by C. Gockel
Looking up from a tablet at Orion’s entrance, Zucker gave him a wilting glare. “Captain Smith, you’re alone. I’d expected you’d be bringing guests.”
Orion bowed. “Mrs. Darmadi elected to remain in the company of her husband.” He didn’t fake a wince. It was quite a coup for Agent James Sinclair—an unearned one, considering Mrs. Darmadi had come to the Republic virtually on her own. The android, against Orion’s predictions, looked likely to pull off the captain’s eventual defection … and Orion would be the one mopping up the diplomatic mess. “We surely can’t fault her for wanting to be close to him during his recovery,” Orion inserted slyly. Luddeccean women were expected to be doting.
Zucker narrowed his eyes at him. “But we can fault Galactican security at your embassy on Luddeccea and aboard Time Gate 1 for allowing a woman and three children to be virtually kidnapped.”
Orion cocked his head. “We both know that is not true. Mrs. Darmadi came of her own free will.”
“It is the truth that is believed by the four-fifths of the Luddeccean counsel that is of my concern!” Zucker all but shouted.
Orion’s eyebrow lifted. Their positions were similar, and he almost felt sympathy.
“If Darmadi and his family do not return to Luddeccea, it would be a grave threat to the Luddeccean-Galactican alliance,” Zucker said icily.
“The Republic will not hinder their return to Luddeccea in any way,” Orion replied coolly. It was the truth, insomuch as if the Darmadis wished to return, the Republic wouldn’t hinder them.
Zucker cast a knowing glare at him, no doubt aware of the semantics. He was a Luddeccean, but not that stupid.
Gathering himself up, Orion said, “However, the alliance is important to the Republic, and I have been authorized to—”
A knock at the door cut him off, and the aide said, “Ambassador Zucker, sir, you are wanted immediately by the Counsel.”
The briefest of frowns passed over Zucker’s face, but then it morphed into an expression that was almost fearful. He didn’t berate the aid for the interruption or even question him. The Luddeccean Ambassador instead rose hurriedly and didn’t look at Orion and barely apologized as he hurriedly left the office.
A guard almost immediately ushered Orion out of the office to a sitting room he’d passed through as he entered the mansion. “Please, have a seat,” the guard murmured. In another room, Orion heard Zucker’s aide say, “I am sorry, sir, for interrupting, but—”
“Easy, friend. I know you’d only interrupt me for good cause.”
Their voices were fading, but Orion’s eyes caught on a mote of dust sparkling in the air. A receptor in his left cornea picked up the code in the sparkle, flickers so fast they were invisible to human eyes, but not to cybernetic ones programmed to recognize the signal. The Luddecceans had blocked the ether, but not photon transmissions from Orion’s micro spy drones that were floating throughout the building on air currents—including the room which the ambassador and his aide were now in. The micro spy devices there were in communication with devices in the hall, which were in communication with the spy devices sparkling in the sunbeam. Within milliseconds, Orion was receiving data translated into the winking light of a single photon. The receiver in his eyes translated it into visual and audio data and the scene appeared before Orion so completely he might have been in the same darkened room as the ambassador and his aide.
Zucker was standing by a holosphere, the kind Fleet made available to Volka and her strange spaceship. His aide was saying, “The recognizance drones our agent sent out are just returning. He didn’t feel safe allowing them to transmit data for fear that the transmissions would be intercepted. With so much debris since the battle, he was not worried about the drones themselves being noticed; they’re small enough to blend in.”
The holo Zucker was observing had a time stamp in Time Gate 5 local time. Orion’s neural interface translated it as being from 55.5 minutes ago. The view the Luddeccean drone had recorded put it 153.6 kilometers above the fourth planet from System 5’s sun, the planet that had just experienced the “terrorist” attack by the Dark. From the drone’s eye view, he could see New Grande’s location.
Orion frowned. Was he about to witness Luddeccean malfeasance, too late to do anything about it?
The view of the Luddeccean drone shifted to what looked like the exploded pieces of several outdated Fleet vessels—they probably had been sold to System 5’s local forces when Fleet had updated their own ships. There were other pieces of debris Orion couldn’t identify—perhaps the remains of several pirate ships or civilian vessels that had gotten caught in the crossfire during the recent engagement. The aid confirmed. “Not all of the debris from the latest battle has been cleared away.”
