by David Ryker
As quickly as it started, the gunfire stopped, followed by the sound of crumbling concrete, clinking glass and groans of pain. A mechanical grunting called from across the room, the damaged door trying to open. The soldiers outside shouted, desperate for orders.
“Surrender.” The pilot’s loudspeaker warbled over the fighter’s engine.
The dry terraformed air blew in through the broken window, tasting strange on Hess’s tongue, almost fresh. He raised his head, saw the fighter hovering twenty meters from the building. A bulbous, transparent cockpit hanging from a canopy wing, each fitted with an array of cannons and energy weapons. There were others behind it, locked in formation.
“Over here!” Neko shouted.
Hess turned and saw the general pressing the muzzle of a pistol into Ghoulam’s temple. Both men lay on the floor, one still tied to the chair.
“Stand down,” Neko shouted. “Or I shoot him dead.”
Saito huddled behind his bodyguards in a corner of the room. The fighter’s engines whirred and gushed as it hovered in front of the window. Ghoulam mumbled through the blood.
“Shut up!” Neko shouted, pressing the pistol deeper. “Fly away now or we see the inside of his head.”
The pilot’s helmet flitted from side to side nervously. The blood in Ghoulam’s mouth muffled his words.
“Shut up.” Neko whipped the prisoner with his pistol and Ghoulam writhed against his restraints.
“Kill me!” he gargled, spitting blood. “Do it!”
Neko slapped a hand over the Spartan’s mouth and buried the gun in his temple. I have to do something, Hess knew. He needed both sides to fight against the Symbiot.
“Hess,” Alison’s urgent whisper. “Use the message. Play it.”
He felt her breath on his neck.
“What does it say?” he asked.
“Does it matter?” She handed him the page. “Shock them!”
Again, Ghoulam screamed and Neko threatened him. Hess took the page and eased out across the broken glass. The sharp shards cut into his elbows and sliced open his expensive clothes. The warm blood trickled down his arm.
Stay low, he told himself. The glass sliced open his palms and his knees, a thousand slits. He looked up; Van Liden spotted him and began slapping guards on the arm, telling them to aim.
Hess pushed and rolled, pressing down into the pain. He jumped behind another barrier and the guards lost their shot. He searched around the destroyed room. Rubble and broken everything, everywhere. But he saw the holo-plate they’d used to watch Fletcher’s last battle. It was close. Van Liden sent the guards around, getting them better placed.
He rolled again, across more broken glass. A guard fired; the ground next to Hess’s head exploded. He stared at the smoking crater, a thin tendril curling upwards where his head had just been.
He dived again, skidding along the ground, carving open his skin, and he dropped next to the projector. Grabbing his page, he heard Neko shouting and screaming, the nerves fraying in the man’s voice.
Laying the page next to the projector, he initiated the device, his fingers desperate, covered in blood. He felt light-headed and scared. Ignore it, Acton. He saw the guards moving round, finding a better shot.
Hess pressed hard on the volume and Loreto’s voice thundered out, drowning out the fighter and the shouting. The admiral’s face appeared above them, three meters tall. Everyone stopped to listen.
“I hope this message finds someone.” Loreto spoke mournfully. “I’m on the edge of the Pale. Too far from any colony for direct communications. We’re bouncing this through Inca. We’ll move back to the central systems shortly. In pursuit of the alien race known as the Symbiot.”
Even Van Liden seemed transfixed by the hypnotic pain in the admiral’s voice. He spoke of the Symbiot and their corrupt bodies. He spoke of the Exiles and his plans. He spoke of the aliens’ tracking device, of a codex, and announced that he knew the trajectory of the enemy.
“Sparta,” the voice boomed.
The world of great resources and wealth. An ideal target.
“I’m heading there now. We must fight them. Tell everyone. Out.”
Loreto’s face flickered and disappeared from the room, leaving behind a deafening quiet. Hess stood up, unafraid and clear-minded for the first time.
“Put down your weapons,” he shouted.
