by Max Carver
“The ambassador's room got it pretty bad, too,” Captain Loomis added. “Interior walls blown apart, lots of dust. No casualties there, obviously.”
“Were any of the... robot soldiers damaged?” Ellison asked, hoping their numbers had been reduced.
“Ask them yourself.” Loomis pointed into a hotel room where the damaged door had been removed. Dust from the destruction of the interior walls had settled on them.
The robotic soldiers stood in straight rows, still as statues, their rifles strapped to their backs, their multi-bladed cutting staffs still clamped to their sides. A couple of them had raised their blue visors, perhaps too dirty or damaged by the explosion. Their skeletal steel faces and black video eyes stared straight ahead.
They looked like corpses, he thought, corpses who'd been carried out of the grave and stood upright in some macabre display. It was hard not to think of old stories and movies about zombies, the risen dead. It was all intentional psy-op stuff, he was sure. The Carthage Consolidated Infantry Reaper, that was their brand name.
“Can any of you answer questions?” Ellison asked. “And if you could be so kind as to upload any recordings you may have of the event to my security chief—”
“Direct all questions to Simon Zorn,” a monotone voice replied. None of the reapers had moved. Ellison couldn't even tell which one had spoken.
“Can you have him come out here, then?” Ellison asked.
“You ask me, this was no accident,” Loomis said. “Our maintenance engineer said nothing here could have caused it. I think you had a series of expertly planted explosives, weak enough to leave the major compartment walls intact, but strong enough to... well, make a real mess. The whole port's on lockdown since one second after the blast, nobody in or out. If the terrorists are still here, they're locked in with us.”
“But who would do this?” Navra Coraline asked. The minister of state had grabbed a long, formal kimono adorned with kelp imagery.
“Someone who doesn't want us making friends with Carthage, it seems,” Ogden said.
“That's about ninety-five percent of our population,” Ellison said.
“Is that true? Is Carthage so very ill-favored on Galapagos?” Simon Zorn approached them.
“We can't control public opinion,” Ellison said.
“That's where you're wrong,” Simon replied with a smile.
“Well, it can be massaged, certainly,” Ogden said. “Mr. Ambassador, we're sorry for this unfortunate development of events. We hope it doesn't interfere in the new friendship between our worlds.”
“That depends entirely on who is behind it and why,” Simon said.
“How's my family?” Ellison asked.
“Cadia is fine. Resting. I have two of my guards watching over her and the children.”
“I'll relieve them.” Ellison pointed at two of the uniformed soldiers in Coalition gear. “Go watch over my wife and kids.”
“That's not necessary,” Simon said, smiling. “We're perfectly happy to help.”
“It's fine,” Ellison said. “I'm sorry things went sour. The port is on lockdown, but if you and your honor guard need to board your shuttle and depart, we'll let you through, of course.”
“As there was an explosion in my suite as well, it must be interpreted as an attack on Carthage's military assets and diplomatic representative. I would rather remain until we can identify the parties responsible.”
“But who could have done this?” Ogden asked. “The Iron Hammers?”
“At the top of my list, but it's a little subtle for them,” Ellison said. “Obliterating the entire spaceport with a surface-to-orbit missile barrage would be more their style.”
“The Iron Hammers would have the most to lose by an alliance between your Coalition and Carthage,” Simon said.
“No alliance!” Kartokov's voice bellowed, startling everyone. The defense minister burst into the corridor, followed by a bewildered spaceport medic.
“I thought you were reported dead,” Ogden said to Kartokov, who was covered in debris, significant chunks of his beard and hair burned off.
“It was the machines!” Kartokov jabbed a burned finger at Simon Zorn. “It had to be. Nothing like this ever happened on Galapagos before!”
“Let's not rush to point fingers,” Coraline said, putting a hand on Kartokov's wrist and nudging his arm down. “Literally or figuratively.”
