by David Ryker
“They’re going to explain.” Loreto spoke in reverent tones. “Fletcher, sit down.”
“These… things?” The commander curled a lip. “They can barely speak the language.”
The Exiles ignored Fletcher and moved around him. They separated into two groups, standing at either end of the room. Their numbers were fluctuating. Loreto counted six, then seven, then as few as three. Only the leader remained at all times, while others vanished in and out of the corridors at will. Now, with the entrance to the room closed, there were seven, three at each end and the leader in the middle.
“They’re going to show us, Fletcher. Just sit down and watch.”
Fletcher folded his arms. Even he had noticed the way the mist began to pour around their feet, the ripples and current accelerating. It was all Loreto could do to sit and not burst out with the questions that filled his mind. The Exiles began to move their fingers, and shapes appeared. The story began.
“We ±± run ±”
The mist curled into a perfect representation of a small-scale solar system. The leader pointed to a planet, and the movement of the celestial bodies accelerated.
“Millennia,” Loreto whispered. “They were there for a long time.”
The Exile drew a vertical line. Then, the movement of the system stopped. Planets began to vanish. Ships abandoned the central planet and then disappeared.
“You had to leave?” Loreto asked. The vertical line was drawn. “Why?”
The map became larger, encompassing many galaxies. The mist swirled and churned and the Exiles’ ships appeared in a new position every moment. They could move vast distances in a fraction of a second, as though they were folding the very fabric of time and space together and squeezing their fleet through the hole.
But as they moved, they were chased. The dart-shaped ships and others, even larger ships, chased them relentlessly. Every time the larger ships drew close, the Exiles jumped. Every time, they took a few of the dart-shaped fighters with them. Every time, the hunt began again.
“They chased you from your home world,” Loreto said.
“They ±±± chased,” said the Exile. Almost a whole sentence.
While Fletcher seethed, Loreto smirked. Neither man stopped the story. Theirs were military brains, and they searched for weaknesses in the story, in their enemies. They were looking for an advantage, even if it didn’t exist.
The Exiles jumped again and again and Loreto sat with his mouth hanging open. The story was well-told and even without words, he found himself able to understand the details. The fear in each jump, the terror of the enemy, the sense that something terrible and fearsome lurked out there, waiting to strike. An endless cycle of fleeing and fighting and dying. But fleeing what?
“This is a confession.” Fletcher stood up confidently, as though he had cracked the code. His presence was enough to disrupt the mist. “You knowingly brought a hostile party into human territory. You endangered our species, unleashed an enemy on our Federation.”
The Exiles remained motionless but Loreto heard the rustling sounds and could see the dim points of light blinking in unison.
“Prepare yourselves.” Fletcher turned back to his crew. “We will be taking this confession back to the Senate immediately. You must all consider yourselves witnesses.”
While two men began to stand, Loreto remained seated. He had been enthralled by the story and was furious Fletcher had cut it short. But there was nothing he could do. Aboard this ship, he was the alien. Aboard the Vela, he was outranked. He could either follow Fletcher or side with the Exiles and betray his entire species.
I barely know these… whatever the hell they are… he thought. I may hate Fletcher but at least I know what species he is. Besides, perhaps I can change his opinion. Maybe get to the Senate before him and explain this situation.
But the colonies. Loreto had watched in horror as the Exiles showed him their enemies, these Symbiot ships. Whatever they were, there had to be a reason the Exiles—even with all their wonderous technology—turned and ran whenever they could. There were unsuspecting colonies out there, now at the mercy of those dart-shaped ships and they needed protection and he’d sworn an oath to protect human lives.
“±± regret ±±±” The Exile’s death rattle filled the room.
“They’re trying to say something, Fletcher.”
As Fletcher hurried his men to their feet, the Exile leader turned its palms up towards the stars and stepped between the commander and the exit.
“±acknowledge ± transgressions ±± sin ±± before me.”
