by P. R. Adams
Instead, he was looking at the remnants of the enemy fleet—still quite intact if not capable of doing anything—and a small group of ships had completely destroyed three of his and damaged even the Thunor.
This opportunity was the jewel to be set in the crown, the means to show that Captain Bryce Morganson was the most special of the special.
How was he supposed to rise above so many brilliant stars if he didn’t shine?
Yes. He had to shine. “Ensign Ostmann?”
The handsome weapons officer smiled. “Yes, Captain?”
“Is there any indication the remaining ships of the fleet have weapons or maneuverability?”
“Only the three fleeing, Captain.”
“And can we target those fleeing ships?”
“They are at extreme range. As the captain knows, our weapons are oper—”
“Our weapons must operate under limited power while we are using the shadow technology, yes, thank you.”
Thrum-thrum-thrum-THRUM!
There was still no indication the three escaping ships could make a Fold Space jump. But if they were approaching the edge of weapons range, it wouldn’t be long before they were at the edge of sensor range.
The damned shadow technology was a sword that cut the wielder nearly as effectively as it cut the enemy.
What would a shining star do?
Pummel the damaged ships of the fleet? They were going nowhere.
Pursue the three fleeing ships of the fleet? They couldn’t truly escape, but they could drag pursuit out for days and force a straight-up engagement if they repaired enough systems.
Crush this mysterious task force that somehow could target his ships?
Something bold and brilliant. That was what a shining star would do.
Do not let the limitations of your crew and ships be the limitations of your brilliance, Bryce. You are greater than the human shell holding you. You are free of the poisons that destroy the human mind.
Those were the words of the Architect, the Minister of Purity, the man behind his creation, the one who was second only to the Supreme Leader. The man was only human, yet he had his own peculiar genius. And there was a cold brutality behind his emerald eyes, the sort that would be necessary to raise a tall, forgettable, anonymous scientist to such a valuable position in just a few decades.
And how hard had he worked to master the genetic work of his team to create Morganson? How often had the Architect looked away when the bright young thing had struck down a competitor?
It is the way of brothers, always striving to rise.
There is no rise without blood to fuel the rocket of ascendancy!
When the Minister of Purity tells you that you are the one, the special Child who will sit upon the throne…
Destiny.
Brother must bury brother. Child must bury parent.
What would a shining star do?
Thrum-thrum-thrum-THRUM!
Ostmann cleared his throat. “Captain?”
Morganson smiled. “We must strike down this mysterious task force, but we must also eliminate these escaping ships.”
The weapons officer nodded sharply. “As the captain commands!”
Unlike Ostmann, the helmsman seemed flustered by the idea. “We are to move away from the crippled fleet, Captain?”
Thrum-thrum-thrum-THRUM! “Do you have some other idea of how to pursue escaping ships, Ensign?”
The stoop-shouldered man looked away. “And which would we pursue, Captain?”
“Both.”
“Both? They do not move together, Captain.”
“You are the alleged expert mathematician. Find a means to first close on the fleeing ships, then to intercept this task force.”
“There is no such math, Captain. They move in opposite directions at times and never directly toward each other.”
Morganson squeezed the ring over the command station railing. If he had a sidearm at that moment, he would have shot the helmsman. Even a simpleton could have done better than the beady-eyed fool.
But there was in the man’s words an inadvertent scraping, a rubbing against brilliance that was inevitable when someone was around Morganson.
These two forces weren’t moving toward each other, but they would.
They just needed the proper encouragement.
“Pursue the escaping fleet ships.” A smirk drew up the corners of Morganson’s lips.
The old helmsman stared, as if confused, then turned back to his console.
Handsome young Ostmann put the idea together quickly. “We attack the wounded ships, and the task force responds. Is that it, Captain?”
“Very perceptive, Ensign Ostmann.” The captain braced himself as the Spear of Destiny maneuvered.
“They have shown interest in drawing our ships off from the fleet.”
“They have. Which means they are somehow connected. Fellow Kedraalian ships that just so happened to appear at the time of our attack.”
“A strange coincidence, Captain.”
“Only fools believe in coincidence.”
Ostmann clapped his heels together. “We will continue to fire upon the fleet while—”
“No. I will have everything we can spare allocated to the engines.”
“Even the shields, Captain?”
“Yes. Only that task force can detect us, and they are too far away to be a threat.”
The ensign’s eyes lit up. “A further lure? The captain presents them with targets they cannot pass on?”
The weapons officer was absolutely delicious. “Show them the pale flesh of the neck.”
“Vulnerable.”
“Exactly that. Vulnerable while also threatening. Who could resist such a target?”
The red-faced communications officer brushed his jacket sleeve across his face. “I should notify Commander Schwab, Captain?”
“Yes. Have him continue pursuit but be ready for those ships to change course.”
That seemed to satisfy the pudgy man, who went back to chattering.
And the fleet moved on the giant display, leaving behind the remnants of the crippled Kedraalian defenders.
