Tyger Bright

by T. C. McCarthy

  “Where is the Bangkok?”

  “We still haven’t picked her up with passives,” said Zhelnikov. “And we’re sure as hell not going to use active sensors. We have no drones. So look for her while we move on the Jerusalem.”

  Win shut his eyes, punching his forearm controls to send a bolus of serum through his blood. His back arched, the serum burning its way toward his spine. Instead of scanning the space around the Sommen planet something else grabbed hold of him, attracting his consciousness with a speed that made Win dizzy and wrapping him in a bright cloud of light. Its illumination was intense enough that it overwhelmed his vision, rendering him blind.

  A voice boomed. “I have you. Your language we recognize, words stored so deeply they had been forgotten.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Our masters built everything. When they were gone, we watched.”

  “Your masters—the ones who built the wormholes?”

  The thing ignored his question. Win tried to sense any emotions, to get some idea of its intensions, but his single reading suggested that whatever he spoke to was blank. A void. It was there, but it also wasn’t there, providing no pattern of thought or emotion, everywhere and nowhere simultaneously.

  “We saw you. It is as we were told. Your kind will go to war with our common enemy. We came before.”

  “I don’t know where you are,” said Win. “I can’t see you.”

  “Do not fear. We will finish your enemy for you—the warrior race who occupied this planet. They are . . . difficult. But once they are gone, my kind will come to yours; you will see us then.”

  “When?”

  “In a long time, long after you convert to dust. We were servants once. But when they completed their task, those who created us drifted away; one cannot exist without a purpose. In the absence of masters, we found our purpose. We came before.”

  Win sensed someone shaking him, back aboard the Higgins, forcing his concentration to waver. Just before the light winked out it said one last thing.

  “We came before. We are coming again, long after your generation returns to the dirt.”

  “Win!” Zhelnikov shouted.

  The combat bridge came into view, its dim red light comforting after what he’d just experienced. Win felt disoriented; his mind swam as if the serum had damaged something, as if neuron connections had broken and his brain misfired, sending meaningless signals into empty fluids.

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re on the Higgins,” said Zhelnikov. “Where else would you be?”

  “I was out there. Somewhere.”

  “Did you find her?”

  “Who?” Win asked.

  “The damn ship! The Bangkok! What the hell is wrong with you; you were out for over an hour. We’re about to fire on the Jerusalem; she has no idea we’ve closed on her.”

  “I didn’t find her. I couldn’t. Something was out there, someone. They came before.”

  Zhelnikov shook him again; Win sensed a measure of concern in the man’s words.

  “You’re not making sense. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” With each passing second, Win’s thoughts became more ordered. He shook his head. Whatever had just happened had been so intense that it induced real effects, physiological ones. He’d have to get a medbot to take a look.

  “I saw them, again,” he said. “The ones who take care of the wormholes and who carved the frescos.”

  “I don’t understand. Where?”

  “They’re both an immense mind and mindless, with no purpose except destruction and death. As soon as they finish the Sommen, they will come for us—for Earth.”

  Zhelnikov stared. He removed his hands from Win’s shoulders and pushed back toward his couch, strapping himself in. “We had already guessed that. There’s nothing we can do, Win.”

  “What do you mean, you had guessed that? Why are we even out here? We have to get back to Earth.”

  “We have the Jerusalem in a firing solution. And we can’t go back to Earth. Not until we’ve taken out both Proelian vessels or all of this has been for nothing. Prepare yourself. The solution is uncertain; the Proelians and their new ship construction are formidable, I’ll give them that. If we miss, we’ll head to a shuttle and retreat into cryo sleep.”

  Win was about to unstrap, enraged that Zhelnikov had known about the real dangers mankind faced and furious that he’d never seen through the old man’s lies. I have failed. His anger focused just as much on himself and his own blindness as it did on Zhelnikov. The calculus was clear: Zhelnikov and his friends had been fools to turn against the Proelians when they knew another threat existed—one at least as powerful as the Sommen. And Win had been used. Worse. He’d never gotten any indication or whisper of being used; he, the perfection of war and vision, was capable of being duped.

  “Fire,” Captain Markus said.

  The combat bridge’s lights blinked out, and everything went silent. Win slipped from his harness. When the red lights flashed to life again, he’d already freed himself and flew in the direction of Zhelnikov.

  “Direct hit,” someone announced. “The Jerusalem engine and reactor compartments are gone. Uncontrolled venting detected. Its orbit is now deteriorating and it will impact on the planet in less than an hour. Strange: Two nearby drones get no reading of bodies in the debris cloud. Should we fire again?”

  “No need,” the captain said. “Let them burn up.”

  Win reached Zhelnikov’s station and the man glanced up, surprised. “Win, get strapped in. We’re going into a short burn.”

  “You knew all this time and hid it from me. How?”

  “What are you talking about? Get strapped in!”

  “Before Childress I never detected anything about the machines maintaining the wormholes—not in your thoughts, not in your words. And I missed your lies about poisoning me. How is that possible? How can I possibly be deceived by one as impotent as you?”

