“You don’t have names? Designators for individuals?”
“I am Eldest among the Assembly of Elders. Other than that, I am equal among my drift, though unlike others, my drift includes all Quatro.”
“We, too, prize equality,” Chiba said. “That’s an interesting notion, that names might be tied up in keeping us unequal.” The president paused, as though momentarily lost in thought.
Oh, God. Husher cleared his throat.
Chiba glanced at him, then met the Quatro’s gaze once more. “The reason I delayed in meeting with you has to do with galactic security. When the president goes anywhere, it’s a news story, and we were reluctant to draw unnecessary attention to what was happening in Hellebore until we knew who we were dealing with. We’ve had two unexpected arrivals, recently—a group of humans who fled this galaxy twenty years ago, who we managed to transport to this system undetected by the media, and you, who arrived in this same system not long after. If there is such a thing as fate, it would seem it’s at work in Hellebore. But I digress. The returning humans I mentioned were also accompanied by Quatro; a much smaller group, mostly aboard a single ship that resembles yours, though it’s clearly based on older technology. I understand you have an interest in those Quatro.”
“Yes,” the Eldest said—a little too quickly, in Husher’s estimation. “They must be folded back into the drift.”
The boy and girl sitting across from Husher tensed at the Quatro’s words. Interesting.
“I see,” Chiba said. “As I’m sure you detected during the battle, the Quatro ship in question has already fled the system. But I fear this discussion is becoming as aimless as you suggested the other negotiations were. I think it’s time we communicate our respective desired outcomes for today’s meeting. If I may jump ahead a little, it seems likely that we both need each other’s help in fighting an enemy that’s quickly proving a threat to not just the galaxy, but perhaps even the universe. Am I correct in that assumption, Eldest?”
“You are,” the Quatro said, but Husher barely heard him. At Chiba’s words, adrenaline had washed through his entire body, and it made him want to leap to his feet, pumping his fists in the air and yelling like a maniac.
A threat to the universe. I think we might finally be getting through to them. This felt like an even bigger victory than the one he’d achieved over Klaxon.
“Excellent,” Chiba said. “Now that we’ve established that, the only thing that remains is to determine the conditions under which we both will be able to collaborate.”
For a meeting involving the Union, this one had proceeded at what Husher would have called breakneck speed, so far. Of course, that didn’t last. After deciding they wanted to work together, the president and the Eldest took a while to arrive at what seemed to Husher like very simple terms. This is why I’ll never be a diplomat. Beside him, Fesky began to shift in her seat.
The Quatro warships would be divided and deployed according to direction given by the IGF, mostly to protect and defend the various Union systems. In return, the Quatro would be granted three suitable Milky Way systems in which to make their new home, with the promise of more once the alien’s apparently rapid reproduction rates filled those up.
Other than that, diplomatic relations would be kept open, with provisions made to address the evolving needs of both the Union and the Assembly.
“It’s also vital that you refrain from opening any more wormholes,” Chiba said. “Ever. I know the reasons why have already been outlined to you, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t underscore them. Compromising the underlying structure of our universe is obviously something that would impact us both.”
One thing kept cropping up throughout the discussion, and Husher credited it with most of the blame for the meeting taking so long: the Eldest wanted those escaped Quatro back.
“I’m afraid that isn’t something I can guarantee,” Chiba said. “Amid the confusion surrounding the attack on this system, both the Darkstream ships and the Quatro ship were allowed to slip through Feverfew and onto much less populated systems.”
“We must have them back,” the Eldest said. “As soon as it can be done.”
“May I ask why you want them back so badly?”
“They are wayward and proud—far too proud. Their pride is such that they place themselves before their drift, and they hold to toxic ideas that we consider antithetical to the operation of a healthy society. They must be folded back into the drift.”
“Toxic,” Chiba said, nodding. “I see. They’re criminals, then?”
“Worse.”
