Her expression became more serious. “This is going to be a tricky situation, Peter. One mistake and everything could be ruined. I hope all your officers know that.”
“Don’t worry. We’re not drooling imbeciles. Most of us even know how to use a knife and fork. We’ll behave.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s all right,” he said, his good humor evaporating.
She put her hand over his. “I really didn’t mean any offense.”
“No big deal. It’s been a long day.”
“It really is good to see you again, Pete,” she told him, and squeezed his hand. “What do you say we have a few drinks after dinner, and maybe go somewhere a little more private?”
He pulled away. “I’m seeing somebody, June. And you’re married.”
“I’m not that married. Tom and I have an understanding. Drunk and off-planet don’t count.”
“Doesn’t work that way for me.”
“Who are you seeing, anyway?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not,” she admitted.
The rest of dinner was filled with awkward silences. She offered to pick up the tab. He counteroffered to do the same, and after some arguing they agreed to split the bill.
They shook hands and went their separate ways. Fromm returned to his quarters, feeling obscurely disappointed. With June. With civilians in general. And, for some reason, with himself.
New Washington, Earth, 166 AFC
The Directorate of Operations’ Technology and Support Division ran a small and exclusive clinic for its agents. As far as the world knew, the unassuming little building by the outskirts of New Washington, D.N. belonged to a private medical practice specializing in cybernetic implants. The facility did perform assorted imp-related procedures, but not the kind available to civilians or even the military.
Special or not, the trip there was as pleasant as any doctor visit.
This particular doctor looked like he could use some medical care himself, Heather decided as she shook hands with him. Unhealthily thin, with a pale complexion and a generally sickly appearance, the unnamed physician (his public profile was blocked) looked like he had a foot in the grave. Given how few diseases couldn’t be cured by Starfarer technology, his problems were almost certainly from lifestyle choices. If Heather had to guess, the doctor’s issues stemmed from heavy use of controlled substances. Better and better.
“This treatment is experimental and involves some risks,” he said without bothering with small talk. “If you consent to undergo the procedure, you will have to attest you were made aware of this. I have some forms for you to fill.”
“Well, I’ll be happy to make an informed decision. As soon as I am briefed about the treatment.”
“That is going to take some effort on both our parts,” the pale man said with something Heather thought might be a smile, although it looked more like a corpse’s grimace.
A regular Doctor Death, she thought.
“From your profile, I can see you haven’t done graduate-level work in quantum gravity field theory. Or advanced hyper-spatial dynamics.”
“Afraid not.”
Doctor Death sighed. “I’m afraid I’ll have to use highly-inaccurate layman’s terms to explain what I’m doing. The correct, detailed version would require at least a couple of doctorates to appreciate. The mathematics alone are beyond most people.”
“The crib notes are fine, Doctor. Capabilities and possible side effects will do just fine. I don’t know exactly how a particle beam pistol works, either, but I can use it.”
“Very well. First, you will be getting an upgrade to your standard communication implants. Improved range, reduced power usage, and some new software developed by our Hrauwah and Wyrashat allies. You will be able to bypass security blocks far more easily with these improvements.”
“Nifty. How about the experimental, risky stuff?”
“Yes. That procedure involves a new implant and a nanite treatment that will alter portions of your neocortex. Your brain, in other words.”
“Alter my brain. Whatever for?”
“Basically, you will be able to control, produce and channel tachyon particles,” the living ghoul said; the rictus-smile on his face disappeared as he got down to business. “Or rather, tachyon waves; most of the applications we’ve discovered rely on their wave-like characteristics.”
“Wait. Tachyons? Faster-than-light particles? I thought they didn’t exist.”
“Unified Field Theory has largely discarded the concept, yes. However, new evidence suggests that those particles do occur in nature. They carry no charge and have ‘imaginary’ mass. As it happens, the medium through which they propagate is what popular culture refers to as warp space.” He sneered, or maybe grinned; either way, his thin lips peeled back to reveal his nasty-looking chompers once again. “I could go on for hours about just how obscenely wrong the term ‘warp space’ really is.”
“Please don’t.”
“Of course. In any case, recent discoveries – actual new findings, not to be found anywhere in extant galactic scientific literature – have come to light. These particles travel through warp space. Even more astonishing, they are apparently associated with consciousness itself. The mind. This was uncovered in the course of the recently declassified program that developed our new hyperspace-capable pilots.”
“The warp fighter project.”
“Correct. We have several competing hypotheses, but testing them will take time. What we found is that after prolonged exposure to so-called warp space, human subjects developed a number of extrasensory perception and communication abilities. What fantasists would call telepathy, precognition, clairvoyance. They appear to transcend relativistic limitations, and we think they rely on the tachyon as their force and information carrier. Initial experiments have been rather exciting.” His expression grew somber. “And also somewhat disturbing. This new implant is one of the first applications to come from our initial findings.”
Most of the details of the Langley Project were still ‘black,’ but the rumor mill was already busy at work spreading all kinds of tall tales. Fighter pilots were weird. In the months since they’d joined Sixth Fleet, they’d become infamous for their eccentricity.