They watched him, unsure. The blood dripped from his hands on to the broken glass.
“Now!” he shouted and closed his eyes.
26
Loreto
Loreto watched his crew climb back aboard the shuttle and didn’t turn around to bid Inca farewell. A rotten world, a desolate and miserable and cunning world. But a world he was fighting to save.
He looked at the injuries on his crew as they strapped themselves into the shuttle, each of them rubbing their necks where the local police had roughed up their pips. It’d cost a fortune in bribes to spring them from the jail. They’re lucky that our whole species might be wiped out, he thought. Saves me the job.
But as they heaved themselves into the holding bay of the shuttle, a splinter of pride lodged itself under his irritated skin. They’d handled themselves, they’d done the Vela proud, and that bar would remember how hard they fought for the First Fleet. We’ll need solidarity if we’re going to win.
He’d handed the widow all the information in his possession. Detailed accounts of the Exiles and the Symbiot and everything the Federation had done. Release it, he’d told her, if I don’t keep in touch. Stick it all on a codex, make a thousand copies, and send it out on every ship leaving Inca. The people needed to know what would happen if he failed.
But first, he thought, I want one chance to win, to make amends.
The Vela only had old shuttles, none of the ceremonial vessels the Senate employed. Loreto fastened himself into the upright strappings that lined each wall in the cargo bay. One for every person, holding them tight between the gravity of this world and the gravity of the ship.
He looked at Cavs and didn’t know what to do. He’d given him more responsibility, less responsibility. He’d left him on the ship, he’d taken him on a mission. Nothing seemed to win the kid over. Hertz had told him how the fight started. It sounded like the young officer was struggling with the situation, trying to make sense of the universe. The last thing he needed was to be pushed too far in either direction.
He could see the kid’s raw potential; Cavs had the makings of something truly great. He reminds me of when I was young. But right now, in the midst of everything, Loreto didn’t have time for a loose cannon.
In his younger days, he would have dealt with this no problem. He’d be up for a week without stimulants. But now? I’m struggling to stay up for a day without feeling exhausted. With the Exiles and Cavs and Fletcher and the Vela, it was almost too much. I’m letting everyone down, he knew, but I’ve only got so much energy. I’ve got to focus on saving people before I can focus on Cavs.
Cavs took the free place next to the admiral and strapped himself silently. The kid needs discipline, Loreto thought. He needs to respect the rank. Neither of them said a word while the shuttle was prepared.
“Admiral,” Cavs broke the silence, “I–”
“Don’t let it happen again, Cavs.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young man prickle.
“Actually, sir, I was defending–”
“Hertz told me what happened.” Loreto spoke quietly so no one else heard. He wanted to make this quick. He needs focus. “It doesn’t matter how who was defending what. We’ve got bigger fights.”
“But–”
“Just get my guns working, officer. That’s your job now. We’ve got a long fight ahead. That’s the real battle.”
As the rest of the crew readied themselves, Cavs sank back into silence. Loreto knew that he hadn’t dealt with the situation well, but the boy had to be reminded that lives were at stake. He swore an oath, just like the rest of us. He clo
sed his eyes and tried to catch a few minutes of sleep. The familiar routine before take-off was comforting.
The beat of heavy footsteps up the ramp jerked him back to reality. A woman approached, brandishing a codex.
“Message for the admiral!” she cried.
A crewman pointed to Loreto. She stood in front of him and handed him the device.
“Message, sir.” And she ran out of the shuttle.
Loreto touched the codex to his page. An unfamiliar name appeared. Acton Hess, from a Senate address, replying to the warning from Inca. It had to be important. Possibly too important, he thought, looking around the ship. He held the page close to his ear and the take-off drowned out the voice.
“Admiral Loreto—” A smarmy, smooth voice with a slight colony accent. “We received your message. Your messages, rather. The president is already on Sparta and the situation here is… delicate. But promising. Your orders are to hurry here with any ships you have.”