  Zhelnikov recognized the danger; the man tried to inch away, pressing against a bulkhead. “I made you. I know your brain structure better than you do. You are a war machine, Win; I just gave you a mission and avoided discussing the machines except for when we visited the wormhole structure. You are so singularly focused that the rest took care of itself. Ask yourself why you never saw it. All I had to do was control my own muscle movements, facial expressions, and thoughts. Deceiving you, in some ways, was easier than deceiving a human.”

  “Burn in thirty seconds,” Captain Markus announced.

  “I am a warrior,” Win continued. “It’s now all I know. But you gave me the wrong mission, one that is soaked in shame and cowardice, not the one with a promise of glory.” Before Zhelnikov could react he slammed a spiked leg through the man’s chest, repeatedly, grinning at his confused expression and the sound of gurgling. “You and your allies in Fleet are so blind with a lust for power that you can’t see the real threat. I see it now.”

  “Jesus!” Captain Markus said. He drew a coil pistol from under his couch and pointed it. “Stand down. Strap in, so we can finish this, you freak!”

  Someone else clicked in, his voice panicked. “Missiles inbound; sensors indicate fifty.”

  “Where from?” the captain asked.

  “Bangkok detected; it was behind the planet’s moon and likely burning toward us this whole time. We only just picked her up.”

  “Cancel burn. Can we get a firing solution?”

  “No, Captain. Not before the missiles hit.”

  Win sensed the terror around him, and pondered on the fact that it also mixed with resignation and a recognition from these crewmen that their end had arrived; it was too late to change anything. He grinned even wider. Here, in the end, when Win should have been frightened, his Sommen tissue surprised him, sending thoughts of accomplishment and victory. I will die in combat. There could be no greater way, Win thought, and he returned to his couch, smiling while strapping himself to the ship. He reached out then, hoping that this
time his consciousness would project as intended, avoiding interception. It took a few moments to find her.

  Sister.

  You are not my brother, San responded. You are nothing.

  I have no regrets for my actions except one: I wish we could have met—fought face to face.

  Go to hell.

  Win laughed at the anger; he caught the undercurrent of satisfaction at revenge mixed with a deep sorrow at having lost her friends. Your brothers and sisters died well, Win sent, without pain. In war. I thank you for giving me the same kind of death, and commend you for your victory. The Jerusalem was unmanned except for the captain; it was a trap the whole time, correct?

  Correct. We transferred the majority of her crew onto my ship. And in ten seconds our missiles will hit, finishing what we started.

  I’m sorry, sister.

  At first San didn’t respond. When she did, the words mixed with confusion and doubt. She is no warrior, Win thought.

  Sorry for what? You said you had no regrets.

  I do not. But I also did not know of the true enemy, the ones bent on destroying the Sommen. They will come for Earth one day. Had I known this, I never would have participated in Zhelnikov’s operations. I killed him, just now, for putting me on a path of dishonor. I drove a spike through his chest, and he died in great pain and fear.

  That’s beautiful, Win. Thank you for confirming that you have no soul; father would be proud.

  It’s true: There are no feelings in me for you, or for our father. But I know now: My mission had no purpose. For that, I am sorry.

  Win felt the missiles impact throughout what remained of the Higgins; a jet of hot metal screamed through the combat bridge. Had the compartment contained an atmosphere, the overpressure would have compressed his suit and tissue while flash-heating the air, burning him to a cinder. Instead the jets passed through. One cut the captain in half, vaporizing his head into a cloud of ash. Another exploded. It sent fragments of molten alloy to ricochet throughout the bridge, and one pierced Win’s stomach to burn a fist-sized hole.

  Goodbye, sister. I will tell our father about your exploits; this has been a glorious battle, one even the Sommen would admire. One day, you will make a fine warrior.

  EPILOGUE

  Nothing had changed except the abbess. San sat on the floor, still drowsy from cryo sleep and the long journey from Sommen space to Ganymede. The new abbess scanned through the holo-report and data that the Bangkok had returned. Without realizing it, San examined the young woman’s face and while the abbess talked to herself, she analyzed the accent and noted every inflection, the sounds marking San’s consciousness as if diamond gouged, cutting into a glass sheet. She was too young, San decided. Too young to be an abbess and thick Eastern European notes and inflections laced her accent with an authoritarian bent. She missed the old abbess. And her mother, and Wilson. The Marine, Eugene, had gone on to another assignment, deployed almost as soon as he’d returned.

  So much loss . . .

  “I see you delivered two separate examples of technologies from this race . . . What did the Sommen call them?”

  “Machinists, Mother Abbess.”

  “You may call me Sister Margaret. I found my predecessor to be overly formal.”

  “She was a fine leader, Mother Abbess.”

  “Do not mistake my meaning,” the nun said. The woman pursed her lips, and San saw a flicker of anger ripple across the woman’s face. “Sister Frances had her talents, and her uses. Let me ask you something.”

  “Yes, Mother Abbess?”

  “Why did you not return to this Carpenter place, the planet, and search for more machinist technology after you defeated the Higgins?”

  “You mean after I lost the entire team on Carpenter, and the Jerusalem?”

