Then he understood. “Trillium,” he declared. “They must not have discovered significant local sources of trillium, otherwise at least one of these species’ would have leapt past the others and introduced their preferred interaction—cooperation or competition—to their neighbors via FTL.”
“Very good, Mr. Scarlet,” Black nodded approvingly. “As anticipated, you have cut to the very heart of the matter. Indeed,” he waved his hand again, and this time the star-scape returned with the banana-shaped Gorgon Sectors once again brought into focus, “our extensive prospecting has returned a rather alarming finding: there is no trillium in the Gorgon Sectors.”
Sarkozi cocked his head dubiously as he gestured to the hologram, “You mean to say that there is no trillium anywhere in this region of space? Not even in the sources which are often deemed economically unviable?”
“Correct, Mr. Scarlet,” Black agreed.
Sarkozi’s eyes snapped left and right as he came to grips with what this meant. “Someone came through and extracted all of the trillium…but who were they, and why did they do it?” His mind was reeling. An undertaking of that magnitude was very nearly at the edge of human ability—and it would require solidarity of effort on a scale hitherto unseen in human affairs.
Most trillium used in human starships was sourced from rocky planets, moons, or asteroid belts, all of which were easily accessible by human industry and therefore were relatively easy to exhaust. But the vast majority of the theoretically existent trillium in the galaxy was found in the cores of brown dwarfs or particularly dense gas giants. Those sources were simply beyond human ability to mine but there were other sources which were possible—but incredibly expensive—to access.
Those sources included gas dwarfs, certain short-lived comet clouds surrounding rare hyper giant stars, and even the occasional low-density gas giant allowed extremely delicate mining to extract the precious material—albeit at a cost several orders of magnitude greater than the more cheaply-sourced alternatives.
“There are several theories which have been advanced in this particular matter,” Black explained. “The first is that the various AI’s from which Man protected humanity consumed it for their own various purposes. This theory is popular because it ends the conversation by saying: the data gods did it, so we need not inquire further.”
“You don’t find that line of reasoning persuasive,” Sarkozi mused.
“Nor should you,” Black scoffed. “Even if that is indeed the case, of what use is surrendering our inquisitive agency in such a profound matter? But even if one removes philosophy from the equation, we are left with several other plausible explanations which account for this phenomenon. Since the gathering of intelligence is our primary role in the universe, it falls to us to investigate these other possibilities.”
“What are these other possibilities?” Sarkozi pressed.
Black wagged a finger, “You will need to demonstrate you are worthy of further briefing on this matter before receiving that information.”
Sarkozi had suspected as much; Mr. Black had dangled a tempting carrot in front of his nose, and now he was going to leverage Sarkozi’s curiosity to maximum effect before satisfying his curiosity further. “I can’t say I’m surprised in that regard,” Sarkozi admitted. “What can I do?”
Mr. Black waved away the previous hologram with a flick of his wrist. What replaced it was a series of tactical displays which Sarkozi immediately recognized as belonging to the batch which he had transmitted to his Section Chief following the destruction of Paganini’s fleet.
“The good Commodore had spent the better part of two years gathering this fleet,” Mr. Black gestured to the fleet summary showing Paganini’s asset breakdown. “He began with twelve Imperial warships and pressed the remainder into service by systematically taking down the various pirate operations out here in the Gorgon Sectors and crewing their ships with our people. All told, it killed three birds with a single stone: he removed unwanted elements from the region; he repurposed their assets to serve our agenda; and he enabled the Fleet to focus on other regions of the front while he swept up the scraps.”
“Impressive,” Sarkozi said, his brow lifting in admiration.
“Indeed,” Black said neutrally, though his eyes hardened fractionally. “Commodore Paganini—or the ‘Composer’ as he was referred to in our coded communiqués—earned what would be his final post after demonstrating nearly unprecedented strategic thinking, though his tactical mind was strictly average for an officer of his rank and station. His ability to systematically remain one step ahead of the enemy strategically permitted his relatively lackluster tactical acumen to remain largely inconsequential, but it would seem that we rolled the dice once too often and it cost us the entire fleet which he had spent two years collecting.”
“Seventy two warships destroyed in a single engagement,” Sarkozi’s brow lowered darkly, “with no survivors escaping the conflict. Whoever destroyed the Composer’s fleet, they chose to reveal themselves now.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Black nodded as the battle unfolded before them. “We know that two uplifted species’—the so-called ‘Stalwart’ being one, and the other being a loose conglomerate of largely humanoid felines, some of which are uplifts while others were crafted from the claws up in underground gene-labs—contributed to the battle in significant ways, but the Commodore knew as much about these uplifts’ military assets as we do.”
Sarkozi looked at the two listings of fleet assets which represented the uplifts’ respective fleets. The felines’ warships were laughably low-tech, but they had proven their mettle when their boarding parties gained access to the Imperial-flagged ships’ interiors.
The Stalwart actions, on the other hand, had been the most puzzling. They had begun the battle with precious few warships, but the breakdown showed that most of the uplifted apes’ warships were not of the usual design. Instead, they were a uniform variety of previously unknown design which, thankfully, proved less than effective against the textbook deployment of Paganini’s fleet.