Eccentricity, of course, being a nice euphemism for insanity. Must be all those tachyons going through their brains.
Heather realized she’d missed something Doctor Death had said. “Sorry. Mind wandered off.”
“I understand. Believe me, ever since those initial findings were shared with select members of the scientific community, there’s been a great deal of befuddlement and shock.”
“Yes. Befuddled about covers it. Also concerned.”
“As I was saying, the subsystem we’ve designed relies on these tachyon particles, or rather alleged tachyons. Stimulating certain areas of the brain helps you generate what we are calling t-waves. You can use them to communicate with other similarly-equipped individuals without being detected by normal graviton technologies. It’s an undetectable way to send messages, in other words. Furthermore, you can interface with information technology systems while avoiding detection.”
The technobabble was beginning to give her a headache.
“Could we cut to the chase?” she said. “Basically, you want to change my brain to be able to use this magic energy that travels through warp space.”
“Very basically, yes.”
“And I take it the side effects are similar to what can happen to people in warp space.”
“Again, yes, broadly speaking. Only personnel with a Warp Rating of Two or higher can safely undergo the procedure.”
“And what are the side effects?”
“Very similar to what you would experience while in faster-than-light transit, except while in the physical realm. Hallucinations and very vivid dreams are the primary symptoms. There have been a handful of cases that presented adverse physical reactions.”
&
nbsp; ‘Adverse physical reactions’ during warp travel included heart attacks, aneurysms, and full autonomic system shutdowns.
I’d have to be crazy to let them do this to me, she thought. And I almost certainly will be crazy afterwards.
“In addition to the nano-surgical procedure, a strict chemical regimen is needed,” the doctor went on. “Enough doses for six months of operations will be added to your medical implants, to be dispensed regularly. While using them, you should avoid mind-altering substances, hard liquor and fully-immersive VR, as those have a chance of exacerbating the symptoms.”
Ordinarily, Heather would have simply thanked the ghoul for his time and declined the honor. Life as a field agent was dangerous enough without adding a mental version of Russian Roulette to the mix.
Problem was, this wasn’t an ordinary situation. She’d gone through the full briefing materials on the Tah-Leen. There was a good chance the diplomatic mission would be a one-way trip. The upside was high enough that risking the Secretary of State’s life and the other twelve hundred souls involved was seen as a worthwhile gamble.
Things were desperate enough to warrant just about every gamble.
Funny how most people in the US thought the war was as good as won. The propaganda machine back home had taken the victories at Parthenon and Hades and milked them for all they were worth. Having the Vipers drop out of the fight had been a major coup, there was no denying that, but they were the smallest member of the former Tripartite Galactic Alliance, and the largest partner was still concentrating its forces before launching a likely decisive attack. The Imperium’s dithering had been welcome, but unless it lasted until the new fleets of carrier vessels were built, the situation was going to go from bad to hopeless. Especially since the Lampreys and Imperials would soon come up with countermeasures against the warp fighters that had defeated their former allies.
Humanity had survived the previous century and change largely by proving to be more trouble to destroy than it was worth. The US had squashed its first enemy, the Risshah, a.k.a. the Snakes, quickly enough, but the Snakes had been minor players themselves. Knocking down another kid in a schoolyard didn’t mean you could go up against a pro boxer. The next conflicts had been with other small-timers or, in the case of the Gremlins, as part of a larger coalition. The US had established a reputation for ruthlessness and lethality, which combined with humanity’s warp abilities had been enough to convince most everyone to leave well enough alone. Far larger and more populous Starfarers had decided it was better to let humans be. Until now: the Alliance had decided to call America’s bluff, and the disparity in resources made defeat all but inevitable.
Heather thought of her family, living in Ohio and Luna City, fat, happy and utterly unprepared for the fiery death that would follow even two or three lost battles. America had to win just about every fight to survive. The enemy only had to win a couple of times, maybe just once. That was the reason behind this Hail Mary of a diplomatic mission. Or, for that matter, undergoing a treatment that would do God only knew what to her brain.
A truly rational species would calculate the odds, lie down and quietly wait for death. But Americans liked to dream big, liked to think their country had a greater destiny, on Earth and among the stars. Even a cynic like herself had fallen prey to that shared delusion, fallen hard enough to put her own life on the line over it.
She sighed. If enough people worked on that dream or delusion, they might actually make it a reality.
“All right, doctor. Let’s get to it.”
Four
Aboard the SS Brunhild, Lahiri System, 166 AFC
It wasn’t often a Marine captain sat down to dinner with a general, not to mention the US Secretary of State. Having June and Heather at the same table just added a little extra to the proceedings. This was going to be a meal Fromm wasn’t going to enjoy.
He sipped on his soft drink while casually glancing around at the rest of dinner party: an even dozen people sitting at a table in one of Brunhild’s smaller dining rooms, one reserved for intimate gatherings.