The words caught in Loreto’s ear. It was near a sentence, archaic and obtuse, but it felt honest.
“Fletcher, listen. They’re trying to–”
“The Federation is in no position to consider whatever this is, I assure you.” Fletcher approached the figure and jabbed an accusing finger into the place where a man’s heart would be. “An act of war is the same in every language, or do you need me to translate that?”
The mist reddened again but faded as the Exile waved a hand.
“±±be possible ±± much as lieth in ±± live peaceably ±± all men.”
And the figure stepped aside and let the commander past.
“Damn right,” Fletcher said and exited the room.
His men followed and Loreto ran to catch up. Fletcher had the shuttle, the only way of getting back to the Vela. With a desperate glance back to the Exiles, he followed the others out into the corridor. They did not have a guide to lead them but the mist on the floor illuminated, drawing a yellow line before them.
Without a second thought, Fletcher followed it. The possibility of a trap didn’t even enter his mind, Loreto realized. Such a move would be uncouth and almost rude. The man had a very particular idea about how war was to be waged and he followed it to the letter.
As they walked, the Exile leader’s words stuck with Loreto. An unfamiliar phrase, it had to be a message of some sort. Live peaceably… all men.
The illumination led them back to the hangar and there was no trap. Quickly, Fletcher assembled his crew. Hertz bumbled across, desperate for an explanation but Loreto noticed the mist moving once again and an anemic yellow line appeared before him. It led around a corner and disappeared behind a pile of broken machinery.
They’re trying to tell me something, Loreto thought. They want me to follow. He checked over his shoulder. Hertz babbled worriedly as Fletcher prepared to leave. He made a decision and followed the line, almost running, ignoring the shouts from behind.
It ended in front of a heap of scrap. The mist coalesced at his feet, forming itself into a small platform. From deep within, an object rose up. He recognized it: a codex, just like the ones they used to store data on the Vela. A flat, boring strip about the length of a finger. But this one was made of the same material as the rest of the Exile ship, rather than the usual plastic. It was new, created moments ago.
This could be a trap, Loreto thought, a way of tricking me. Tempting me.
“Loreto!” Fletcher shrieked from across the hangar. “Hurry up or I’ll blow your damn ship to smithereens!”
He looked down at the codex. Take it or don’t take it. There were no Exiles in the hangar. Only the humans.
“Loreto!” A blood-curdling scream. “Now or I turn the Vela into dust!”
Bending down, he took the codex and slipped it into his pocket. Even the touch of the material against his skin sent shivers along his spine.
Hertz was waiting for him at the bottom of the ramp, his hand desperately beckoning for the admiral to run faster. Loreto caught up and climbed aboard the shuttle as the engines fired.
“Sir.” Hertz scratched at his beard, trying to keep his voice low. “What happened?”
Loreto shook his head. He couldn’t explain it here, not with Fletcher so close. He’d probably consider the codex treason, aiding and abetting the enemy. Loreto felt the device in his pocket; there was almost no weight to it.
Secret
s should be heavier, he thought as the shuttle lifted into the air.
9
Hess
“So?”
Hess couldn’t help but smile. This girl’s enthusiasm ate into his melancholy like a parasite, sustaining both of them.
“He’ll meet with the Spartans. I’ve sold it to him; he’ll be the president who finally brought the Federation together.”
“And they’ll take the meeting?”
Hess checked the page in his pocket. No news was good news.
“My contact promised me they would. How could they refuse the president?”
Alison squeezed her fists and her skin lightened around the creases. But Hess wanted to act natural. They were standing in the hallway outside the president’s office. Anyone could be watching.
“Come on.” He led her down a shadowy high-ceilinged hallway, descending through the pyramid. “Let’s talk quietly.”
“I can’t believe you got him to meet with the actual Spartans. I heard they were savages. That they execute anyone who passes through their trace gate without permission.”
“What could possibly go wrong?”
