by M. R. Forbes
Her eyes snapped to him. "I heard you, Mitch. How much are we going to justify in the name of survival? How much shit are we going to take because of what we get out of it?"
"Not just us. All of humanity."
"To what end? So all of our heroes are really villains? So men like Tio get propped up as saviors instead of the cruel, inhuman assholes they truly are?"
"We have to make a choice, Millie. We can try to win with everything we can scrounge together, no matter how ungainly it may be, or we can clean house and see if we can cover the loss. You're the Admiral. This is your call."
Millie shook her head, laughing softly. "My call? Come on, Mitch. We both know who's really in charge around here. It's been that way since you beat the crap out of Anderson during your hazing."
"Millie-"
"No. Mitch, it's okay. I'm not mad about that. You told me your aptitude scores. You should be the Admiral, not me. I'm happy you're alive. I'm happy you came back. I believe in you, and I trust you. Tell me what you think we should do, and I'll do it."
"That's not how this is supposed to work."
"None of this is how it's supposed to work. You're the one who almost wins the war. Not me. You're the one Origin wanted to find Goliath. You're the one they're trying to stop."
"Almost wins. I fail. Every time."
"Have you ever had the Riggers on your side before?"
"I don't know. I think I have. I'm not sure. There's nothing clear about any of this."
There were residual feelings and memories that had followed him through eternity, from recursion to recursion. They were vaporous, insoluble things that he could only see like a film on the surface of the present, and feel like little more than a pinch in the gut. The only thing he had been able to discern for certain from them was that he had a strong connection to Katherine, even though they had lived four hundred years apart and had never met.
He didn't think.
"The future isn't written, Mitch," Millie said. "It isn't immutable. Make the call, and I'll abide by it."
Mitchell met her eyes with his. Then he turned to Tio. The Knife was waiting patiently for them to decide his fate as if he already knew the outcome. He claimed he was a pioneer in artificial intelligence, and that he had taught his brother everything he knew. Did he understand the human mind that well?
"You have a base in the Rim?" Mitchell asked.
Tio nodded.
"Supplies?"
Tio nodded again.
"Weapons. Ships. Men?"
Tio smiled. "You know that I do, Colonel."
"So, are you going to help us, or am I going to throw you out of the hangar and into hyperspace?"
"There was never any question I would help you. Even if I was the selfish asshole the Admiral believes I am; the Tetron tried to kill me. That isn't something I'm willing to forgive."
"We need coordinates," Millie said.
"Of course." Tio rattled them off.
"Origin, did you get that?"
Origin had been standing behind him, silent and forgotten in the heat of the moment. "Yes, Mitchell. We'll have to drop to recalibrate, and then we'll be on our way."
"How long?"
"A week."
"Too long," Mitchell said. "Can you go any faster?"
"Hyperspace is not a thrust-racing track, Colonel. There are only two speeds. Human speed, and Tetron speed. Be grateful we can move at Tetron speed."
Tio was staring at the skinny, olive-skinned man. "You're a Tetron."
"Origin," he said. "I am aware of your exploits, Liun Tio, and I am especially impressed with your ability to keep the location of your base of operations secret, even beyond your demise on Liberty in past recursions."
"This is the one you told me about," Tio said to Mitchell. The Knife pointed at a band of tentacles running along the ceiling. "That's you, too?"
"My truest form, yes. Though as Mitchell will tell you soon enough, I'm not the Origin I believed I was. I'm merely a partition. An incomplete duplicate of the original."
"Christine," Mitchell said before Tio or Millie could ask. "She wasn't a configuration of Origin. She was Origin. This one is the configuration."
Millie stared at Origin. "How can that be? I mean, if Christine was the original-"
"Origin never left Earth four hundred years ago," Origin said. "It, or she if you prefer, remained behind while sending me, a copy, ahead with Katherine and the Goliath. She reduced herself, cut herself off from her data stack, her memories so that the Tetron would never be able to claim them."