Sec-State Michelle Goftalu was a tall and slender woman, her gray hair done up in a tight bun, her warm smile and friendly expression making her resemble a kindly grandmother or a counselor, which probably suited a diplomat as well. She was ninety-seven years old and had spent most of her twelve terms as a Senator serving in the Foreign Relations Committee before being tapped for her current post. The fact she was there was either a good indication of how important this mission was, or a sign she wasn’t highly regarded at the White House. Fromm didn’t follow politics closely enough to know which. He’d ask Heather next time they were alone.
Heather was there ostensibly as the personal assistant to Deborah Smith, the Secretary’s Chief of Staff, and as one of the Tah-Leen’s personally-invited guests. Her CIA status was pretty much an open secret, which had likely ruined her career as a field agent. That might explain her blank expression. June Gillespie, sitting two seats down from her, might also account for her mood, although that could be Fromm flattering himself. He’d avoided June since their dinner at Musik, and he intended to give his former friend a wide berth during this cruise.
General Raymond Gage sat at the other end of the table as the co-host of the semi-formal dinner. A stocky, gruff man, with a high-and-tight haircut and a bulldog face, he looked like the drill instructor he once had been. Gage was a maverick who’d started his career as an enlisted man and worked his way to O-7, commanding troops in two wars and three lesser conflicts and accumulating two master’s degrees and one Ph.D. along the way. He’d been a line officer for most of his career, which made him one of the good guys in Fromm’s book.
Mario Rockwell was seated next to Fromm. The former Navy man had been the Regional Security Officer in Kirosha; he had taken over after former Ambassador Llewellyn folded like the cowardly rat he was. Without Rockwell, Fromm and every human on Jasper-Five would have died. That made him another good guy. A few other Kirosha survivors were present at the table, including Major Zhang, looking spiffy in her Marine dress blues, but also distracted, as if she was getting imp messages during dinner, which would be a pretty serious faux pas. On the other hand, she might be suffering from warp-induced stress disorder; Fromm couldn’t imagine how anyone could endure as many transits as the new fighter pilots had during the year or so since they’d been in the service.
He exchanged a glance with the Agent in Charge of the Secretary’s Protective Detail, another Marine. She was a tall woman, with short brown hair and sharp features; her face appeared to be locked in a no-nonsense expression Fromm could appreciate. Georgina Petrosyan had left active duty as a major and been with the State Department for over two decades. She’d commanded an infantry company during the war against the Horde and gotten the requisite commendations and decorations along the way. Petroysan nodded at him; they’d spent some time together working to integrate their respective commands in case of emergency. The DS personnel were all trained in small-unit tactics, and had access to combat armor, military small arms and even some crew-served weapons. If it came down to a fight, the Detail was the equivalent of a light infantry platoon. They planned to run several joint training exercises during the trip to Xanadu.
The usual meaningless pleasantries were exchanged and nothing of much importance was said until after the main course was consumed and the dishes removed. The only comment that stuck in Fromm’s mind was when some State Department puke spoke up.
“I propose a toast in the hopes that this First Contact with a wise and ancient species is peaceful and beneficial to both sides,” the man said.
Fromm raised his glass and drank, but he felt mildly annoyed at the toast. Running into a new alien polity rarely worked out that way. Most of the time, there was a clear winner – and an obvious loser. You often could tell who the loser was because its species was no longer around. To him, ‘contact’ meant locating an enemy before going on the attack. Intellectually, he understood that viewing
any alien as a potential enemy wasn’t a nice way to view the universe. But he had a bad feeling about these particular aliens. Fromm had stopped believing in Santa Claus at a very early age, and he had a hard time believing some ‘wise and ancient’ species had invited them over so it could hand out gifts for everybody. The Snowflakes wanted something, and he’d be surprised if it wasn’t something the Americans wouldn’t want to give up.
All of which meant he wasn’t very surprised when Secretary Goftalu got down to business.
“I’m sure all of you have gone over the information we have on the Tah-Leen,” she said. “Which, as it turns out, isn’t very much. They are a very private civilization, one with very restricted dealings with the rest of the galaxy. They do not accept embassies, and as far as anybody knows, not a single member of that species has stepped outside its home system for at least as far back as any Starfarer records go. Their decline and fall happened millennia before the oldest current polity came into being. A few fragments of badly-translated historical accounts are all we have to go on. That, and some disquieting intelligence we developed shortly before our departure. Ms. Smith?”
“Disquieting is, if anything, an understatement,” Chief of Staff Deborah Smith said. She was an unassuming-looking woman with grey hair and severe features. “The CIA and NSA have gathered a great deal of evidence showing that a large number of vessels flying assorted Starfarer flags passed through Xanadu – and were never heard of again. The system’s traffic control system shows them departing as scheduled, but they never arrived to their destination.”
Several of the dinner guests looked shocked at the news. Heather didn’t; she must have been briefed already, or been one of the evidence-gatherers in question.
“We have identified just under twelve hundred disappearances over the last century,” Smith continued. “Since some five hundred to a thousand ships make transit at Xanadu every month, this is a miniscule number, but a dozen missing ships a year is triple the normal loss rate you see at other nexus points with similar traffic levels. Warp travel is never fully safe, of course, but for some reason it is even more hazardous around Xanadu.”
Warp Marine Corps- The Complete Series Page 69