“Well, I will notify our warship captains that they are to do everything in their power to apprehend them, should they encounter them. How does the Assembly typically deal with criminals?”
“You already have the answer, though you do not know it.”
The Kaithian tilted his head to one side. “Hmm? How do you mean?”
With that, the two Quatro on both ends of the group stood, bowing their heads low toward their leader. Neither bore the red face markings of the Eldest, or the yellow lines that adorned the other two Quatro’s heads.
“These two are guilty of crimes against their drift,” the Eldest said. “And yet here you see them, walking free. Indeed, I have brought them to what may well prove to be the most significant event in our species’ history.”
“They are reformed,” Chiba said.
“Yes. But you should hear them recount their experiences themselves.”
The rightmost Quatro fixed Chiba with an unwavering gaze, eyes wide with conviction. “Before the Progenitors destroyed our home, which spanned a galaxy just as yours does—before that onslaught, we lived in paradise. The Assembly provided everything we could possibly need. No one wanted. Everyone enjoyed plenty, and all were equal. That is still our way. All are equal, with only the drift elevated above all.”
“And the Eldest is the only one whose drift is made up of every Quatro,” Husher interrupted.
Heads swung toward him all along the curved table, and the Eldest regarded him as though he was considering making a meal of him. Chiba was glaring, too. Fesky clacked her beak softly.
“Yes,” the Quatro criminal answered, haltingly. “As I said, all are equal…even the Eldest…” It turned until it was looking just past the Eldest, who dipped his head. The reformed criminal returned to staring wide-eyed at Chiba. “I was selfish, once. I sought more than others, and I competed with my drift to get it. I placed my drift beneath myself, and I harmed it to satisfy my whims. But I was not put to death. We are permitted to believe whatever we want. I was simply taught the supremacy of the drift.”
The Quatro lowered itself to the floor, then, and so did the other criminal, who hadn’t spoken.
“So you see,” the Eldest said. “We treat our criminals very well. We fold them back into the drift.”
“Okay,” Chiba said. “I expect we may be finished for today, unless anyone has anything to—”
“What about subspace tech?” Husher said. He didn’t like bringing up the new tech around freshly minted allies, but then, he wasn’t telling them how it worked just by naming it, and he didn’t know when he would get the opportunity to apply this kind of pressure again.
“What about it, Captain Husher?” Chiba growled.
“We’ve already agreed that the Progenitors are an existential threat. So it’s rational to move ahead with anything that might improve our combat effectiveness. Subspace tech will do that, especially since I’m fairly certain our enemies are already using it.”
The Kaithian clearly hated to give him what he wanted, but it would be the height of irrationality to disagree with him now, and the Kaithe were nothing if not supremely rational.
“Very well, Captain,” Chiba said, his words still clipped. “I will work with you to make this a reality. Will that be all?”
“No. Before I left Zakros, I was told my rank and position as captain of the Vesta are under review. Is that still the case?”
The Kaithian opened his mouth to reply, revealing twin rows of tiny, pointed teeth. Then he closed it again. Clearly, he was surprised Husher would bring that up at this meeting. Husher was a little surprised too, if he was being honest.
Chiba shook his head, as though to clear it. “If the special commission finds you guilty of the charges brought against you, I will grant you a presidential pardon, conditional upon your unqualified obedience throughout the remainder of this war. It’s an unusual way of doing things, but I tend to agree with you that we need to leverage every asset at our disposal, and you are such an asset.”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” Husher said, trying not to grin too broadly.
“Where do we fit into all this?” said the boy sitting across from Husher, his tone one of barely restrained anger. “We were also driven from our home by the Progenitors, and we also have tech that can help win this war. Why haven’t we been acknowledged at all during this meeting?”
“Who are you?” Husher asked, squinting.
“I’m Seaman Jake Price. I lead the team of mechs that took down a destroyer while you were busy letting a supercarrier get destroyed.”