It ended there. The president’s already on Sparta; Loreto was shocked. He’d spent his whole life sure that the Spartans were a bunch of backwards separatists who couldn’t be trusted. That was the one trace gate the Fleets never entered. But at the most testing moment in the history of the Federation, the president was in the lair of one of the biggest thorns in the Senate’s side?
It didn’t make sense. Saito should be on Earth. Glory be, cursed Loreto, now we’re doubly screwed. The Symbiot were already heading to Sparta. They could decapitate the human leadership and gather all the resources they wanted without an issue.
“What was it?” Cavs asked.
Loreto just shook his head.
“Nothing. We need to get back to the Vela.”
The shuttle left Inca and flew silently, piercing the atmosphere into the cold, familiar clutches of space. Any ships you have. Loreto turned the words over in his thoughts, unable to sleep. The First Fleet was all he had, plus a pocket full of alien tech. Gather them up and take them to Sparta. He winced with the obviousness of it all. A Spartan showdown. He’d read enough history to spot the cliché. But the president was already there. The Symbiot were already on their way. It was all or nothing time. He took his own pulse, feeling the racing rhythm tell him the tension was taking its toll.
They landed in the hangar and the ramp opened. Even before it hit the hangar floor, Loreto could sense that something was wrong. He unbuckled and walked out to find the crowd waiting for him, clamoring for attention, drowning him in a sea of noise. Kelch hollered at the crowd, incensed. There should never have been this many people in the hangar.
He looked around. It felt strange to be back. No, he realized. It just felt strange. The taste of the air. The lighting. The nervousness everywhere. Something still wasn’t right with his ship.
“Sir!” a voice called out, its owner hidden in the chaos. “Power levels are surging!”
“Overclocked engines!” “Data glitches!” “Issues in the machines, in all of them!”
Loreto held up his hands for silence.
“One of you, please. You.” He pointed at a random face in the crowd. “Talk.”
The man was taken aback. Loreto couldn’t remember his name. He’d seen him on the bridge and the man seemed sensible. Always had his nose pressed into the numbers.
“Er… yessir. We’re getting complaints and readings and warnings, sir. From all over the ship. None of us have ever seen anything like it, sir.”
“Never?”
“It’s like she’s…” The man stopped and bit his lip, worried over his next word.
“Say it, man.”
“It’s like she’s alive, sir.”
I leave them alone for five minutes, Loreto chastised himself, and they’re seeing life in my goddamn ship. A sense of embarrassment moved through the crowd, killing the clamor. But the idea was already in the back of his mind. He didn’t want to look at Cavs; he knew what the young officer would already be thinking. That codex, fused to his desk. The Exile tech taking over.
“Is anything actually broken? Does the ship work?”
People stuttered.
“Yessir, technically,” came the answer. “But we’ve never experienced–”
“Engines work?”
“Yes sir, power like we’ve never–”
“Shields work?”
“Again, sir, yes. We’ve never seen anything like it, but–”
“Guns work?”
“The technicians, sir, they run the diagnostic data and they laugh when they do it.”
“Good.” Loreto found the confidence in his voice and layered it on thick. “Then set a course for Sparta. Now. I want to be there as soon as possible. If we’re ahead of the rest of the fleet, then so be it. Show me how far you can push her.”
He’d run a ship long enough to know how long diagnostic tests demanded. They didn’t have a dry dock and they didn’t have a hope in hell of hitting the right trace gates in time if they had to stop for tests. They could either hold up in orbit around Inca, doing nothing, or they could push the Vela harder than she’d ever gone and maybe – just maybe – make it to Sparta before the Symbiot.
“Sir?”
The worried faces looked up at him. They wanted a leader. They wanted someone to steer them through the stormy seas, to take the gamble that had to be taken. Every one of them was looking up into the face of Red Hand Loreto, the steeliest admiral this side of Earth. Most of them hadn’t served long enough to see his so-called legendary deeds; they’d just heard the stories. But they needed the reassurance anyway.