"The Tetron knew she was on Liberty," Mitchell said. "It was looking for her, as much as it was looking for Tio or me."
"I don't believe the Tetron knew. Not until you recovered the lost video footage from the launch that helped you locate the Goliath. They pieced together the same information you did. I don't believe that it knew it had captured Origin. It is most likely it thought it had captured a configuration, like M."
"But why would she remain behind?" Millie asked. "There's no strategic reason she should have stayed."
"I don't know," Origin said. "That information is forever lost to me. Perhaps you can piece that together, too?"
"I don't know that it would help," Millie said.
"Perhaps not."
"I would like to view a sample of your source code if I might?" Tio said. "To review it for similarities to Pulin's style. It will help us prove or disprove his involvement in the creation of the Tetron."
"I don't believe that is wise," Origin said.
"Why not?" the Knife asked.
The Tetron chuckled as if the question were outlandish. "It would be foolish for Mitchell to place that much trust in you before you have proven yourself."
"Proven myself?" Tio said, his voice staying level but turning harsh. "I helped form the rebellion that was fighting back against the Tetron. I-"
"Tio," Mitchell said, raising his hand to quiet the man. Tio stopped talking, catching himself and returning to his previous calm. "I'm thankful for everything you helped us accomplish on Liberty. That being said, I'm not willing to make any more quick decisions. We have a week before we reach the Rim. How you spend it will help us all get to know what kind of ally we've made."
Tio nodded. "As you wish, Colonel. I'm nothing if not a patient man."
"Good," Millie said. "We'll show you to a space in berthing, and then you can go and get cleaned up if you want. I don't know how things are in your world, but we can only offer you a communal head."
"I'm not high maintenance either, Admiral. I would ask that you attempt to open your mind and challenge whatever pre-conceived notions you have of me."
Millie made a face like she wanted to strangle the Knife. She clenched her hands behind her back, her face tight.
"My mother was on that cruiser."
She spun and stormed off without another word.
4
Mitchell led the Knife to berthing, letting him pick out whichever one the honeycomb like bunks he wanted. Few of them were occupied, and even fewer would be in use once the personal effects of the dead were parceled away as memories to the living. Mitchell resolved to make sure he received something from each of the team members he had lost, to store in his locker and go through whenever he needed a little extra motivation.
He was plenty motivated right now.
He put his hand to his abdomen, feeling the soreness and stinging of his wound. The patch had kept it held together, but he would need Grimes to look at it soon. He probably should have had her look at it first thing, before she even took care of the emotional needs of the two Liberty survivors.
Two.
Mitchell tried not to let the gravity of the number sink in. Liberty was a small planet, smaller still since most of the military had been pulled out by the Tetron, sent off into the hands of other puppeteers. Compared to some of the more populated planets of the Alliance, it was barely more than an outpost. Earth, for example. Still home to four billion people. Still a
symbolic home for all of the planets in the outer quadrants. Even at Tetron speed, Earth was still months away from a fight.
The problem was that they were moving in the wrong direction.
There was nothing they could do about it. They needed the Knife's resources, his militia and his ships. They could charge headlong at the Tetron right now, and they would be blown to dust the same as Liberty had been. Their only choice was to go backward to move the fight forwards. Mitchell didn't like it, but he also didn't see any other way.
Mitchell dropped Tio off and turned back the way he had come, at first intending to head off to the sick bay and get Grimes to check his patch. He made it two steps before he thought better of it, his mind lingering on his fight with Millie. She had made a good argument, and she wasn't completely wrong. He couldn't ignore everything that had happened just because their numbers were thin.
He found Cormac in the shower, standing at a misting spray next to Geren. She must have said something to him already because he was facing away from her, making sure to keep his eyes to himself. Singh was waiting for her outside. She wasn't being as shy about putting her eyes on the Sergeant's well-toned flesh. Geren was an attractive woman. A little too masculine for Mitchell's taste, but the engineer seemed impressed.