Husher stared at the boy, mentally checking to make sure his mouth wasn’t hanging open. Jake Price. The one Teth is so keen to get his claws on. “Not what I’d call a fair representation of the recent engagement,” Husher said, grateful his voice was so steady. “But even so—we have a lot to talk about, son.”
Chapter 10
Prison Planet
To Captain Bob Bronson, lingering inside a cell on Imbros for what already seemed like an eternity felt too much like the weeks he’d spent in the Providence’s brig. Keyes had kept him there, alone and ignored, at a time when Bronson should have been captain. The UHF admiralty had granted him command of the supercarrier, but it didn’t matter. Keyes had staged his little rebellion, for which he was rewarded lavishly in the end. Of course, that had involved overthrowing the entire Human Commonwealth, but even so…Keyes had deserved nothing good.
Ah, well. He got his in the end.
Unlike Keyes, Bronson was still alive. Still here. True, he was in prison, and a guard had done him the courtesy of informing him that his destroyer was gone—taken out of the system, probably by other Darkstream employees. Or ex-employees, now. Whatever.
During the confusion of the skirmish with the Progenitors, most of the Steele System civilians and Darkstream personnel had apparently managed to find their way into orbit and onto the parked ships. The Quatro, too, most of whom hadn’t gone down to Imbros in the first place, choosing instead to live aboard their own warship.
As far as Bronson knew, no one had made an attempt to spring him from his cell.
Ungrateful bastards.
A door opened somewhere, and he heard the slow crescendo of approaching footsteps. A woman he recognized as the warden appeared at the shatterproof glass that fronted the cell. The Providence cells had had bars, but here it was only spotless glass, which made him feel naked with someone standing there gawking at him.
Quinn. Eve Quinn. He’d only spotted her twice, but he recognized her. Uniform neatly ironed and tucked, not a hair follicle in disarray. A slight smile that said she knew exactly how much power she had over him.
“Bronson,” she said, her voice coming through an octagon of pinholes just above her mouth. “Captain Bronson—isn’t that what your pretend military promoted you to?”
He didn’t humor her with a response.
“I have a couple news items for you. There’s bad news, and there’s—ah, should I call it good news? Which would you like first?”
He held his peace, envisioning the revenge he’d take on her if his designs ever panned out.
“We can do this all day, Bronson. I can tell you the news, but I want you to ask for it politely.”
“Could you tell me the news?” he said at once.
Quinn’s smile widened. “All right. The Darkstream board members have all been sentenced to life in prison for their crimes, without parole.”
Despite himself, Bronson’s eyes widened. The Progenitors had promised him that Darkstream would rise to power once again in this galaxy. But that was difficult to accomplish from a prison cell.
That was the least of his worries, now. Much more worrisome was what, exactly, the Interstellar Union considered Darkstream’s crimes to be. If they know about our collusion with the Progenitors…
“What crimes?” he managed to rasp.
“Well, some of the members were left over from the board that fled the Milky Way through a wormhole, after they were caught poisoning our democratic process. As for the newer members…countless witnesses testified to how, during your time in the Steele System, Darkstream exploited people for ever-increasing profits. There’s documentation showing the company instigated a war with the Quatro living in the Steele System, and more proving that citizens living in Darkstream habitats were allowed to become slaves, because of a deal the board struck with a local drug lord. This ringing any bells?”
“You’ve kept awfully informed for a prison warden.”
Quinn nodded, looking genuinely pleased. “I do like to personally keep my prisoners updated on their individual situations.”
“I can tell. What’s my situation?”
“Well, that’s the other part. The news of questionable quality, if you will. See, you’re essentially free to go.”
“Essentially?”
Quinn nodded again. “You have identified the most important word in that sentence, yes. In a moment, I’m going to release you from this cell, but you’ll be under what we’re going to call planet arrest. You can go anywhere you like on Imbros, even out into the wild, if you care to. Be a tree man, if that’s to your liking. But the moment you leave the planet’s gravity well, we’ll know, and we’ll intercept whatever bucket you’ve managed to slither into well before it leaves the system.”