“How can you say nothing like this has ever happened?” Simon Zorn asked. “I know your history. Galapagos is a warlike planet. Your nations have spent more years fighting than getting along.”
“But nobody ever attacked the spaceport,” Ellison said. “That was always neutral territory. It's the only one we have, and it's pretty small and fragile. It's everyone's lifeline to interplanetary travel and trade. Not that there's much trade.”
“Never trust a machine that pretends to be a man,” Kartokov said, still glaring at the ambassador.
“That is a truly fascinating comment,” Simon Zorn said. “And why would you say that?”
“Because he has been through a difficult ordeal.” Coraline touched Kartokov's arm sympathetically. “As have we all.”
Kartokov seemed like he wanted to growl at her, but instead he simmered down for the moment, her touch seeming to calm his rage.
“None of us will rest until this is fully investigated,” Ellison said. “I'm sure we can find alternative accommodations for the ambassador and his... his men while we proceed.”
“I expect to be involved in this investigation,” Simon said. “As I was one of the targets.”
“Let's all get out of the way and let Loomis and his people investigate,” Ellison said. “Mr. Ambassador, we will keep you informed, but for the moment our national leaders back home will expect to be briefed privately on today's chaotic events.”
“Of course,” Simon said, frowning slightly. “Captain Loomis, my soldiers are at your disposal, should you need them to help secure the port.”
“Yeah... thanks.” The bulldoggish man looked at the gruesome black steel machines in their fancy, dust-spattered uniforms, as silent and stiff as the First Emperor's terra-cotta army. “I'll get back to you on that.”
Ellison and the other Galapagos ministers returned to the same spartan board room in the executive center, five levels down from the residential area.
“Give this room full access to the entire port security system,” Ellison told the security chief. “And I'd like a sidearm in case things get worse.”
“Make it two,” Kartokov said, holding up a finger like he was ordering drinks at a bar. The man looked badly injured, but he remained upright, anger seared into his face along with the burns from the explosive.
“Three,” Coraline said.
“How is this going to help?” Ogden asked. “You're going to hunt down the terrorist yourself, Ellison?”
“Do you have a problem with that?” Ellison asked, and Ogden looked away.
The security chief left, and one of the young guards arrived soon after with laser pistols and holster belts.
“They're weak weapons,” Ellison said, once he was alone with the ministers.
“They can pierce body armor,” Coraline said, looking at her blocky gray gun.
“But can they pierce one of those Carthaginian infantry robots?” Ellison asked. “If not, we might as well be strapping on forks and knives.”
“Why are you so certain they're the enemy?” Ogden said.
“I'm not. But if they are, we need to be prepared.”
“Prepared to do what?” Ogden chuckled and shook his head. “Make war with Carthage? How will you do that, Reggie? Fly one of your war submarines into space? We've been fighting petty tribal wars down here for generations, while Carthage has been out conquering worlds across the Orion Arm. We could never beat them. We're a fly, and they're a nuclear-armed cruise missile. Why fight them?”
“The same reason we fought our wars among each other,” Ellison said. “For our f
reedom. For our independence.”
“All the people of our world came to Galapagos to live as we choose,” said Coraline, her big fish eyes watching the hologram bubbles of real-time security camera feeds from around the spaceport. “Not to become subjects of another world's empire.”
“I say we attack them now,” Kartokov said. “The ambassador and his filthy robots. Destroy them, send them back to Carthage in a box. We know they're here to threaten us. They must be the ones who tried to kill us.”
“If Carthage wanted us dead, we'd already be dead,” Ellison said.
“Perhaps they merely want us frightened,” Coraline said. “So we will run into their protective arms. The ambassador already offered to station those reapers around the spaceport. Imagine if we allowed that. Who among us believes the reapers would ever leave? They would control this port for Carthage. That's how Carthage operates—like snakes, slithering in through every hole.”
“They won't be slithering into our holes!” Kartokov pounded the table. “I have spoken to the leaders of Gavrikova, and they insist on independence. No deal with Carthage!”