They must be aware of their own ships, this mysterious task force. Perhaps they even cheered at the sight of brothers and sisters outwitting an enemy that could strike unseen. How could they not? It only made sense to hate the Azoren fleet for what they’d done. Were the situation reversed, Morganson would hate such an enemy.
Ah, but what pain they would feel when those brothers and sisters were struck down!
Even Morganson felt something when he lost one of his brothers, whether at his own hand or in the course of war. Competition didn’t remove the connections they’d felt from the instant they’d gained awareness. The basic seed, the germ of their father joined them all, from the ones who rose to leadership to the ones identified as disappointments.
The eyes of those doomed for the incinerators…
That was a haunting reminder of duty and the cost of failure.
A bullet was too much to spare a failed Child. The Architect expected—demanded—perfection. All else was a drain on the body, the structure of the Azoren leadership.
Perhaps that was something to be changed once the Supreme Leader was displaced. The Architect could be removed as well. A bullet wasn’t too much. The screams of agony were unnecessary.
We are your betters, even the least of us.
But there was no simple declaration of superiority. There was proof in the field. Morganson’s proof was now, in this moment. Despite the limitations of the ships and the compromises forced on him by the shadow technology, he would show he was ready to ascend to the most senior leadership positions. From there, it would only be a matter of time before he could replace the Supreme Leader.
Morganson flicked dust from the surface of his station console.
Only a matter of time.
Ostmann glanced up. “Closing on the damaged fleet ships, Captain.”
“R
ange?”
“A coordinated strike from the fleet could almost certainly destroy one of them.”
Like a baby crying for the comfort of its mother. Humans were so weak, their life cycle so inefficient—how had the transition to something so obviously superior taken so long? “Notify the Thunor of our intent, then fire.”
The communications officer swallowed but kept chattering away to the other feeble communications officers of the fleet.
Word was going out. Ostmann was ready.
And then the fleet fired.
The crippled ship—the one farthest back from the others—ruptured. An aft section was blown clear of the main hull. Once the initial heat eruption cleared, all indications of power—the acceleration, the greater heat of engines blasting—were gone.
Ostmann’s handsome smile seemed to fill Morganson’s awareness. “Closing on the rear ship, Captain. Finish it off with a missile volley?”
“Leave nothing of it, then move on to the next one.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“This other task force…?”
The weapons officer bent closer to his section of the wide console. “Adjusting course.”
There was no surprise in that. Humans were sadly predictable. If lives could be saved, many humans inevitably acted to save those lives. If suffering could be averted, many acted to bring about the end of suffering. And the misguided mind of some saw this as virtue.
But they were animals. True virtue was weeding out the weak. True virtue was further strengthening and rewarding the strong. Leaving the weak to live? To allow them to suck away the strength of the superior?
Nature had an order. To the victor go the spoils. How unfortunate to be born inferior or disadvantaged. But no tears were to be shed for such a thing.
Eliminate the parasites.
Energy blossomed on the command station display.
More mongrels removed from the galaxy. It was being purged, cleansed.
Strengthened.
And one day, it would be fashioned after his own image.
For now, though, there remained a threat.
The task force had changed course. The bait had been taken.
“Captain?” It was the red-faced, sweaty communications officer.
“What is it, Ensign?”
“Commander Schwab, Captain. He wishes to know whether he should attempt to intercept these—”
“No. Let them close. Box them in. When the time is right, the fleet will turn and show this foolish Kedraalian captain the error of his ways.”
A smile twitched on the chubby man’s face, then he mercifully turned away.
The fleeing ships split away from each other. It was a good maneuver if there were meaningful acceleration that forced pursuers to choose whether to split off or continue after just one. These ships might as well have been crawling.
Ostmann chuckled. “Firing on the trailing ship, Captain.”
Heat flared around the closer of the fleeing ships, and a volley of missiles finished the work.
Elation filled Morganson’s heart. Here was the natural order, the hunter striking down the beast to further the odds of survival for his tribe. What could be more right in the universe than someone eliminating the infirm?
The mysterious Kedraalian task force closed. They would soon be caught between Schwab’s ships and the main Azoren fleet.
And they were too late for the final damaged ship. It was almost anticlimactic seeing the missiles obliterate the thing.
But the end was joyful nonetheless. The mysterious task force that had troubled him and stolen away his chance to return home with an unscathed fleet was seconds away from being caught between two superior forces. He would have this annoying captain where he could be taught the error of his ways.
And when Morganson had that, he intended to blast the fool from existence.
11
When Stiles dreamed, it was always of numbers and lessons. It would be memories from a time where she floated, suspended in warm amniotic fluids that formed her physical awareness: a strange saltiness on her tongue and in her sinuses. Her mind had been a sponge then, soaking up everything going on behind her eyelids, and sometimes her eyes opened to take in things beyond the glass cylinder that was her womb. It was a murky vision—the world seen through the distortion of fluids and thick, curved glass. She was coming to realize now that her entire life was a murky vision, even through the eyes of an adult.
Those eyes opened, and the dream of dreams receded.
