by B. V. Larson
Ten seconds went by, then twenty, as the bridge crew continued to pass orders and information in a glut of controlled confusion. Even as Braga watched, two more of his ships turned red and ceased to fight. One of the enemy vessels did too, but he simply couldn’t see any way to disagree with Engels’ assessment.
Braga took a deep breath. “Accept the vidlink. Cease offensive fire, all ships. Maintain point defense fire, maximum evasion and maximum armor reinforcement.” In the moment available, he used his brainchips to perform a search for the name “Carla Engels.” A military record came up.
A Hundred Worlds military record.
As his fleet’s fire slackened, and then the enemy’s, the image on the screen jerked and changed slightly. It now showed Admiral Engels in realtime as she ceased pacing behind her chair to place her hands on its tall back and stare into the vid pickup. “Greeting, Admiral Braga.”
“I won’t say hail and well met, Miss Engels.”
“Admiral Engels.”
“I knew your name seemed familiar. You served under me at Corinth—and were captured by the Hok there, we thought. I can hardly credit you with making flag rank in less than two years, even if I regarded whatever traitorous regime you serve as legitimate.”
Engels arched an eyebrow. “Your people are dying and you’re concerned with my title? You always did have a stick up your ass, Zaxby once told me.”
“Zaxby?” Captain Verdura stepped into the vid’s view. “Zaxby the Ruxin?”
“Of course. He joined me when Derek Straker and I broke out of a Mutuality prison and started the Liberation. A Hok prison, you’d say.”
“I’d like to see Zaxby,” Verdura said.
“That can wait,” Braga snapped.
“Sir,” Verdura said, turning away from the vid and giving the comm tech a throat-cutting motion to pause the link, “I don’t know Engels, but Zaxby served with me for nearly three years. If they can produce him—if we can see him in the flesh—we’d have a non-Hok, non-human that I know personally. We might get a better read on this whole situation.”
Braga stroked his jowls. “There does seem to be something fundamentally off. For example, where are the Hok? All Engels’ bridge crew look either human or Ruxin.”
“That could be a holo-fabrication—or just a setup. But more than anything, we need information—from a source they might not be expecting us to talk to, like Zaxby.”
Nodding to Verdura, Braga signaled to resume the vidlink. “We want to see Zaxby, in person. I also need those vessels of mine that haven’t surrendered to join my flagship.”
“Of course, Admiral.” Engels turned and issued orders to her staff. “And I’ll be joining you on my own flagship. Do you have holographic conferencing capability?”
“Of course.”
“Then I suggest you set up a meeting in your flag conference room, unencrypted. My senior staff and I will attend via holo-link and Zaxby will join you in person, as you request.”
“What about the Hok?” Verdura snarled.
Engels seemed briefly surprised. “What about them? Oh, yes. You still think they’re in charge, like I used to. And I bet you still think they’re aliens, too.” She chuckled. “This will be an interesting meeting. Engels out.”
“What the hell did she mean?” said Verdura.
“I suppose we’ll soon see,” Braga replied.
“A destroyer is approaching at high speed from astern,” said Lexin. “She identifies as the New Earthan Republic ship ‘Trinity’ and requests docking for Zaxby to come aboard.”
“Lock her up with targeting. Be ready for a suicide launch,” said Verdura. “Tell them no to docking. Remain at five kilometers’ range and send a shuttle.”
“She is slowing…” Lexin said. “I have never seen a destroyer this fast. She maneuvers like a corvette. She has come to relative rest at a range of… 5000.003 meters. Her pilot is amazingly precise. He must be Ruxin.”
While all this was happening, Braga’s own stragglers took up station. The enemy fleet also closed in, aiming their weapons from ragged formations. Braga sniffed at their lack of military discipline—but that wouldn’t matter, given their numbers. If the fight resumed, Engels would no doubt make good on her threats.
Braga saw a shuttle icon separate itself from the destroyer and speed over to dock with Luxemburg. “Have a marine detail meet that shuttle and bring Zaxby—and anyone else who debarks—to the flag conference room. Make sure to do a thorough body scan.” He nodded to Verdura and they headed for the meeting as her XO took the conn.