“I'm getting the opposite signal from back home,” Ogden said. “The Green Islands want peace, whatever the cost. We can't survive a war against Carthage, but we can survive as one of their cooperative clients. We'll all be a bit poorer, but—”
“They are a ruthless empire!” Kartokov said.
“And all empires fall,” Ogden replied, with an oily smile. “All we need to do is wait them out. And keep our heads low. The only question is whether we wear a golden collar or an iron one. Personally, I vote gold.”
“Fool's gold,” Kartokov muttered.
“Those golden collars are for wealthy inner worlds who can negotiate from a position of strength in the first place,” Ellison said. “Outer worlds like us get the iron shaft. Carthage will demand more and more tribute until the debt breaks us, and then we'll all somehow find ourselves peasants, with no property of our own, with the Carthaginians owning all our land and natural resources. That's their pattern with poorly defended outer worlds.”
“What about your people, Ellison?” Coraline asked. “How do they lean?”
“The Republic of the Scatterlands... lives up to its name,” Ellison said. “The Assembly is fighting about it. They can't even organize a vote on the subject. But public opinion is solidly against allying with Carthage. Or with the next island over, half the time.”
“So they leave such choices up to your personal judgment,” Coraline said. “By default.”
“That's one way of looking at it. What about your people, Coraline?” Ellison asked.
“We are flexible, but our independence is important to us. We do not wish our society reshaped by Carthaginian law. And we cannot tolerate risks to the ocean's ecosystem. That would bring the wrath of the Deep Gods.”
Ellison nodded. “Carthage tends to strip-mine the planets it rules, especially in the outer worlds. Let's remember that when we hear talk of 'trade' and 'cooperation.' They'll charge us high fees for the protection of their imperial fleet—a service fee, tribute payment, protection money, or tax, pick a label—and they turn around and use that money to buy up and export our resources. To the inner worlds.”
“Importing and exporting, trade, this is how our economies grow,” Ogden said. “It's how we advance as a species.”
“So, if we were to vote on Carthage's proposal today,” Ellison said. “How would it go?”
“For it,” Ogden said. “We have no choice.”
“Never,” Kartokov said.
“We would need assurances of our people's autonomy, including full religious freedom and all that it entails,” Coraline said. “Freedom with our DNA. And strong protections for the oceans.”
Ellison nodded. “We could propose a counteroffer. And we still need some kind of vote in the House of Ambassadors for any major treaty with any other planet. Personally, I'm in favor of letting the slow wheels of the democratic process turn as slowly as possible on this one. Let there be debate and discussion at every level, while the people of Galapagos work out exactly how to respond to—”
“Forget the treaty!” Kartokov said. “We need to get those machines off this spaceport and away from our world before they kill us all. Maybe they have planted more bombs already.”
“We still don't know for sure who's behind that,” Ellison said. “Let's wait for Captain Loomis's review of the security footage. So far, there's been no follow-up events, no statements from any terrorist group on Galapagos. And I'm sure we could all find suspects in our countries. We each face some internal faction or splinter group that opposes the Coalition itself. All of them would like to see us fail to manage this situation correctly. They all want to say the Coalition does not function and is doomed to collapse. That's why we have to investigate first. Too many suspects. Plus the Iron Hammers.”
“You said this wasn't like them,” Coraline said.
“But I wouldn't rule them out.”
“The Iron Hammers seem the most likely culprit to me, honestly,” Ogden said.
“Anyone except the Carthaginians,” Kartokov growled. “You'd never want to accuse your precious future masters. Are you already on their payroll?”
“I don't have to be bribed to see how the tide is turning,” Ogden said. “I am simply not blind to reality. And it is not my country that is so famous for requiring large bribes to lubricate the wheels of state.”
Kartokov snarled, but Coraline held him back with a few soothing words.