"I don't know that Geren would want you ogling her like that, Singh," he said as he entered the showers.
Singh looked down at the comment. "No, sir."
"Why don't you wait on the other side of the wall? You probably aren't going to like what's about to happen anyway."
"Sir?"
Mitchell flashed her a sideways look that sent her backing away without another word. He moved into the shower fully clothed, heading towards Cormac.
The Private only saw Mitchell a moment before he was on him, slamming him hard in the side of the head and knocking him back against the wall of the shower.
"Sir? What the frig?"
Cormac tried to get around Mitchell, but Mitchell grabbed him by the shoulder and threw him back again, hitting him hard in the gut. He threw a third punch, and the soldier grabbed it, turning Mitchell's arm, releasing before he could do any damage.
"What's this about, Mitch?" Cormac said, trying to back away. Mitchell dropped down, kicking him hard in the calf and knocking a leg out, sending Cormac falling onto the wet floor.
"You frigging know what this is about, Firedog," he shouted, dropping on top of him and hitting him in the gut again.
"Colonel?" Geren said, coming up behind him.
"Not your business, Sergeant," Mitchell said. He punched Cormac in the face. "Do you think because you're out of my sight, that gives you the right to do whatever you damn well please, Private?"
"Sir. No, sir," Cormac said, arms flailing to try to deflect some of Mitchell's blows.
"Then what the frig gave you the idea that you could hurt a civilian on Liberty and not get the living shit kicked out of you?"
"She asked for it-"
Mitchell's fist hit him in the mouth, breaking at least one tooth and shutting him up. "You're going to give me that bull, Private?"
"I swear, Colonel. I do. She-"
Mitchell batted him in the head two more times. "I heard you made a promise to Millie that you weren't going to do shit like this. I've got a frigging war to win, Private. I don't have time to deal with your frigged up brain or your frigged up libido."
"Sir. Yes, sir." Cormac's face was red, his eyes fearful.
"She wants to airlock you. Do you get that Firedog? She doesn't care that you're a good soldier. You're a frigging wild card, and that shit doesn't stand when we're in the middle of it. You raped and killed a civilian in the middle of a mission. You did it right under my frigging nose. If you had been downstairs with everyone else, it could be that Shank and the others make it out of there. You follow?"
"Sir. Yes, sir." There were tears in Cormac's eyes now, and he stopped struggling against Mitchell's blows.
"You helped us find the Goliath. You saved my ass on Liberty. You know what that's worth? Jack shit if I can't trust you. I might as well throw you out of the airlock right now because you're useless to me like that."
"Sir. I'm sorry, sir."
"I don't want you to be frigging sorry. I want you to be my machine. I want you to be my soldier. You do what I say. Exactly what I frigging say, and nothing else. You don't breathe unless I tell you to."
"Sir. Yes, sir."
Cormac's voice was low and rough, short on air and high on pain. Mitchell hit him in the side one more time before slowly rising off him.
"Anyone on this ship so much as whispers that you've been looking at them sideways, and you lose your ride on this bucket. Do you get that, Private?"
"Sir. Yes, sir." Cormac didn't move. He stayed on the floor clutching his battered ribs.
"I'm not condoning what you did. If I didn't need your skills, you'd be dead already. You have one chance, Firedog. I don't give a shit if we're in the middle of a firefight. Cross me again and I drop you where you stand, and nobody on this ship is going to give a damn about it."
"Sir. Yes, sir," Cormac said.
Mitchell held out his hand. Cormac reached up and took it, letting Mitchell help him to his feet. The Private was bloody and already bruising. Mitchell was soaked through his clothes, and the activity had opened the wound on his stomach. His heart was pounding, his head throbbing. He hated himself for not doing what Millie had suggested. He had seen the girl on the bed. He couldn't bring himself to look Cormac in the eye.