“What am I looking for?” Zucker asked.
“It will be impossible to miss, sir.”
The drone dropped down until it was beneath the wreckage and changed the orientation of its camera. Orion didn’t see what the aide promised would be self-evident. Just the wreckage, and Time Gate 5, a tiny ring in the distance beyond other pieces of space junk.
Zucker frowned, perhaps as disappointed as Orion. His lips parted, perhaps to voice the bewilderment Orion felt, but then abruptly snapped shut.
Three larger pieces of wreckage—seemingly innocuous pieces of battered fuselage—cracked like eggs, and from them emerged shapes that were perhaps three meters long and 1.5 meters wide, vaguely oblong with simple propulsion devices. They were alien, and yet, at the same time, unmistakable.
“Bombs,” Zucker whispered.
“Yes, sir, the council believes so.”
“Not Galactican … not a false flag? The Galacticans are godless, but surely …”
Orion’s chest constricted. They thought that the Republic would bomb its own? Because they would do so to their own Luddeccean citizens?
“No, Ambassador, we do not believe so. The council is uncertain as to how to proceed. Do we warn them? Surely with their more sophisticated electromagnetic scanners they must know the danger. Do we risk giving away our agent for a warning that is doubtlessly unneeded?”
Was it unneeded? Orion reached for the ether and got static. His pulse beat loud in his ears.
“Sir?” the aide asked.
A clock chimed. Did Orion race for the door and ether his superiors? Did he risk giving away the photon spy devices he’d so carefully planted? In the holo, the bombs remained motionless.
“They rejected our assistance,” Zucker whispered. “Surely because they don’t need it? Surely their rejection of Darmadi’s offer of reinforcements was because our presence is unnecessary? It couldn’t have been merely an act of vanity.”
Orion swallowed, his stomach sinking. It had been, in Fleet Intel’s general opinion and Orion’s own, an act of vanity. Orion had worked with Sinclair to organize Captain Darmadi’s futile visit to the representatives of System 5.
At the bottom of the holo, a red light blinked. The aide pressed it, saying, “An update.”
A new scene sprang from the holo. At the bottom left was the time stamp—only five minutes ago—and the logo of the news agency that had generated it. An announcer off screen was saying, “Terrorist ships have engaged Fleet and what is left of System 5’s local forces above the northeast continent. Reinforcements are being deployed …”
The aide shut off the sound. “Ambassador, that is not the continent New Grande is located on.”
“My God—they’re drawing them away from New Grande. The bombs are for New Grande.”
Bolting from his seat, Orion knocked into a coffee table. A porcelain cup he hadn’t noticed being set before him went sliding across, shattering on the floor, spilling liquid and steam. He turned to the door and bumped into a man holding a tray.
The man was saying something Orion couldn’t hear. His cybernetic eye had caught on a dust mote drone, and he was hearing Ambassador Zucker say, “God will have no mercy on our souls if we don’t say something. I will contact F
leet—”
The aid passed in front of the drone broadcasting the holo, and Orion’s world went black.
“Sir?” the question was spoken by the server Orion had bumped into—their bodies were still pressed together. Orion jerked back, disoriented, caught between what was right in front of him and the memory of the holo.
The tray clattered to the floor, and the man’s hands went to Orion’s upper arms. “Sir, are you all right, sir?”
Zucker’s aide’s voice echoed behind them both. “The ambassador is currently in council with your superiors. Perhaps, Captain Smith, you already know what about?”
Orion flushed and turned around.
The aide had one hand on his pistol, though it was still in its holster. His eyes scanned the spilled beverage and the tray that still was clanging as it settled to the floor. “I think it best you stay for a while.”
Alexis sat in the high-backed chair of the Scottish university’s coffee shop, with several professors of linguistics, folklore, and “xenology,” a discipline Luddeccea did not have. It was the study of the physical and cultural traits of aliens. Since The People were the only aliens she knew of, she’d wondered how they’d managed to justify their existence; she’d been told the discipline was in fact, several hundred years old. She wasn’t here to give a presentation—it was only a day since they’d first proposed that—she was here for a panel discussion of The People. It would be a much more “informal” event, she’d been assured, one that might make her more comfortable presenting later and might help her “focus” her talk. Alexis knew better understanding of the Galacticans was essential if she was to convince them of how dangerous the Dark really was, so here she was, studying them, to better “focus” her talk in a way she doubted they anticipated.