They continued to argue, sometimes splitting off into private offices where they could each confer by encrypted audio with their national leadership down on the surface.
How would we ever fight a war of global defense together? We could hardly manage to agree on an official armistice day, Ellison thought after a long and unproductive call with the crowded, top-heavy executive cabinet of his home country. Even the name of his country was haphazard—the “Scatterlands” had referred to thousands of mostly tiny, often marshy islands. This vague geographical term had evolved into something that now proudly called itself the Republic of Scatterlandia, and he had to say that name in public, again and again, with a sense of gravitas, without chuckling.
Beneath that oddball name, though, lay people who came from countless different backgrounds, who had together forged a nation in the heat of war. None of the nations on Galapagos were more diverse and less centralized than the Scatterlands, but the men and women of those marshy farms and fishing villages had risen to form a powerful navy despite their relative poverty to the other nations.
He felt like he was back in the war, commanding one of those hastily built submersible boats. Each of the large nations had some airplanes, but most of the fighting had happened on the surface of the ocean, and below it, down into the deep trenches where the great monsters of Galapagos dwelled.
His submarine, the Sea Scorpion, had been built from reused parts of everything from fishing boats to old space shuttles and cargo drop-boxes that had once brought the settlers and their possessions down to the planet's surface. It could resist the extreme deep-sea pressure of the trenches, and it could dock at one of the Scatterlands' critical handful of underwater carriers. Those incredible ships had traveled the deep trenches, serving as bases, tenders, and makeshift hospital and machine shops for the submarines that had waged so much of the Island Wars.
Ellison had spent most of his life on and under the sea. He'd often heard it compared to outer space, but Ellison preferred the ocean to space. The ocean was alive, all the way down. Space was full of emptiness and silence, a land for the dead, or for things that had never truly lived.
Like the machines.
Security Chief Loomis returned to their makeshift war room with bad news.
“Our engineers and maintenance guys aren't forensics experts, but they agree it was bombs, handmade with common chemicals, looks like. Not military grade.”
“So it could be anyone,” Ellis
on said.
“And the surveillance systems are infected with viruses,” Loomis said, nearly growling the words. “That's going to be a whole other net to untangle. And we may not get anything. They covered their tracks pretty good.”
“It's no mystery who did it,” Kartokov grumbled.
“You really need to see the doc,” Ellison told him, not for the first time that day.
“Plenty of time for that later,” Kartokov said.
Ambassador Zorn arrived, followed by four of his honor guard. Two of their visors were up, revealing their narrow, steel skull faces, their constantly recording black eyes.
“We aren't ready yet,” Ellison said.
“And we have waited long enough,” Simon said. “What have you determined about today's attack?”
“Our investigation is ongoing,” Ellison said.
“And still includes all possible suspects,” Kartokov growled, looking at Simon and his four death-bots.
“Did the guards just let you in?” Loomis said, moving toward the door. “I had two men out there.”
“Where are your four other bots?” Ellison asked.
“Two are currently restraining the guards who refused to admit us—” Simon began.
“If you hurt my men, I'll—” Loomis stepped up to the ambassador, making a fist.
“You will what?” Simon asked. “Please complete your threat.”
“Go check on them, Loomis,” Ellison said.
“Your men will be fine, aside from some light bruising,” Simon said. “They really should have been more cooperative.”
Loomis dashed out of the room, looking furious.
“And your other two infantry robots?” Ellison asked Simon. “Where are they?”
“Watching over your family, Minister-General Ellison.” Simon pointed his narrow wand of a hologram projector at the conference table in front of Ellison. A video played—two of the hideous machines carrying a stretcher with Ellison's wife, Cadia, strapped to it, unconscious.
“Where are they taking her?” Ellison asked, rage suddenly boiling inside him.
“To your medical center here on the spaceport, Minister-General,” Simon said. “They've already transported her there. They remain to keep watch over your wife and sons. Her condition is stable.”