She was cold—shivering. And weak. Her blood had grown tacky, unlike Patel’s.
Fast clotting. Part of her design. It had probably saved her life.
But she was still badly wounded. When she pushed herself up from the floor, fire lanced throughout her body—she was pushing too hard. Where the knife had gone in, things were worse. Her skin protested. It was trying to close, to heal, and her movements were threatening to re-open the cuts.
The klaxons had changed—acceleration was over. They were now at general quarters.
Something was going on. Was it something Patel was behind?
She punched his corpse. It was petty and ridiculous but felt good.
The Directorate was responsible for so many troubles, and Patel had been one of the worst of the SAID agents.
What had he asked her—owl or raven?
That would make sense at some point. She would make it make sense.
Survival was the key at the moment. Too much blood had been lost. At some point, even her body would fail. Despite all the to-do about being a Genesys, a cold analysis would reveal that she was only human. Tweaked. Optimized. Idealized. But she still had a heart that pumped blood to carry oxygen to her brain, and that brain would starve and shut down eventually.
She powered her suit off and levered herself up, then stumbled to the head. There were clean towels folded on a shelf. After turning the lights on, she took a face towel, soaked it, and scrubbed blood from as much of her suit as she could. Wipe toward the wounds—that was the least damaging to the healing process.
Her helmet needed separate attention—peeled off, scrubbed, then set aside to dry. After that, off came her gloves, then some soapy water to clean away the stubborn spots of blood. And in between, she would wash her hands thoroughly, cup them, and drink gulps of water.
Water is the foundation of survival.
Maneuvering nearly pitched her to the floor. She grabbed the sink for support and groaned softly at the tender muscles that strained to keep her upright. Spots danced in front of her eyes.
Stimulants. She needed stimulants to keep her going until she could recover properly.
Patel would have had some. SAID agents lived off of them.
Stiles repeated her search from before—slow and sluggish this time. She found a plastic bag taped to the underside of the desk, just behind the back of the drawer. To be safe, she took two and slid the rest into a pocket of her suit.
The effect seemed to come almost immediately, while she was slipping the SAID agent’s eye into the now-empty plastic bag. Tingling in the extremities, a slight sharpening of her awareness—she had an hour, maybe two, before the inevitable crash would leave her vulnerable.
She unzipped her suit and slid the bagged eye between her breasts. That eye held secrets and needed to be protected.
Secrets. Like owl or raven.
Remember that. He asked which I was. Do I even know?
He had also said McLeod was operating on his own, too flighty to be recruited by the Directorate.
Truth? Lie? It wasn’t a selling point on the colonel’s reliability.
There were other things about Patel that interested her now. If he had been willing to kill her, he had something big to hide.
She searched his body, recovering a tablet and a few storage devices.
That would have to do. A strange torpor was wrestling with her hyperawareness and a feeling like vibration that seemed to reach to a molecular level, as if she were on
the edge of exploding.
The shadowsuit had a few minutes of power left. The damaged sections would leave her at risk, but with the ship on general quarters, only essential personnel should be moving around. Anyone else would be working damage control or would be out of the way.
Stiles pulled her mask back on, turned the lights off, then opened the hatch.
The passageway was dim and empty. The klaxon a painful, skull-splitting shriek.
At times, she had to use the passageway walls for support, and after a few steps, she had to retreat from the stairwell. The lift opened as she reached for the call button, and a group of sailors spilled out—wide-eyed, dressed in baggy environment suits, oxygen masks hanging from their hips.
Damage control. Moving to a station or responding to an alarm.
Stiles backpedaled as well as she could and pressed against the far bulkhead. The sailors rushed past, one of them brushing her. A big guy, wide in the shoulders and hips.
He turned around to see what he’d run into and took a step back, brow twisted. “Hey—?”
Go. You didn’t feel me.
The big sailor took another step back. “Hello?”
Her suit. One of the cuts was pointed toward him. How would he react to seeing a sliver of her flesh suspended in the air? If he saw it at all.
A little sailor at the head of the group spun around. “Stu! Let’s go!”
“But…” The big sailor took a third step, rubbing his shoulder.
“Stu!”
The big sailor shook his head. “Yeah. Okay.”
He turned and sped after the others.
She waited a heartbeat, then staggered into the lift just ahead of the hatch closing.
The control panel chimed and flashed numbers for her to choose. The lift sensors were sensitive enough to detect her, even if she wasn’t necessarily visible to the human eye. Weight, breaking a beam, disturbing the air—she would have to look into the particulars one day. For now…
What had she wanted to do?
Her cabin. Decrypting Patel’s devices. Rest.
This time, when the lift opened, she was alone. Her mind was fairly alert, but her body was rapidly fading. The passageway suddenly felt more like a maze, twisting incomprehensibly, stretching on forever, growing dark around the edges, luring her into dead ends, suddenly sealing off promising exits. There were rushes of excitement as she imagined breadcrumbs or strings that would lead her to her destination, then crashes of disappointment when she realized it was all her wildly misfiring imagination.