“They could shoot down his shuttle.”
“And then the generals would have an excuse to crush them.”
The plan appealed to the president’s arrogance and the generals’ cynicism, which was exactly why Hess liked it so much. It preyed on the worst of people and weaponized their flaws. Alison’s eyes fluttered as she pieced together the disparate parts of the plan.
“And then…?” she asked, almost skipping. “How will meeting with the Spartans bring down a whole government? What if he succeeds?”
“He won’t. He can’t.” Hess was sure about that. “They hate him. They hate the whole Federation. It’s why they like me so much. They saw what you saw.”
“You think they’ll kill him?”
“Worse,” said Hess. “They’ll treat him well and smile and then send him away with nothing.”
“And that’s bad because?”
“You’ll see, Alison.” He allowed himself an arrogant smile. “The first step in stabbing someone in the back isn’t telling them about your shiny new knife.”
He wasn’t quite prepared to show her everything. Besides, the plan was still in its infancy and it was probably best not to show the girl too many details before they were set in stone. But things would have to move fast. The initial messages coming from Fletcher’s fleet were… strange.
Hess dispatched Alison with a collection of tasks, precursors to contacting the Spartan hierarchy. Signals to send, laying the groundworks for the changing of the human mindset. Better that it was her. If she was caught, she was just an assistant. Somewhere between a rich kid and a colony brat. No one would take her seriously until it was too late.
“And Alison—” Hess touched her arm as she was about to leave. “I’m trusting you with this. Don’t let me down.”
He saw the pride swelling up behind her eyes. She said nothing but gave a curt and professional nod. He let her go. Acton Hess stood alone in the darkened mezzanine of the Alcázar with only himself for company. In this moment, the majority of the senatorial staff had been dispatched back to their home world but Saito. That left him with a clear run at the president.
He walked and listened to the sounds which filtered in through the always open spaces inside the great pyramid. There was no real weather down in the belly of the Earth. Providence was always warm and still, so sound carried far.
Hess stopped at a stone balcony, engraved with cherubs and space ships. He was up high, looking down into the courtyard and he could feel the air eddying beneath him. Quite the drop, he thought, but the view meant he could see all the way across the courtyard, through to the poorer parts of Providence—the knotted tangle of the Warrens—and even up beyond, when the sky opened up above and swallowed everything.
There were no more birds and no animals on Earth, especially not down here among the ruins and the decrepit wonders. All life was lived on the colonies now. The Senate sent starlings and birch trees and baobabs and house cats to live on the new world. Anything to remind people of their loyalty to their true home.
He paused on a balcony overlooking the courtyard with the ancient oak in the center. No protests today and the thin air was stale and quiet. Hess closed his eyes and thought of his parents. His mother, selling makeshift jewelry outside a spaceport. His father, coughing constantly with the fumes caught in his throat.
The first people on each world received the highest wages but arriving early cost them their bodies. Hard, grating work, to terraform a planet. The only way for a colony man to make real money was to sacrifice his lungs. The hacking cough had been Hess’s lullaby, right up until his old man died.
True home was a lie; Earth was not meant for everyone. Those who succeeded, who could afford to live on this worst of all worlds, did so on the backs of others. They were the Earthbound. The privileged. The people whose blood ran red like septic oceans.
Standing still and listening, Hess didn’t notice the approach. The first blow knocked the hearing from his ears and sent him crashing into the stone-cut barricade.
“Wake up, Hiss,” snarled a voice from the shadows. “Time to look sharp.”
Ears still ringing, Hess tried to stand up.
“Van Liden.” He staggered and clung to the stone. “What do you want?”
The man was a general. Although that didn’t mean he was military, exactly. Way back in the annals of human history, the Federation had broken up their infantries and their armies. When most disputes could be settled with an attack ship, boots on the ground mattered less. Standing armies seemed antiquated.