To make matters worse, after that first group of unrecognized warships was dealt with it became clear that there was a second group of warships bearing significant similarities to the first, easily-dispatched design.
These ships—working in perfect coordination with a powerfully-stealthed warship of unknown design—were able to corral the Commodore’s fleet and force a surrender by Paganini’s subordinate after the Commodore was killed attempting to flee the system.
“There was clearly a shipyard in that system, and I think it is safe to suppose that these new ships were built there,” Mr. Black waved a hand and the hologram disappeared as the light in the room returned to its baseline luminosity. “Unfortunately, that yard was scuttled during the battle. Surveyors have been dispatched to examine the debris, but I doubt anything will come from their efforts. This adversary has remained hidden for decades; I very much doubt they will allow us to pick over their technology at such an early hour.”
“Not only did they erase their tracks, but they escaped with several Imperial warships,” Sarkozi nodded, knowing that was at least as big of a problem as the existence of a small hitherto unknown fleet moving about the area. “We can infer that whoever is behind these uplifts doesn’t possess overwhelming firepower. If they did, they wouldn’t have sacrificed lives and ships—even ships as questionably-designed as that first wave seemed to be—before slamming the door on our forces.”
“I concur,” Black nodded. “But remember the matter of the trillium…”
Sarkozi cocked his head, “You think those matters are connected?”
“Mr. Scarlet,” Black slid a small data crystal across the table, “finding connections is our job. I would be very bad at mine if I did not track down every possible lead, which is where your new orders come in.”
Sarkozi plucked the crystal from the table with surgeon-steady hands as he fought against the urge to scowl at the prospect of leaving so soon, “Whe
re am I to be transferred?”
“For the time being you will remain here,” Mr. Black said, much to Sarkozi’s relief as the Section Chief gestured to the smooth, crystalline hull of the ship around them, “this type of espionage vessel is rarer even than an Imperial Command Carrier, Mr. Scarlet, and with good reason. While aboard it we can freely move about cloaked in the greatest stealth technology ever devised by humanity, and that attribute will be of great value in the upcoming months. Your first orders are to familiarize yourself with those aliases,” Black pointed to the data crystal, “so that you might use them if the need arises. I have worked up an itinerary which will take us to the far edge of the Gorgon Front; if my suspicions are correct then that is where our true enemy awaits us. Let the Imperial Fleet deal with these uplifts and their amusing little warships,” he scoffed. “You and I, on the other hand, will seek out the root of this particular weed so that it might be torn out in one clean, incisive stroke.”
Sarkozi felt himself swell with pride at the prospect of being included in such a task, but he had to ask the most obvious question, “Why me, Mr. Black? You must have dozens—or even hundreds—of native Imperial officers whose jackets read as well as mine. Why take a chance on an unknown provincial who’s out to prove himself?”
“It is precisely because you wish to prove yourself that you are best suited to this task, Mr. Scarlet,” Black said with a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “But, in truth, time is a factor: most of the Imperial operatives in this region were with the Composer when the stage burned down around him. It would take too long to return to Imperial space to retrieve an alternative candidate, and I think that while you are indeed inexperienced you will be equal to the tasks put before you. Do you doubt your own fitness?”
“No, Mr. Black,” Sarkozi shook his head firmly. “I’m ready.”
“Then have the XO assign you a berth and get to work.”
Sarkozi stood and nodded, “Thank you, Mr. Black.”
Chapter I: The Crafter
“I think it should be abundantly clear by now that I’m not an Imperial,” Captain Tim Middleton said to the androgynous—or possibly hermaphroditic—person seated in his office.
The so-called ‘Crafter’ had surrendered without much protest after Hansheng had secured the illicit gene-factory-slash-arena. The old droid had asked for increased responsibilities after Mr. Fei—make that ‘Kongming’—had finished the repairs to his virtual architecture, and Middleton had been happy to oblige the assault droid with his most dangerous mission yet.
The Crafter nodded his, her, or its head and spoke in a voice that did nothing to allay the confusion as to the gender of its owner, “Of that I am abundantly aware, Captain Middleton. Had you been of the Empire then I would either be dead already or I would be speaking to a ‘duly-appointed’ magistrate. What is it you want?”
“You’re direct,” Middleton grunted, “I appreciate that. The first thing I want is the unconditional release of the sentients you imprisoned—“
“They are my children,” the Crafter interrupted smoothly.
Middleton considered asking whether or not any of those ‘children’ had issued from the Crafter’s physical loins, but decided against it.
The less time he spent with this monstrous ‘person,’ the better—anyone who would create the bizarre, mythology-inspired beings which Hansheng had freed, only to make them kill each other for their creator’s profit, had so little in common with Middleton’s sense of shared humanity as to make a comparison meaningless.
Middleton had no issue with the Crafter’s personal appearance or self-modifications. In a way, he could understand and even approve of such personal ‘improvements’ given the quality of medical science. At base, how different was it from physically exercising in an attempt to sculpt a superior body?
