by Richard Fox
“Don’t blame me,” Hulegu said, shrugging. “My troops are paid by the hour and by the kill.”
“As client specifications bring us outside the profitability window, it allows us some latitude in contract execution. Option one: Establish a buffer zone around the initial colony locations and move indigenous sentients onto reservations. Extinction in twenty-two years unless we can sustain their costs through tourism or labor.”
“Combined Terran Governments don’t like outliers,” Hulegu said.
“The CTG doesn’t subsidize our expenses,” Zike aid. “Option two: We utilize other nation-states to accelerate the population decline through a proxy conflict and follow on with the reservation system. End state achieved in seven years, depending on casualty rates.”
“Note my objection as we don’t have solid intelligence on the nuclear munition capability of the ‘Worthy People’ political entity,” Hulegu said.
“Noted.” Molly smiled, then she furrowed her brow. “Sir? May I suggest we include Professor Hower in the discussion? I’m anticipating the central office’s questions, as they’re known to—”
“Hower declined to participate,” Zike said flatly. “Do up a prospectus for Tyr reservations. Traditional village areas for tourism. Domestic help.”
“The Emerald Isle option,” Hulegu said. “Colonists purchase land and an indigenous population with it.”
“Not cost-effective; there are no resources worth what we’d charge an investor,” Zike said.
“Don’t put it past some of the more…creative clients. There are plenty out there who’d pay a fortune to buy a decent-sized island and play god with the inhabitants. Plus, those so inclined will hire Compliance officers as security.”
“Looking to retire?” Zike asked.
“Maybe. Maybe, but I do get a percentage off any of my men who’re hired away.”
“Include that as an addendum,” Zike said. “Moving off the record.”
“Off the record,” Molly said, scribbling down a final note.
Zike flicked his hand up and a holo panel zoomed in on a coastal area. “We may have a black swan event that can keep us deeper in the black,” he said to Hulegu.
“The survey ship we lost?” Hulegu stroked his chin. “You denied the personnel recovery.”
Molly raised an eyebrow. The official report on the loss had all the crew as killed in action.
“I did. Not economically viable to do the recovery, cheaper to write off the sunk cost.” Zike tapped his armrest and graphs appeared around a coastal city. “Given what the xeno-biologists have gleaned from the sample we took from orbit, there’s a potential r-naught of nineteen and a case-fatality rate of ninety-two percent.”
“Convenient,” Hulegu sneered. “And could prove risky to us. A pathogen is the greatest threat to operations and—”
“Monitor the area. I’ll authorize a sample collection if things get out of hand. And if they do, it opens up a number of contract loopholes that can accelerate our timetable and leave us free and clear of any legal repercussions from the client,” Zike said.
“The Dauphin might consider herself the highest legal authority when she arrives,” Hulegu said. “You want to get on her bad side?”
“I have a Compliance division with me. She does not. Care to do that math?”
“Fine by me, Director. I’m paid by the hour and by the kill.”
“Back on record,” Zike said. “Argent, put the profit-and-loss report together and have it to me in…four hours.”
“Yes, sir. My pleasure.” Sliding her hands down her skirt, she bowed then left Zike’s quarters and leaned her back against a bulkhead. The data projections were still swimming in her mind. Billions of the aliens were marked for death, and Zike did it all as casually as one might browse real estate listings.
Now she had to put the report together, justifying the profits and expenses to the company in just a few hours. This was not what she’d trained for at the Executive Assistant academy. She’d heard rumors about the Corporation’s colonial division…but nothing like this.
“Not now, Molly.” She composed herself and walked back to her quarters with the same catwalk strut expected of her. “Professional and perfection of execution. Professional and…”
Chapter 18
Hower rapped on the glass on Quboth’s isolation tube and the Tyr astronaut within snapped awake. The alien screamed, the sound barely making it through the tube.
Hower shook his head slightly and pressed a comms button. “Hey in there, let’s calm down now,” he said in Tyr, and that seemed to get through to Quboth.
“I can’t—can’t breathe!” Quboth shouted.
“Your blood oxygenation levels are elevated, so you are indeed breathing just fine. You’re in the middle of a panic attack and I want you to remember all your astronaut training,” Hower said.
“You think they trained us for this?”
“No, but what should you do when your body panics from stress?” Hower asked, adjusting the filter on the view port over Quboth’s face so that the Tyr could see him.
Quboth took a deep breath and held it, then forced it out a moment later. His vitals calmed to a slightly elevated heart rate.
“There…much better,” Hower said.
“Why do my bones hurt?”
“Because we needed the marrow to manufacture Tyr blood and associated antibodies. Our serum production is on schedule, might not need another donation from you. But your immune system is compromised, so I’ve got you sealed up nice and tight in an iso-tube. The crew has a few diseases that’ll make the Blue Pox feel like mild indigestion.”
“Donation,” Quboth sneered.
“Pishposh with the semantics…I do have something to show you.” Hower turned and tapped commands into a wall panel. Double doors slid open and Quboth gasped.
