “What about the Eru and Itharans?”

  “We’re still only able to say hello to them. Get them to fight alongside us? Good luck with that.”

  BUT YOU MUST TRY, SHELBY PROCTOR

  The voice of her companion almost made her jump.

  “Admiral?” said Sampono.

  “But . . . maybe we can get them to at least watch . . .” she said to herself. She looked back up at Sampono. “The phantom threat is easy to dismiss. But to see it up close and personal?”

  “You mean invite all the known races to come and watch what happens at Paradiso?”

  “Yes. I hate the idea. Loathe it. It feels like I’m a Roman consul inviting his friends to watch the gladiators at the colosseum. The participants condemned to die just so people can watch. But . . .”

  “I mean, we’re doing it anyway. Whether they show up or not.”

  “It doesn’t make it right. Or moral.” She noticed her leg was bouncing up and down, and she forced it to calm down. Nervousness? Tension? “But, that doesn’t mean it’s not the smart thing to do.” She made the decision.

  And it triggered something in her.

  She remembered the elation after the battle of Penumbra. The immense loss, yes. But all the known races had come together, when it really mattered, to defeat the Swarm. It felt like the beginning of something historic. Something grand. Like a new dawn of cooperation between sentient life in the galaxy.

  But in the months since? Nothing but more suspicion, paranoia, reticence to engage, and lack of trust. And for good reason, given Admiral Oppenheimer’s unilateral decision to remove the Valarisi from their
human hosts. With the bulk of the Valarisi now confined to a pool on some backwater United Earth world, the Skiohra withdrawing into themselves to focus on rebuilding their homeward in secret, the Dolmasi ever-suspicious as was their nature, and humanity acting like humans, inter-species relations had sunk back to pre-war levels.

  The two new races could change that, she suddenly realized. The new threat could change that. Never waste a good crisis, the saying went.

  “Maybe this could be the impetus for something more lasting, Ensign. You know, for the relations between races.”

  “Like, a more permanent alliance?”

  “No,” Proctor shook her head. “Alliances shift. I want something that lasts. Something that builds us up in times of peace as well as protecting us in times of war. Think about it. Centuries ago, Earth was broken up into over a hundred different nations. And look how many needless wars that got us. Today? We’ve narrowed it down to four. Five if you count the GPC. And as the number of nations among humanity decreased, so did the number of wars, and the prosperity went up. Turns out the less time, money, and energy you spend on national security to guard against your neighbors, the more resources you can dedicate to prosperity, exploration, science, and medicine—you know, building a civilization.”

  “Oh. You’re talking about a federation or something,” said Sampono.

  Commander Urda stopped as he was walking past, overhearing. “Can’t use the word federation though.”

  “Why the hell not?” said Sampono.

  “People will confuse it with the Federation of Interstellar Merchants and Trade. Messes with your branding.”

  Proctor let out an exasperated puff of air. “Well, we don’t need to decide on branding yet, and we certainly don’t want to compete with the FIMT on the name. But yes. A governing structure among races. Giving us a common purpose in both defense and peaceful prosperity.”

  “Sounds very utopian,” said Urda, with a touch of wry cynicism in his voice.

  “And what’s wrong with a utopia, sir?” said Sampono. “In my experience, utopias beat dystopias, hands down.”

  “Other than the fact that they always devolve into chaos and violence? Oh, not much,” said Urda.

  Proctor waved him off. “It’s because you’re only thinking of utopias based on religious, cultural, or racial identities. Those have a sordid history, yes. But something based on shared values? Like peace, prosperity, security, and freedom? I’m not talking utopia here—I’m talking regular old government, with all the good and bad that entails.”

  “Government. Fun,” said Urda.

  “You don’t have to like my politics to see my point, Commander. Look where we are now. Look how vulnerable we are to this Findiri invasion. Sure, it’s partly because we just fought a war that nearly wiped us out. But it’s also because we’re alone and divided.”

  “Point conceded, ma’am,” said Urda. “But we should be careful what we wish for. Make a federation with the Dolmasi, and that may mean being ruled by a Dolmasi someday.”

  “See? It’s that attitude that will always poison it. What if, in 1787, James Madison had said, Sure, this is a great idea and all, but I’ll never be ruled by a New Yorker? What if, in 2489, Alexei Chalmers had said, I love this whole idea of an interstellar government, but I’m never going to be ruled by some rando off-worlder from Britannia?”

  “Well, with all due respect, ma’am, I think in both situations things like that were said, and it resulted in some weird shit in their respective constitutions.”

  “But they still resulted in constitutions, Commander. In both cases, even with the warts that came along for the ride, look what it gave us. And the alternative? I think history is pretty clear that the more factions and sides and nations and tribes there are, war, misery, and poverty are the results—they scale linearly. Willingly unifying together—it’s been the secret to peace for ages.”

  “Emphasis on the willingly,” said Urda.

  “Naturally. And to answer your question: be ruled by a Dolmasi? Are his actions governed by just laws decided by all of us? Then why not?”