She was a bit early for said panel, and they were treating her to refreshments in the meantime. It was very kind, but at the moment, one of the xenologists and one of the linguists were deep in conversation about some translation “apps.” She wasn’t comfortable in the least. She set down her cup and set her hand upon a tallish, wide “pleather” purse she’d borrowed from Admiral Sato. She casually dropped her hand inside, and Solomon nuzzled her fingers. She instantly felt better. Her eyes wandered around the room. Coffee shops weren’t that much different on this side of the Kanakah Cloud. The lighting was warm and soft, the flooring was wood; there were pictures on the wall of coffee beans and tea plantations. The aroma was nearly identical, though they didn’t have bornut tea, and she missed its rich spicy scent. Otherwise, the only thing that gave away her location was the people. Their clothing was rather immodest and gaudier with its shimmering fabrics. Also, everyone here was a cyborg, with neural interfaces that connected them to the ethernet. She’d begun to recognize the appearance of someone in an ether conversation—the vacant eyes, the occasional nods or spontaneous bursts of laughter. On Luddeccea, such things would be taken for a mental illness.
Although she was wearing admittedly more modest Galactican attire, she was still receiving stares. Without a neural port in her temple, she stood out. She’d been asked about it several times by strangers on the train and in shops. When she explained she was Luddeccean, she got backhanded complements such as, “You’re prettier than I would expect without augmentation.”
Alexis tried to bring herself back to the conversation. One of the gentlemen was saying, “But the Cross-talk app has a greater dictionary of idioms—”
She sighed. And then the gentleman went abruptly silent. Around her, chins lifted, as though everyone had heard a faraway sound but her. Eyes went vacant.
Before she could ask what they were tuned into, Solomon squeaked.
She looked down into the purse and found him awkwardly trying to lift a holosphere for her. She took it from his paws, almost protesting she wasn’t sure she could make it work, when it lit beneath her fingers. She blinked at what looked like a newscast. A male announcer was sitting behind a desk saying, “I should warn the audience, that these scenes from Ambassador Zhao’s meeting with the entity sometimes known as the ‘Dark’ are very disturbing.” The camera switched to a female announcer. Leaning forward, she said, “Yes, it’s very disturbing. Sensitive viewers should tune out right now!” There was a hint of a smile on her lips.
“Very, very disturbing,” said the first announcer. “We must warn viewers that if they continue to watch they do so at their own risk.” He licked his lips, and Alexis noted his eyes were very bright.
They continued on like this long enough for Alexis to want to chuck the globe at the wall, but then abruptly, the male announcer said, “Here it is!”
The scene in the holo changed. It was the interior of a ship perhaps. A too-thin man was staring at the camera, visible from the waist up. He had missed a spot while shaving. His skin was damp. Alexis swallowed, recognizing an Infected. Her heart rate sped up. It could be her.
Abruptly, the Infected man hissed. “You asked to speak to us, to negotiate for peace, and then you send us these two useless bodies.” Abruptly, his arms raised, revealing the severed heads of a beautiful young woman and an elderly man. He swung them by the hair and threw them directly at the camera.
The holo went black.
Alexis shivered and touched her throat.
“Useless bodies?” one of the professors whispered.
Solomon squeaked and gestured with his paws. Somehow, despite his tiny size, she could read his signs better than she could read the signs of Markus’s carer. “The woman was an android,” Solomon explained. “The man had severe dementia.”
Alexis gasped. “The Dark couldn’t enslave their minds.” Or at least, in the case of the old man, there was nothing left of use to enslave.
Solomon nodded. Shaking, Alexis ran her fingers between his ears. The werfle purred, and she felt herself relax … a little.
“Pardon?” said one of the gentlemen.
Alexis looked up at her companions. They were all looking at her curiously.
“The Dark, the disease, it enslaves people mentally,” Alexis said.
Their eyes darted between one another.
“It incorporates them into itself, steals, and uses their knowledge,” Alexis persisted.
They stared at her. One took a long sip from a teacup, her hands shaking.