“Do it.” And Loreto had never said anything with so much assurance.
He felt the words flood out from him and across the people like a wave. He saw their faces relax and their shoulders unwind. They went to work.
Loreto sensed the electric crackle in the air. There was an energy onboard, a sense of terror and fear and excitement. The crew sensed it too; they knew what was happening. They knew about the war and the failure and what was at stake.
That meant, amidst all the dread, they had a purpose. Their ship was alive, and their admiral was sure of the way forward. To Sparta, he’d told them, and they’d set to their stations. They knew they were doomed. Rumors of what had happened on Olmec would have spread. The stories about Fletcher’s Fleet would have spread as they orbited Inca. The crew knew the stakes, they knew they were fighting to the death, and they did it anyway.
So the air spat and crackled; the electric energy leapt around and filled them with hope. The Vela echoed with the sound of a thousand footsteps as Loreto marched along the corridors through to the bridge. Coolant dripped and engines hummed. As he walked, Hertz arrived alongside in his shuffling gait.
“You’re not worried about the ship, sir?”
Only Hertz and his weapons-grade pessimism would dare mention that right now.
“I don’t know, Hertz.”
“You know it’s the alien tech.” He stated it as a fact. “You’ve seen what they can do. It’s spread through us, like a virus. It could be controlling us. Spying on us. And you want more of it?”
Exactly what Cavs would say. Loreto smiled. Another mistake in a long line of mistakes. But the president was on Sparta and the Symbiot were encroaching and he could feel the alien codex copies in his pocket. A pumped-up and powerful ship might be the only chance they had of reaching the battle in time. They needed as many of them as possible, even if it was a gamble.
“The Vela, she’s strong again, Hertz,” admitted Loreto, worried about giving away too much. “People insulted her for years. Weak. Antique. Ruined. But now she’s at fighting strength. The strongest ship we’ve got. A fighting chance!”
“Yeah.” Hertz dropped syllables like sea mines. “But for how long? How long can we put up with this?”
Loreto stopped in a doorway, a few hundred meters from the bridge. Even this close to the command center, he spotted oxidizing rivets and a leaking coolant pipe.
"Rust, Hertz.” He ran a finger along t
he wall. “On a spaceship. Can you imagine it?"
The captain sighed and leaned against the doorway.
“The Senate don’t care, Richard.” Hertz scratched at his beard. “Don’t you know how cheap steel is these days?"
Loreto felt tired and massaged his temple, trying to rub some life into his thoughts. He traced a fingernail down the scar on the side of his face.
“We need all the help we can get, Hertz.” He heard the desperation in his own voice. “If this is what the Exiles meant by helping us, I’ll take it. But I need more. More from the ship. More from the crew. More from you, Hertz. And more from them. I want to force the Exiles to intervene.”
Hertz’s eyes bulged and his mouth moved beneath his beard, digesting it all. “How?” he managed.
“I’ve got a plan,” Loreto admitted. “But I need to think.”
“But can we trust them?”
The question had plagued Loreto, too. The scar tissue on his face seemed more malleable than usual. Softer, more tired.
“I don’t know who I can trust right now, Hertz. But I know who I’ve got to beat. And they’re heading to Sparta. So that’s where we’re going.”
“It’s a gamble, sir. Another one.”
Loreto looked his friend directly in the eyes. If he could convince Hertz, he could convince anyone. If he could make this man see how desperate it was, how vital it was that they atone for their earlier failure, the mission might even be half won already.
“We swore an oath, Hertz.”
Hertz dragged in a deep breath. He nodded.
“You remember how I got this scar?” Loreto asked.
“Of course.” Hertz nodded again. “Breton.”
“Yeah.”
Loreto remembered again how Hertz had saved him that day. Staring into the man’s eyes, he knew his friend remembered, too.
“You talk to the wife and kids?” he asked.
“Picked up a message, didn’t get a chance to reply.” Hertz exhaled. “I told them to get out somewhere, far side of Earth. Far away from this.”