“But your point is taken, Captain,” the Crafter sighed wistfully, and for the briefest of moments Middleton was convinced that the Crafter was originally—or at least predominantly—female. Then the Crafter’s visage hardened and he was forced to reconsider that conviction, “My children will suffer without me to guide them, but I have no choice in the matter. They will be set free.”
“How many of them are there?” Middleton asked.
“In all? Three hundred and four,” the Crafter replied. “One hundred adults, which you already encountered; another sixty four fully viable replacement members in various states of physiological independence from their artificial wombs; and one hundred forty younglings in various states of physiological development.”
Middleton glanced at the reports, which largely confirmed those numbers. He scowled when he re-read that, in addition to the three hundred and four living members of the Crafter’s bizarre ‘family,’ another two hundred artificial wombs had been purged in the minutes preceding the Crafter’s arrest. Middleton knew very little of developmental anatomy, and could only hope that his reading was correct: that those purged wombs had contained ‘specimens’ too early in their development for complex neurological events to be possible.
“How did you find me?” the Crafter asked, breaking Middleton’s concentration on such dark thoughts.
“My com-tech and Sensor Officer discovered an anomaly embedded in one of your holo-vids,” Middleton replied. “It’s an anomaly we’re familiar with, so we decided to track you down.”
“That does not answer my question,” the Crafter said neutrally.
“No, I don’t suppose it does,” Middleton matched the other’s affect.
The Crafter sighed, again appearing—and sounding—for all intents and purposes like a woman. “If I guess correctly, will you answer my next question truthfully? Kill me afterward if you feel you must, but I simply must know.”
Middleton leaned back, strangely intrigued by the Crafter’s attitude. “Fine,” he allowed, “but I want all of the details.”
“Of course,” the Crafter nodded. “The anomaly to which you refer is a spike in a narrow set of EM bands which occurs every two point thirty two seconds during the recording. I can describe the precise frequencies if you wish…” the Crafter said leadingly.
“We can forego that part,” Middleton gestured for the Crafter to continue.
“Of course,” the Crafter snickered, once again shifting to the appearance of a man.
There was nothing physically different between the ‘two sides’ of the Crafter; there were no actual changes to facial geometry, skin tone, or other characteristics. It was simply that the Crafter seemed capable of—and perhaps even enjoyed—hopping back and forth across the surprisingly thin line which generally separated an at-a-glance identification of gender.
“The number of EM spikes in each of my holo-vid recordings, if counted sequentially and in order,” the Crafter continued, “provides a simplistic binary language framework which, if used as a cypher, can facilitate the retrieval of other information from the holo-vids.”
Middleton’s eyes narrowed as Mr. Fei’s—make that ‘Kongming’s—hypothesis was seemingly confirmed. “Go on,” he said neutrally.
“This second batch of data requires significant examination,” the Crafter said calmly, “but eventually it is revealed to be one hundred and eight sets of stellar coordinates, and those coordinates are presented in a sequential fashion. The seventh set of coordinates is my home, which is where you found me.”
“So far, so good,” Middleton nodded.
“Which leaves us to the matter of determining which of the coordinates to visit,” the Crafter continued blithely. “You chose the seventh set of coordinates due to psychological priming—or, at the very least, because the process of sifting through the data would make a particularly astute examiner aware of the fact that such priming was taking place.”
Middleton was impressed. Not by the complexity of the ‘map’—Kongming had already convinced him of that much prior to the Prejudice’s point transferring into the Crafter’s system—but he was impressed that someone could come up with something so co
mplex to begin with.
Still, he wasn’t going to give the Crafter the benefit of seeing the degree to which he was impressed. “Ask your question, Crafter.”
“Do you intend to seek out the originators of that EM anomaly?” the Crafter asked intently, meeting and holding Middleton’s hard gaze with an equally unyielding one.
“Isn’t that what I just did?” Middleton asked flatly.
“Me? A Locust?” the Crafter laughed, piquing Middleton’s interest with the term ‘Locust.’ “You give me too much credit, Captain Middleton, though I suppose that was unavoidable given our limited understanding of them. No, I am most certainly not a Locust and, like every other interested party I have encountered, I do not know how to find them.”
“Tell me what you know about them,” Middleton said.
The Crafter shrugged, “I know two things. First, that their technology rivals the best Imperial tech and that it is so rarely discovered and examined that one could not be blamed for dismissing its existence as fantasy. Second, I know that they do not wish to be found, and that they have gone to truly exhaustive lengths to ensure that their seclusion is maintained.”
“Then where did you get their technology?” Middleton pressed.
The Crafter laughed, again sounding—and looking—very much like a woman, “I fear I came to it entirely by accident, though what I did with that technology was anything but an accident.”
“Talk me through it.”
The Crafter leaned forward and placed a hand on the desk, “First I need certain…assurances.”
Middleton set his jaw, feeling the muscles there bunch against the metal plate which he still had not gotten around to removing. “You aren’t in a position to negotiate.”
The Middle Road (Spineward Sectors: Middleton's Pride Book 7) Page 3