  She could see that Urda was about to supply a rebuttal, but she held up a hand. “Thank you for indulging my political theorizing. And I’ve decided. We’re going to invite everyone. The Dolmasi. Skiohra. The Eru. The Trits. Russian Confederation. CIDR. Caliphate. GPC. Get them all to send a ship. They’ll hang out parked at the north pole of Paradiso and hide in the EM interference there, and they’ll get to watch first-hand what happens. Ensign Sampono. Get in touch with Captain Whitehorse on the Volz, and see if she can arrange for both the Eru and the Trits to send delegations. Then get me in touch with Admiral Sun of the CIDR fleet, Admiral Garin of the RC fleet, and . . . I suppose I’ll talk to whoever replaced Curiel at the GPC.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Sampono, jotting down notes at her console. “And the Caliphate?”

  “Do some asking around and find out which Imam might be most approachable, then I’ll send them a personal message.”

  “Right. And the Dolmasi and Skiohra?”

  She couldn’t tell Sampono that her companion, while she’d been talking, had already started working on those two. “I’ll handle it.” She nodded to both the XO and Sampono. “Dismissed. We’ve got work to do.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Veracruz Sector

  Chantana III

  ISS Tyler S. Volz

  Physics Lab

  “Try routing the whole sensor suite through the phase discriminator and lock-in amplifier package.” Commander Shin-Wentworth looked up from the latest sensor data represented holographically in the air over the main station in the physics lab and over to the lead civilian scientist assigned to the Chantana Three levitating continental crust project.

  “Say what now?” The man looked at him askance. His name badge said Dr. Tedros Wiggum, and underneath his name was the logo of the civilian-military cooperation authority and the man’s title while serving on an IDF vessel: Director of Research.

  “You know. Just reroute it.”

  “How do you just . . . reroute it?”

  Shin-Wentworth sighed. “You just reroute it. Honestly, what more to it is there? Right now it’s routed to user output. Instead reroute it to the phase discriminator and lock-in amplifier package.”

  “And then . . . to user output?”

  My god this man is dense. “Mm hm,” was all he could manage without addending a comment about his surprising lack of practical applied physics knowledge. “Theorist. Right?”

  “Who? Me?” Wiggum held a hand to his chest.

  Shin-Wentworth glanced around the empty lab. “Presumably.”

  “That’s right. I was group leader of the theory group at Yarbrough Tech on Britannia. Lucky to be on vacay at the time. Right?”

  Shin-Wentworth’s eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, and he had to keep himself from staring the man down. “Right. You’re very, very fortunate.”

  Not like mom and pops. And Casey and Pat. And their kids. And Darcy and Leslie and their kids. And . . .

  He had to focus. Focus, Harry.

  The terse message from Fleet Memorial Affairs had burrowed itself into his mind’s eye. We regret to inform you that Robert Shin has deceased in the line of duty. Had his wife received the same message on Paradiso? She counted as Robert’s family, right? He tried to focus on the science at hand, but he couldn’t help repeating the words over and over again about his brother. We regret to inform you that Robert Shin has deceased in the line of duty. We regret to inform you . . .

  He had to interrupt the spiral. “How’s the phase discrimination coming, Director?”

  Wiggum shook his head. “Can we back up to the reroute part?”

  OH MY GOD.

  He stood up and walked over to the operations station. “Too bad the theory group was light on application, right?” He hit a few buttons and waved the menus through to the right spot, and dialed in the new data path. “And there. That’s how you reroute. Did
you take notes?”

  “Thank you, Commander. Very helpful.” Wiggum was scratching his beard—a very non-regulation beard at least three inches long. “Sorry if I’m distracted. I was just thinking about our brainstorming session last night. Something stood out to me. We theorized quantum temporal-gravitational effects. But that was based on incomplete readings based just on the graviton signal. Earlier today we overlaid meta-space readings over the gravitational topography, and well,” He motioned to his monitor, an old-school computer monitor rather than a holo-desk.

  Shin-Wentworth peered at the display. “Okay. What am I seeing, Doc?”

  Now he felt foolish. He’d just chided the man for not knowing a basic lab process, and now he was the ignorant one. Stay classy, Harry.

  “The integrated topography. See anything . . . odd about it?”

  He peered at the screen, seeing a representation of Chantana Three’s crust, the spaces above and beneath it, but it was all muddled. “If you’ll excuse me, Doc.” He motioned to the screen and waved the data upward, initiating the holodesk representation. A large sphere appeared above the table, its various layers demarcated in shades of blue, and the data representation overlaid in shades of red, orange, and yellow, indicating the various levels of meta-space field strength, temporal anomalies, and gravitational perturbations.

  “See it?”

  Shin-Wentworth rotated the sphere with his outstretched hands, and zoomed in on a particular region of the crust. “Uh, what’s the scale on this?”

  “It’s normalized. But regardless of scale, you see it, right?”

  “Yeah. I see it.” At that particular spot, the 3D gravitational perturbation graph spiked from light yellow, to dark yellow, to black. Then concentric within that, varying shades of gray. “So the gravitational perturbations away from average spike right there. And then hit . . . black? Does that mean what I think it means?”