Feeling cautiously optimistic, Bronson said, “How will you know if I leave Imbros?”
“I was actually hoping you’d ask that. What we have in this system, as I’m sure you’ve heard, is the Department of Interplanetary Immigration and Travel. Lot of mumbo jumbo, to my ears, but it does mean we get a lot of tech geeks. Love their devices, do the desk jockeys of the Department, especially when it comes to devices that enable tracking and surveillance. Can you see where I’m going with this, Captain Bob Bronson?”
As Quinn spoke, a cold sweat had broken out all over Bronson’s body, and he fell silent once more.
“I think you might, but I’ll spell it out for you all the same. You see, we’ve taken a real interest in the computers that a lot of you Steele System folks had implanted in your head.” Quinn poked a finger against the side of her skull and spun it. “And it turns out they’re real easy to hack into! Almost like they were designed that way. Isn’t that funny? Anyway. We decided not to go poking around inside the heads of regular civilians too much, not at this early stage, anyway. But we sure were interested in how those implants worked, and who better to unabashedly spy on than a jailed corporate suckhole who’s probably guilty six ways from Sunday? Prisoners are at the forefront of tracking and surveillance, whether they know it or not. And once we hacked into your implant, we saw what you saw. Heard what you heard. Yeah, we knew every time you muttered in your sleep, farted, or took a piss.”
Quinn sniffed. “Lucky for you, the implant logs you no doubt kept on everyone weren’t stored on the devices, else we’d probably be able to nail you to the wall. As it stands, we’ve got to thinking that it might be useful to have you around.” With that, Quinn produced a device from her pocket and clicked it. The glass slid a meter to the right, opening just enough to let him pass through. “So go ahead, Bronson. Go out and stretch your legs. When we need you, we’ll know where to find you. And if you’re a good boy, maybe we’ll even toss you a few more bones.”
Hardly able to believe it, Bronson rose to his feet. I’m finally leaving this cursed place.
At that moment, with his admittedly conditional freedom spreading out before him, anything seemed possible.
He stepped past the glass.
“Remember,” Quinn said, dropping her playful tone like a bad act. “I’ll be the one watching you, so try not to act like too much of a slob, all right?”
He smiled at her, then turned toward the end of the corridor, where a guard was holding the door for him.
The same guard escorted him past two more rows of cells, an office, and then another row, inmates jeering and spitting at him the entire time. Bronson felt the urge to curse at them, not in anger but joy. He restrained himself. I’m being a good boy.
For now.
His personal effects—some of them, anyway—were returned to him at the front desk, and he was shown to a restroom where he could change out of the prison uniform.
Outside, the sun was just breaking through scant cloud cover, and he cherished the warmth on his upturned face. That was a pleasure he’d barely encountered during his twenty years in exile. Back in Steele, Eresos had been the only place where you could go outside without a pressure suit, and he’d rarely consorted with the human cattle who’d lived there. The artificial sun they’d had on Valhalla Station just hadn’t been the same.
Now what? It occurred to him that he had no money, at least none they’d accept on Imbros. Hundreds of thousands of credits were tied to his implant, but that didn’t mean anything in the Milky Way.
Surely they plan to keep me fed? Glancing back at the prison entrance, he briefly contemplated going back inside and raising the matter.
No way. He’d sooner die than step foot in that place again. They’ve been very clever, with this ‘planet arrest’ nonsense. Now they didn’t even have to bother with housing him, with Imbros itself as his prison. Maybe he would have to enter the wilderness, just to forage something to eat.
The idea seemed preposterous on the face of it. A starship captain, forced to scrounge in the bushes like an animal. It made him want to laugh, though his mirth was quickly cut short by his rumbling stomach.
Pride of the Fleet (Ixan Legacy Book 2) Page 5