In the command conference room, Braga and his staff didn’t have long to wait. The marine detail escorted a Ruxin in, and the major in charge set a slim headset on the table in front of his admiral. “Other than his water suit, this is all he had on him, sir.”
Braga picked up the device, some kind of highly sophisticated comlink clearly made to plug directly into Zaxby’s brainchips—unusual, but hardly unknown. He then turned his attention to the Ruxin.
Verdura had already walked over to Zaxby and inspected him at close range. “Something looks different about you.” She turned to the Ruxin tech in the room who was setting up the vidconference with the enemy. “You, what’s your name?”
“Senior Technician Bexol, ma’am.”
“Bring up records on Zaxby and compare them to this Ruxin. Tell me what your Ruxin eyes see.”
The tech quickly examined Zaxby’s service record while the prisoner—the envoy, she supposed—waited patiently.
“At first glance it appears to be Zaxby,” Bexol said. “However, in my estimation this person is too young.”
Verdura turned to the imposter and snarled, “Who the hell are you, then, and what’s your game?”
“I am Zaxby, Captain Verdura, though I’ve undergone an initial rejuvenation procedure. I will allow for your skepticism, but were we not adversaries in this matter, I would be hurt. I served under you for more than two years.”
“He sure sounds like Zaxby,” she said to Braga with a scowl. “But I know Ruxins can change their skin color, and they’re smart.”
“I’d be happy to submit to a genetic test. I’m sure you have my profile.”
“Send up a med-tech with a scanner,” Braga said. “In the meantime, let’s get this conference going.”
Bexol made final adjustments and holograms flickered to life—Engels, a dark-haired man in a captain’s tunic, and a startlingly large Ruxin.
Engels spoke, gesturing first at the octopoid, then the human. “This is Commodore Dexon, commanding my light units, and this is Captain Zholin, in charge of the monitor and defense squadron.”
“Admiral,” Bexol said suddenly, flustered. “Your pardon for the interruption. That is a War Male.”
“What the hell’s a War Male?” said Verdura.
“A biologically specialized male of my species, hormonally modified to be a warrior and commander. I’ve never seen one before.”
“That’s one more oddity to add to the pile, but let’s not get off track here,” said Braga. “Fine, I see two humans and a Ruxin. Where’s the Hok in charge?”
Engels growled and seemed to stifle an eyeroll. “Admiral, this may be difficult for you to accept at first, but there is no Hok in charge. There never was—were—whatever.” She gestured, and something stepped into the holo-vidlink, appearing in full VR.
A Hok.
It reminded Braga of a human-shaped, bumpy-skinned lizard. He stood involuntarily at the virtual threat before his mind overrode the impulse and he relaxed. “I knew it.”
“This is Sergeant Green-53,” said Engels. “Sergeant, say hello to the admiral.”
“Hello, Admiral.”
“Stand on your hands.”
The Hok immediately performed a perfect handstand and stayed that way.
Engels smiled. “Does this Hok look like he’s in charge?”
“This could be a setup,” Verdura hissed.
“Yes, Captain Verdura, it could be
,” Zaxby said unexpectedly. “But it’s not.” The Ruxin gestured at the medical technician who had slipped into the room, scanner in hand.
Everyone watched as the scan was performed. The tech handed Braga the scanner to read. “It matches,” the admiral muttered. “This really is Zaxby.”
“In the flesh,” Zaxby said. “And the Hok are not in charge. We are. Humans, Ruxins, and several other minor species who live within the Republic.”
“You’ve been brainwashed,” Verdura said.
“I assure you, no. Quite the contrary, actually.”
“Look,” Engels said, “We could be fooling you, but what would be the point?”
“To get us to surrender,” Braga said. “I’m sure you’d like to take these ships intact.”
“I would,” Engels replied with a quirk of a smile. “But I don’t need to.”