The main hangar of the Leopold was several square miles in volume. Tracks crisscrossed the ceiling where mechanical loaders with giant paired forklifts removed cargo containers from towering racks. The loaders shuttled the containers to landing pads marked by thick yellow lines on the deck. The container touched the ground, then the contents of giant boxy machines with several multi-jointed arms rolled out to where a crewman in fatigues performed a quick inspection.
The side hull of the cargo bay was open to the void, the surrounding nebula diffused to the star-studded space over the dark side of the moon Kleegar.
Construction drones rose on anti-grav engines, then floated out of the ship.
“Why aren’t we dead?” Quboth asked. “Open space…”
“Triple-redundant force fields,” Hower said. “Invisible walls that you can pass through if you’re broadcasting the right frequency. Which keeps the air in and me breathing quite comfortably. This is one of five cargo bays aboard this ship.”
“It’s…incredible.”
“Isn’t it? We’re sending construction bots toward Tyr right now. If you watch the moon, you might see some of the polymer shipments, fusion reactors, etc., etc. This ship’s on the smaller scale of colony vessels. The Migration class can relocate up to five million at a time, but the strain on the quantum gates tends to leave a system isolated for years after a passage. There’s a story that one of the big movers suffered a system failure above one world. Crashed on a marginally habitable planet with most of the colonists surviving. Follow-on mission found them all living as savages in treetops, raiding each other for food as the local planets lacked enzymes and—”
“Why? Why are you showing this to me?”
“So you…so you know just what we’re capable of, Quboth. When we send you home, they’ll ask what you saw. The inside of an iso-tube and a few doc bots isn’t going to help your situation or ours.”
“You can build…but can you fight too?”
“I’m afraid that demonstration is already underway, or will be soon. When we tell you that we’re building cities within days, no Tyr will believe us. But now that you’ve seen this…what
do you notice? I’ve always wondered how fresh eyes perceive it.”
“We have lifts and vehicles to move material, but nothing like this.” Quboth leaned closer to the glass of his upright tube. “Launchers on aircraft carriers…how do the grippers know which box to get?”
“Computers. Computers, my friend. The Tyr are just barely beginning to grasp what they’re capable of. The processing power in this watch is magnitudes greater than the total capability of your planet.”
“There’s no chance for us to win if we do fight, is there?” Quboth’s face fell.
“No, I’m afraid there’s not. Which is one of the conclusions I hoped you’d come to.”
“You have a Linker’s accent, why?”
“I lived among you for many years. More of a botanist and zoologist than a Linker, but I had to get around.”
“Then why do you hate us so much?”
The question caught Hower by surprise. “Hate? I don’t know if that’s the word—”
“You murdered Nixazar. I can still feel the needles in my gut. Now you’re sending soldiers and builders. It’s an invasion. Are you going to kill us all or have the decency to keep the breeding-age females alive like the Slavers used to do?”
“This isn’t…isn’t me, Quboth. I’m just a small cog in an immense machine. The Tyr are—well, your people are unique, so perhaps a long-term agreement is possible. The Slavers will get what they deserve—I hope that happens. To hell with those brutes.”
“So you’ll kill the women and the children too.”
“Not—I don’t have all those answers. Look, I brought you here to dazzle you with technology that no Tyr has even dreamed of, and all you can think about is…” Hower sighed. “I’m sorry.” The scientist shook his head. “I lived as a Tyr for a time, now I’m human again and I’ve lost my old perspective. Do you want to see more or are you going to keep needling me into depressing topics?”
“Just take me back to your lab or…”
“You don’t want to go to the lab, trust me on that. How about a viewing platform? Look out to the Far Darkness and I can tell you about stars and the history of our space travel. That interest you?”
Quboth smacked dry lips. “How…how did you solve the problem of getting back into orbit after landing on a moon with little atmosphere and low gravity?” he asked.
“Ah, now that answer may surprise you…Come to the observation deck.”
Chapter 19
Lussea Aib’Pyth adjusted her veil as she stepped off a bus, the new accessory to her wardrobe proving to be more of a nuisance than anything. The sheer fabric masked the golden tint to her cheeks, and while it was meant to keep of-age males from noticing that she was on the cusp of a fertile season…the veil itself seemed to draw more attention than a bit of color ever would.
Plenty of Tyr women went without veils, in season or not, but just because her father was a constable and her mother of a different caste than her, she had to go through extra effort for appearances.
Lussea gripped the edge of her veil and almost ripped it off and threw it into a garbage bin. But that would be noticed on the busy street, and somehow word would get back to her father. He always found out. Always.
She sighed and checked the signs for the matchmaker’s office that her mother had selected for her.
“This isn’t fair,” she whined and started down the sidewalk.
“Psst,” came from beside a toy shop. Her heart skipped a beat when she recognized Michael. He waved her over, and after quickly scanning the street for any constables, she pulled the veil tight across her face and hopped over a puddle and into the alley.
“Michael!” She hugged him and nuzzled him just below his ear. He pushed her back gently, then pressed a hand to where she’d touched him skin to skin.
“What’s wrong? I thought that was our thing?” she pouted.
“It is, it is…has your dad said anything about…anything?” he asked.