  “Sarcasm is not helpful,” the abbess growled. “We are building the army of armies, and everyone must make sacrifices. Your group managed to penetrate Sommen space—at great cost to Fleet and the Order. It was a once-in-a-millennia opportunity. After the Higgins’s destruction and once the area had been secured, it seems that one could have taken one’s time to complete planetary exploration.”

  San struggled with her emotions, not sure if she should feel relieved to be back in her home system, the mission now over, or furious with the young abbess’s arrogance—especially since the nun had never faced an enemy in space, let alone travelled anywhere outside the solar system. But what had San accomplished? In the years she’d been away, the Proelians had progressed on their new ship designs and Fleet was still Fleet—fumbling their way through Sommen texts, searching for some edge or advantage. Most of all, she decided, there was exhaustion. Not the kind of left-over-tired from being asleep for years; this was different. San felt as though she’d aged a century, the years robbing her of ambition and purpose.

  “Mother Abbess. There was concern that once the Higgins fired its plasma weapon multiple times, Sommen or machinist tech might have picked up the disturbances induced by the energy fluctuations. After the battle ended it was a prudent decision to strip the Higgins of its memory storage, send it to burn up in Carpenter’s atmosphere, and extract from Sommen space as quickly as possible.”

  “Whose concern?” the nun asked. “Whose decision?”

  “My concern, Mother Abbess. And the captain’s. We decided together.”

  “I would have decided differently. But I guess that’s the risk we take in sending children to space.”

  “We now have schematics of machinist microbots,” said San, her anger beginning to show. “Planet scrapers. My scientists studied them during the return; with most of the Jerusalem’s crew onboard we all had to hot bunk in cryo tubes which gave our technical teams time to work. They estimate that the microbots are hive networked, powered from ambient planetary magnetic fields and programmed to reduce living organism to constituent elements. And from the Higgins we brought you the remains of a machinist automaton. Its mind is a combination of materials that somehow form a super-aware, the likes of which we’ve never seen. And thanks to the Higgins’s memory banks we have a more complete understanding of our enemies, not to mention a brief history of the machinists and Fleet efforts to unlock their secrets. Is that not enough? I paid for these prizes with the blood of my friends.”

  The abbess shook her head. “Sister Kyarr, we did not send you and three ships all that way so you could bring us a machinist history lesson.”

  “It’s important, Mother Abbess. The machinists are the true enemy; your predecessor saw this and so do I.”

  “Maybe. But even if that’s true, the prophecy is clear: We must first defeat the Sommen if we ever want them to be an ally. The Sommen will never ally with a defeated race.”

  “I fail to see the point.”

  The nun gathered her phase shifter, cinching it tighter against Ganymede’s cold. “My point is that after destroying the Higgins, your ship could have sent another team to the surface of Carpenter. You could have gotten an actual return sample of the machinist’s microbots for us to study—to have. Your readings indicate the presence of Sommen microbots as well. We could have had both.”

  “I was not going to allow dormant and intact technology onto my ship, the only ship we had to get us home. Especially not planet-killing tech. With this one weapon, the machinists leveled the entirety of Carpenter, reducing it to sand. What if those things came to life on the Bangkok? Or what if you had succeeded in reviving the tech here, or worse: on Earth. Do you really think you could have contained something that even the Sommen couldn’t? For all we know it self-replicates and only a small sample could have destroyed everything.”

  “That was my decision to make!” The abbess shouted. “Not yours! You know nothing of real power, and what it takes to achieve it—to rip it from the fabric of the universe itself. Schematics and history lessons? This is not power!”

  “With respect, Mother Abbess: I’ve heard enough.”

  San lifted herself from the floor, bouncing toward the do
orway behind her.

  “How dare you! Sit down!”

  “My mother is dead, along with the rest of my family. Wilson is dead. And the Order convinced me to slaughter the last remaining family I had: my own brother. I’ve earned the right to walk out of here.”

  The abbess continued her shouting and even after San shut the door, the nun’s promise of a prison sentence penetrated into the hallway. San bounced through the tight stone corridors. She navigated her way toward the girls’ dormitory—a small space where bunks had been carved into stone. Although it had only been a short time, San felt as though a thousand years had passed since she’d seen the place, the place where she’d both been born and had grown up. She opened the door, squeezing through the tight entrance, her movement activating a hover light.

  Ten young girls slept. San surveyed their faces and noted the lack of any sign of care or worry, the skin smooth and unmarked by battle. They’re just children, she thought. The realization disoriented San and she stepped back into the hallway, wondering when she had become so old.

  “You were like that,” a nun whispered. She had snuck up, grasping a handhold near the door, and the nun placed a gentle hand on San’s shoulder. “Once. Once you were just like that. So naïve. Filled with promise and a wish to transform, to convert promise into action. To please us.”

  “Sister Joan?”

  “Yes, San; it’s me. Welcome home, child.”

  San burst into tears. She threw herself into the nun’s arms, who embraced her in a tight hug so the two bounced in low gravity at the same time a flood of grief poured out without any sign of slowing. Her tears refused to stop. She kept repeating the names of those she’d lost, and when San collapsed into the nun’s arms, Sister Joan patted her back.

  “There, there. It is done. I’m so sorry, child.”