“Admiral,” Lexin’s voice broke in from his bridge station as a screen flickered to life, “forgive the interruption, but… but… there’s a ship. A ship has emerged from the nebula. Big… bigger…” The Sensors officer seemed at a loss for words.
Engels stepped toward Braga, capturing his attention. “It appears you’ve detected Indomitable. Take your time. You need to know what you’re up against.”
Lexin explained what Braga was seeing on the screen. “Sir, the enemy ship is… impossible. It’s four times the size of a monitor, sixteen times the size of the largest superdreadnought, with spinal weapons to match. It’s a mobile fortress. It must have been what smashed our SDNs—what we thought was a fortress. Fortresses. I—”
“So what?” Braga snapped, hiding his consternation. “You have a big ship. I know you mousetrapped us. But you must have stripped two hundred planets up and down the front to do it. That means everywhere else, the Hundred Worlds will be seizing territory unopposed. I’m a military man, Engels. I’m willing to pay the price of war’s fortunes.”
Engels pressed her lips together earnestly. “Tough words, and admirable—but are you willing that everyone under your command pay that price for nothing?”
“Not for nothing,” said Braga. “We took out the fuel factory. Mission accomplished.”
Engels shook her head. “Sorry, Lucas. All you destroyed was a bunch of decoy emitters placed on a big asteroid. Felicity Station is still intact. Here’s a realtime feed.” One of the conference room screens lit up to show the facility, apparently undamaged, with the current timestamp displayed on the vidlink.
“I held off on smashing your flagship,” she continued, “because I wanted to make sure I had a commander to talk to, but if you’re too stubborn, I can turn Luxemburg into scrap with one order. Then I’ll negotiate with whoever’s next in your chain of command. How’s that going to serve your people?”
Braga breathed out a defeated sigh. “Give me a couple of minutes to confer.” He gestured to pause the conference link and turned to Verdura. “Well?”
Verdura slammed her hand onto the table. “My gut says fight, but…”
“Yes, but. We’ve apparently failed to destroy their fuel factory, and we’ve lost this battle. Now, all we would do is sacrifice our lives in order to deny them our ships. I can’t ask my crews to do that. After centuries of fighting, we’re finally winning the war, even if we lost this battle. If these people have any honor at all, they’ll intern us and, eventually, repatriate us.”
Verdura looked around the room, and so did Braga, trying to gauge the mood. He saw sober nods and downcast looks, but no disagreement.
When the link unpaused, Braga spoke again. “All right, Admiral Engels. I’ll agree to a truce, and if you can prove your claims, I’ll surrender my forces. That is my decision, and mine alone. If you’ve fooled me, if this is some Hok trick, I swear to God I’ll never rest until you’re brought low.”
Engels shrugged. “If I fooled you, it’s a ruse of war, Admiral—but soon, you’ll see all the evidence. Your government—the government I served as well—has lied to you, Lucas. It couldn’t admit the truth even to its flag officers. Only your most senior politicians and intelligence officials know. You haven’t been fighting aliens for those centuries. You’ve been fighting humans.” She rubbed her eyes and looked away, as if sorrowful. “This has been nothing but one massive civil war. And if what I suspect is right, we’ve been dancing to the tune of aliens the whole time.”
Chapter 12
Straker, on Terra Nova
Straker slipped carefully out of Doris’s bed, letting her sleep. Whatever passed for security services on Terra Nova would soon be connecting the dots and coming to her apartment, and he had to get away.
He looked around for anything that might be useful, and settled for a small hand-light, a kitchen knife, and a metal strut he pulled off her lone chair. He searched his pockets and found nothing there. They must have taken everything from him after they stunned him.
After gazing at Doris one last time, wishing things could be different, he slipped out of her room. A woman in the hallway glanced incuriously at him as Straker passed by and descended the stairs. As he approached the main building door, he saw several ground cars speeding in, lights flashing red in the falling night.