"I'm disappointed in you, Private," he said. He watched Cormac's expression change, realizing that those three words had just hurt him more than the beating ever could.
He hoped it would be enough to keep him in line.
5
Admiral Steven Williams watched the scene unfold through the heavy polycarbonate that kept the bridge of the battleship Carver safe from the void beyond. He paced as he did, keeping his eyes on the squadron of Morays thousands of miles distant, little more than specks on the edge of the universe. It was always a wonder to the crew that he could keep his attention on anything that small, so much so that his First Officer was droning out the specifics while watching through an enhanced view.
"Loyola is in position," she said. A pause. "Torpedo is making his run."
"I can see it, John. Thank you."
Captain John Rock snorted. "We're four thousand klicks further out than the last time. You can really see that?"
Steven traced the smallest speck across the sky. He almost lost it as it passed ahead of a star, but he managed to keep his eyes locked. It was rolling over in a defensive maneuver, carrying out the scripted tenets of the exercise.
"Gibraltar is rolling. Torpedo closed the gap." He said it with smug satisfaction though he kept his face straight.
"Unbelievable," John said, her disbelief only half-convincing.
He should have been used to his feats of visual acuity, as unimpressive as they were. There wasn't much value in such good eyesight when the Carver's sensor arrays would make following the squadron less of a strain.
"I don't know why they sent us out here, anyway," John said, watching the action through her p-rat. "There's nothing to do but run these attack simulations and twiddle our thumbs."
Steven turned away from the view at the comment. He was a handsome man, a little taller than his brother, a little thinner, a little balder, save for his face where a neatly trimmed beard gave him a more commanding presence. He switched to his p-rat view, watching the exercise with one eye while navigating back to his command chair with the other.
"The Federation's been fairly quiet since Liberty, and intel moving out of New Terran space has ground to a halt."
"Executing Alliance assets tends to do that."
Steven nodded. One of their spies on Terra Omega had been caught in the act and summarily tried and punished. The rest of the agents working in New Terran space had gone to ground, keeping quiet while the whole situation simmered down.
There was always tension between the UPA and the New Terrans. There was always tension any time any of the space-faring factions came near each other.
The end result had been a reassignment away from Earth towards the center of Bravo quadrant, to a small star politely nicknamed TN-14532, or Tennessee for short. His orders had been to run training exercises there and to make sure his fleet was kept on elevated alert, just in case any of that tension boiled over. They were a four-day jump away from Terra Kappa, close enough to launch a strike if needed. Strong enough, too. Steven controlled one of the newest battle groups in the Alliance. It was filled with all the latest and greatest designs. In fact, the Carver had only been christened two years earlier.
Steven still wasn't sure how he had pulled that assignment. Prior to the launch of the Carver, he had controlled one of the smallest battle groups stationed near Earth from the bridge of a one hundred-year-old cruiser. It was a lousy assignment. A test, he knew, to see how he fared during his first command.
He had improved his entire fleet's sim scores by twenty percent within three months, and another forty percent during his first three years. They had only seen one small skirmish with New Terran forces over a farming colony, but they had won the battle handily.
Based on that he guessed he had passed. Even so, standard operating procedure was to matriculate top officers upward. When the Carver came online, it should have gone to one of the most experienced Admirals or Generals, depending on how the UPA was shifting the resources between straight space defense and mixed use. Cornelius, maybe. He would have been punted up to the next level while the aging fleet was sent home for upgrades.
Instead he was on the bridge of one of the newest battleships in the Alliance, watching the tail end of a much larger exercise. It had gone well. Flawlessly, in fact. He liked flawless.
"Torpedo hit the mark," John said. "Mission accomplished."
Steven opened a channel on his p-rat. "Nice work, Torpedo."
"Thank you, sir," the pilot replied.
"Let's get everyone back home," Steven said, widening his reach to everyone in the fleet. "We'll be starting phase three tomorrow at oh-six-hundred. Thank you all for a job well done."