The Senate had stayed in power simply by policing the space between planets. But removing the heads of the world’s armies had not been easy. The men had been moved into ceremonial positions within the Star Chamber. Advisors to the president, representing special interests. They kept their titles and their uniforms.
Now, they were just political bullies. The second sons of rich men, the kind of tyrants who were written out of wills. Van Liden was the worst of them. The most dangerous.
He was elderly and cragged, with a thin weasel face and bushy eyebrows. His features were separated by creases and wrinkles, forming an expression like the ashen hellscape of a desolate moon. Bones were visible through the back of the man’s weathered hands and he still smoked cigarettes, in spite of the astronomical cost.
His thinning hair was held in place by sheer force of will and he loomed over Hess like a noon sun above a bone-dry desert, his scowl beating down and dehydrating and destroying.
Van Liden was old, but far from broken.
“On your feet, Hiss.”
Hess knew the general only used the nickname because he thought it hurt.
What does he know? Hess worried. That I met with Saito? About Alison?
Before Hess could answer, Van Liden dragged him to his feet and pushed him back, tilting him over the barricade. A twenty-meter drop onto the cold and pitiless ground. The eddying air nipped at his neck. No one would care if he died. They wouldn’t dare.
Paranoid thoughts flashed through Hess’s mind, piloted by the fear and spread by the adrenaline coursing through his nervous body. Alison might be a spy. She’d betrayed him. He’d fallen for those big fluttering eyes and told her everything.
“What…” Hess could feel the drop beneath him and tried not to look. “What do you want?”
“I’m here, Hiss,” spat the general, leaning over and coating Hess’s face with a sweltering tobacco stench, “to remind you of your place.”
Hess felt the hairs prickle on his cold neck. The fall would kill him. He’d die a loser, a footnote. That scared him the most.
“What’s my place?” Hess tried to sound confident but he felt Van Liden’s grip on the collar loosen and he slipped. “W-what do you mean?”
The general’s knee pressed into Hess’s leg, deadening the flesh. His back curved
over the balcony, almost breaking.
“Your place, Hiss, is anywhere but here.” Van Liden’s voice scratched like sandpaper dragged across teeth. “We saw how you handled the Refusal today. Let’s just say the generals and I were… unimpressed.”
“I’m just…” Hess felt the knee in his thigh and the long drop below. “I’m just trying to help.”
“You’re up to something.” Van Liden leaned in harder.
“No, no!” Hess lied. “I swear!”
“Swear to who?” the general rumbled, his hot, stale breath chokingly close.
“The Federation…” Hess hoped it was the right answer.
Wrong answer. Van Liden dug his knee deeper and pushed harder. Hess’s hips were now balanced on the stone. One slip, one wrong move and he’d be over the edge.
“To Saito?” Impossible to keep the panic from his voice. “I swear to Saito?”
“No, you fool!” With a free hand, Van Liden seized Hess’s cheeks, squeezing them into his teeth and scratching the flesh inside until the taste of blood leaked through his whole mouth. “You swear to me.”
Hess felt the fingers loosen, allowing him to speak.
“Swear to me, Acton Hess, tell me you’re not conspiring.” Van Liden snarled. “I don’t care if you fall.”
“I swear, Van Liden. To you. I swear.”
The general dragged Hess back and dropped him on to the marble floor. He rolled around and clutched at his throat and sucked in the cool, still air which didn’t taste of stale tobacco and blood.
“Tell me what you’re doing, Hiss.” Van Liden leaned back and lit a cigarette. “You and that girl with the mark on her neck.”
Such was the expense of tobacco, few people had even tried it. It was an ancient delicacy, grown only on one colony out beside the Pale. The certain sun in that system was perched just so and, it was said, infused each leaf with a touch of gold. The men on the planet made their money from chopping and drying the leaves and selling them for a small fortune. Each drag could feed a family for a week. There were so many cheaper, more pleasurable vices in the modern world, yet Van Liden had a taste for antiquity.