“Wow, it’s so good to see you too, especially after I was told your father was getting your family reassigned to some other city so we couldn’t be together.” Her anger rose and she stifled it back with tears. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s some sort of hormone thing my mom told me about. It’s not your fault, but it is. And it will always be your fault and—where have you been?”
Michael, slightly taken aback, held his palms up to her. “I can’t really explain, but you need to get you and your parents out of the city,” he said.
Lussea blinked. “You need to explain.”
“We went to the Linker moot and…we heard news from Linkers in the heretic lands. There’s a war coming, and King’s Rest is the first place they’re going to attack.”
“I thought Linkers couldn’t share Linker information with anyone but Linkers.” She put her hands on her hips. “You’re just begging to be exiled, aren’t you? Wait—is this your plan?” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“No, no, Lussea, it’s not like that…oh, you’re even more beautiful with the veil.” He clasped her hands. “You need to get your family out of the city. Get some canned food, iodine tablets for water and…toilet paper. Lots and lots of toilet paper. You won’t believe how important that gets when people start to panic.”
“You’re not making any sense,” she said, “but look.” She removed the veil and showed him each cheek. “I’m actually here to see a matchmaker. I don’t want to. She’ll probably try and send me off to some knuckle-dragging infantry clan. You’re here to save me from all that, right?” She intertwined her fingers with his and leaned forward to kiss him.
Michael pulled back, gave her hands a quick squeeze, and then gently released them.
“I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry, Lussea. Just get your family out while you still can.” He turned and ran down the alley.
“Michael? Michael!” Lussea reached for him, but he darted around a corner. Gone.
Chapter 20
“Play it again.” King Mencius clasped his hands behind his back and looked out the window of his office to the surrounding city as night fell. The King’s full cabinet were there, along with Elsime at her post, the tip of her quill dancing over a scroll.
Ciolsi hit rewind on a tape recorder then clicked another button.
“What is that,” Nixazar said, his words laden with hisses and pops. “Control, we’ve got some sort of anomaly out—”
“Mission, say again? Mission, you’ve disappeared from radar, status report. Mission?”
“Then it’s thirty more minutes of attempts to reestablish contact,” Ciolsi said. “The capsule vanished. No radar hits from anywhere across the kingdom. No sighting of the pod burning on reentry…no transponder beacons…nothing.”
“The heretics know,” Hawn’ru said. “They have the same radar capabilities we do, and they could pick up the transponder signal as well.”
“Let’s not…the space vessel and the abduction—because that’s what it is—have to be connected,” Menicus said. “Any debate over this?”
Hawn’ru and Ciolsi couldn’t even look at each other.
“I want a meeting with the First Among Equals. Passada,” the King said.
Matron Virid raised a hand. “Sire, you do that and—”
“And Speaker Osuda’s head will explode. If the gods let him come back from his communion.” Menicus gestured at the high priest’s empty seat. “But this looks more like a threat to all Tyr with each passing moment. Send a message,” he said to Ciolsi. “Meet here. Neutral territory. Just get it set up quickly.”
“As you wish, sire,” Ciolsi said. “We can’t keep the loss of the astronauts hidden for long. They were scheduled to land in two days.”
“They’re lost in space. Another worthy sacrifice to the space program.” The King shook his head. “What will the people do if they know what we know?”
“This is one time I want the priests around to answer,” Hawn’ru said. “Pandemonium, by my guess
. The worker caste will probably run for the hills or flood the temples. We should get the army on the streets before that happens. Having the reserves called up will help. End the field exercises.”
“Yes, the reserves, and recall Prince Riktan. Get him back to the capital right away and…wait…” The King sat at his desk. “No, keep Riktan away. I’ll speak to him as soon as he’s back in a secure location.”
“It will be done,” Hawn’ru said.
“And deploy the nuclear stockpile.” The King looked up to the incomplete painting.
“About that…” Hawn’ru turned to an aide and took a rigid brown folder from him, which he opened and placed in front of the King. A single fax sheet fastened to metal clasps was within. “It appears that you recalled General Fastal from retirement to take command of Mount Bagad.”
“I did what?” The King ripped the fax out and held it up to the light. “That’s my seal…and done by my scribe. Wait—is Fastal at the weapons depot?”
“He’s at the weapons depot and has lit one hell of a fire underneath everyone there,” Hawn’ru said. “Blooded clans are already asking to send their best sons to serve under him. Amazing how fast that news managed to spread.”
The room full of the kingdom’s senior leaders turned to stare at Elsime. She glanced up from her scroll, then tried to shrink away behind the ink wells and parchment.
“Let me see.” Virid snatched the fax away. “This was written by the last royal scribe,” she said. “Different calligraphy.”
“She’s at a birthing center in the Azure Islands,” Ciolsi said. “Surrounded around the clock by nurses and doctors. She didn’t write the orders, I’m certain of it.”
“A forgery, but it’s perfect,” Virid said. “Impossible.”
“We keep using that word,” the King said, fluttering a hand overhead toward the sky, “yet the impossible is becoming quite the norm, isn’t it?”