Dammit. There must be a back door. He turned and hurried toward the rear of the building and found his way into a courtyard. He crossed it and vaulted a shoulder-high wall into a parking lot. Behind him, he heard booted feet on the pavement as the security forces surrounded Doris’ building. He ducked his head and didn’t look back.
Where to go, he wondered as he walked quickly around the next building and out of sight. Though this seemed like any human city, he knew nothing about it. He had no money or credit sticks, no identification. He was a fugitive, and would have to think like one.
He wasn’t even certain if this Glasgow place was a diz or not. And what had happened to Don? Was he being interrogated? Did we wave his credentials and go free? If so, was he unable to free Straker, or was he even now watching to see what his “protégé” would do?
No matter. Straker would run and hide and figure out a way to either rejoin Don, or get back to human space on his own. His tweaked biology should be enough to make it past routine scans—and there was always theft, or force. No matter what Don had said about the Opters not being at war with humanity, Straker figured he was in his own war with the Sarmok Queens. That meant his options were completely open.
With no idea where to go, he chose a direction and began walking. Fortunately, the streets were laid out in a simple grid pattern. Vehicles sped by, though traffic was light.
He caught a break when he found a rack full of bicycles. There were no locks, so either crime was unknown here, or the bikes were shared, there for the riding. Soon, he was pumping along at thirty or forty kilometers per hour. This ought to get him somewhere soon.
Half an hour later, he ran into a barrier, similar to the others he’d seen, a hundred-meter-high wall that separated diz from diz, or diz from the real populace. If it was like others, the wall would be thick to hold rooms and corridors and facilities where the controllers worked. Other than by taking a train or ground car tunnel, or perhaps an air-car, doors in these walls were the only way from one place to another.
He couldn’t read the Opter writing on the door, but the sensor pad next to it beckoned. Dare he put his palm on it to see if Don had given him access?
But any security service worth its salt would have programmed the system to alert them even as it locked Straker out. He leaned his bicycle against the wall of the nearest high-rise and lifted his head to stare upward.
The apartment block looked to be about the same height as the wall. Probably the controllers of the system didn’t want people looking out their windows at the next place over, acquiring unauthorized information or learning things before they were supposed to.
The gap between the top of the wall and the roof of the building looked to be at about twenty meters wide. That would be quite a jump, even if he had a running start off the roof and could be s
ure of grabbing the top of the wall. Would there be razor wire or other deterrents to crossing?
Only one way to find out. Straker headed for the building entrance.
Struck by a sudden inspiration, he quickly went back and retrieved the bicycle. He then waited until a resident palmed open the building’s front door, and he rushed up before it closed. Nodding to the female Facet, who was quite similar to Doris in her innocent demeanor, he lifted the bike to his shoulder and carried it quickly up the stairs. He hoped this action would be unworthy of reporting—or at least, that it wouldn’t necessarily be connected with his escape.
Thirty floors later, he reached the very top of the stairs. His superb physical conditioning meant he was barely breathing hard.
A door confronted him, with more writing and a red band across it. Logically, this would access the roof.
He kicked it open.
No alarm blared, though there might be some silent alert. Or perhaps misbehavior in this place was so unusual, they hadn’t bothered to wire it.
Straker bolted quickly inside and shut the door, and then ran up two more flights of stairs and debouched onto the roof.
The view from the top was magnificent, like any cityscape at night. The lights outlined the buildings and boulevards, and he could see antennas and towers. Illuminated heli-drones and air-cars created a fairyland that seemed to promise more than it could deliver.
Flashing red lights about a kilometer off, on the ground, reminded him that he was still the prey in a hunt. If they located him up here, no doubt they’d send aircraft.
He crossed to the other side of the square roof.
The sheer wall extended left and right. He could see nothing across it, not even the glow of other high-rises—no antennas, no towers, no air vehicles. Whatever was over there, it was not a cityscape like this one. Maybe it was farmland, or a park, or even a lake.
Squinting, he tried to examine the top of the wall. It was unmarked by lights or glow-strips. He could barely see its edge outlined against the fading night sky. Then he remembered the hand-light. He clicked it on and shone it across the gap.