“How do you think I learned The People’s language?” Alexis asked, baffled.
The xenologist sat up straighter. “Why, through some instantaneous neural transference, via some means beyond our limited human understanding. The People were telepathic, after all.”
“The People were telepathic,” Alexis said. “But I got it from the telepathic entity that destroyed them, that wiped them out, that is threatening to wipe humanity out.”
“Surely they won’t,” said a man.
“If we stand up to them. If we fight,” Alexis replied.
One of the women shook her head. “War, you want war.” She set down her cup and frowned.
“I do not want it,” Alexis said. “It has already begun.”
The xenologist huffed. “There has been that dreadful terrorist incursion in System 5, but it’s all but over now. It’s like the incident in System 8—on Luddeccea—when your Time Gate became unstable. Dreadful. But eventually, saner heads prevailed, and war was avoided.”
“War,” one of the women said, “is a failure of diplomacy.”
Alexis gestured sharply at her now-dark hologlobe. “I cannot deny that has happened.”
“We’ll try again …” a young man interjected. “With someone younger. Zhao was too old for the job. Several of us warned them and were ignored.”
Alexis’s heart fell, imagining a younger person waltzing to their doom. “That would be a horrible mistake.” They didn’t seem to hear her words; perhaps she’d spoken them too softly in her horror.
They began discussing prospects for the next diplomat. Alexis felt the blood drain from her face. She wasn’t going to convince these people of anything.
Solomon squeaked. Alexis looked down at him. He was gazing across the room. Alexis followed the direction of his bewhiskered nose and found herself meeting the eyes of a woman sitting alone. The woman was unusually pale, and so skinny, Alexis would almost have called her frail, though there was something about her poise that suggested a person who was athletic and wiry instead. She was shorter than the typical Galactican or even Luddeccean. Her short, black blunt bob was somewhat disheveled. Her hooded eyes were noticeably green, even from a distance, probably because they were red, and faintly puffy, as though she’d been crying. She nodded, so imperceptibly, Alexis thought she might have imagined it. The woman abruptly got up, and all but bolted from the shop. Two men hurried after her.
Alexis couldn’t say why, but her spirits sank further.
6T9 stared down at the orange tabby and Kurz. The dog’s tail was still whacking against the door frame. As he wiggled, his claws clicked on the bank’s ancient tile floor. The original General’s voice echoed through the bank. “Here, Doggy, Do—”
The roar of hover engines from the boulevard obliterated all sound. A shadow hid the streetlights; the bank’s dark interior became darker still. Reinforcements at last—6T9 looked out to the street and saw a ship with a red cross emblazoned on its side. Phaser fire ripped from the bank to the ship’s sides. Michael called out over the ether, “I can’t get a clean shot into the bank! Ship’s in the way.”
Medics dropped from the craft and raced to the wounded. There were over a dozen bodies in the street.
6T9 opened the channel to everyone under his command. “Help them round up the wounded. Lang, get Falade on there!”
He looked down at Kurz and his feline commander. “You, too!”
The orange cat bared its teeth.
6T9 raised his pistol at it.
Scampering from the shadows, Mao added her voice to 6T9’s. “Go and help! You’re giving away our position with your metal mutt!”
The orange cat narrowed its eyes at 6T9 but a moment later, Kurz bounded out into the street, phaser fire reflecting on his chrome body. For now, the Infected were concentrating their fire on the ship, not the wounded. For sheer misery, it was a brilliant tactic—destroy the med-ship and more of the injured would die. 6T9 checked his rifle and gazed into the bank’s shadowed interior and automatically adjusted the brightness. He and Davies were in a foyer with floor tiles the colors of the canyon walls. A chandelier hung above their heads. Once it had been decked out in teardrop crystals, but only a few of those still hung. Beyond the foyer was an immense lobby with a curving counter and glass partitions for tellers. Almost the entirety of the glass barrier was cracked, and it looked like frost or spider webs. Above the lobby, everywhere that 6T9 could see was a balcony. He listened carefully to the phaser fire above, reminding himself that less haste was more speed. He let the sound be a query to his distant server and let the processors there paint a picture of the scene above … The balcony continued above their heads … the railing was metal and some polymer that looked like crystal for the handrail.
