“I’m concerned that you’re not a team player. That your presence here is more disruptive than it is constructive.”
“And so what if it is? You think I came all this way for you? You’re wrong.”
“Why did you come here, then?”
He regarded me once more, then seemed to come to some sort of decision.
“I can see that there is no easy way to be rid of you. Very well. What would you have of me, Commander? What whim do you wish me to pander to today?”
“I simply wish to know whether the attitude, the vibe that I’m getting off you is worth the hassle. Every crewmember that you insult or berate answers to me. I’m responsible for them.”
“You’re here because I hurt someone’s feelings?”
“We’re a team, Professor. That means morale is a key factor in motivating these people to do their jobs. They're all volunteers – they want to be here. If you change that, we’re going to have problems.”
“And you think they should be my problems?”
“Put it this way – if I have to choose between you or one of my crew, guess which way I’m going to swing?”
He rubbed his stubbled chin. “Very well, I see your point. Tell your crew to stay out of my way and I’ll not be forced to vent my frustration out on them.”
“They have jobs to do. Important jobs.”
“As important as getting this damn machine to work?”
It was my turn to concede. “I’ve come down here to talk to you, rather than issue ultimatums. I want you to succeed, but I also want my crew to be able to do their jobs. I see no reason why those two have to be mutually exclusive.”
“A compromise, then?”
“If it can be agreed upon.”
He sized me up, then, regarding me from head to toe. “You’re not the usual meathead the Admiral foists upon me, are you? Most people would have wilted under my tirade by now, but you’ve stood your ground.”
“The worst you can do to me is yell in my face. I’m used to people trying to tear my guts out of my abdomen instead of trading words with me.”
He barked out a laugh. “I forget. You’re the Protectorate’s hero of the month.”
It was my turn to look frustrated. “I’m not here for glory, I’m here to get the job done.”
He was still grinning. “And you don’t care if you piss off the brass or the politicians to get it done, do you?”
“No, sir.”
“I can respect that. I heard your speech at the talks the other week. Something tells me that wasn’t the agreed upon story.”
“I get the impression you care little about what others think of you, as well.”
He gave me a proud look. “Some people will never like me, and I will never give two shits about it.”
“I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to make sure the Ghantri don’t kill millions of people. I’m hoping our goals can coexist. I may even be able to help you, education aside. I have a few unique experiences that may prove insightful to this project.”
“Oh?”
“What do you know about portable Jump Gates?”
“Bullshit. That’s just Corporate fear-mongering. Such a thing would be incredibly expensive, requiring millions of finely tuned nanites to generate the right conditions for an event horizon to form. You’re talking about resources that would bankrupt entire worlds, just to piece together a prototype pair. Resources that would better be spent on a faster starship.”
“I’m sending you a data cache. It might not be much, but if it can shed some light on how this drive works, it’s yours.”
I sent him the data package – my nanite implant data from when I interfaced with the portable Jump Gate on Ambrose. His gaze took on a distant focus, as he scanned the information unfolding on his interface overlay. His demeanour shifted immediately.
“This…this is…”
“I also still have the original frame,” I said, handing him Artemis’ case. It’s inoperable, of course, but I’m betting you’ll find some similarities between the technology and this Drive.”
He was nodding to himself, his fingers tracing patterns in the air before him. His mouth was working, muttering equations and algorithms.
“I’ll work the night shifts,” he said, “minimising my…exposure to the crew. I can be an arse, but I’ve waited my entire life for this kind of opportunity and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you give the credit to one of these foppish grad students the Admiral has leashed me to.”
“Are the other scientists necessary to your work?”
“To be honest, I waste time trying to find meaningful work for them. All I need is one or two skilled individuals and I can work far more efficiently.”
“I have a top-of-the-line mobile Veng AI I can lend you if that would be better?”
“Infinitely.”
“I’ll send him down…tonight?”
“I’ve misjudged you, Commander.”
“Happens a lot. I count on it in order to defeat my enemies.”
He held out his hand, I took it. “And I am no longer your enemy.”
25.
As the peace talks wrapped up over the next few days I learned that my speech, or perhaps common sense, had swayed a few of the minds that ran this part of the galaxy. The Protectorate mediators and negotiators had managed to wring a pledge from most of the parties involved in the strife plaguing Eridani. Peace was not on the table, the negotiators were not that naïve, but the knowledge that at any time an invasion could catch the authorities with their proverbial pants down was enough to kerb some of their enthusiasm.
A few key articles were agreed upon. Chiefly, the reinstating of the Protectorate Fleet. How they managed that, I may never know. The biggest hurdle to getting the Esper Monarchy and the Tyrillian governments to honour their treaties was the fact that DonCrest had hired hundreds of mercenary companies to protect their interests. Another obstacle was the state of the Tyrillian government – representatives from Landford made up the majority of the dignitaries from the planet, but they were not the only ones to attend. The Ressh, previously considered nothing more than isolationist terrorists, had gained enough authority on one of the continents to be officially recognised as a political entity. The Ressh publically stated they were not signatories of Votus-Eridani Treaties with the Protectorate, and held no obligation to provide military assistance.
After several days of delicate negotiations, the Protectorate publically recognised the party, although it cost them some sway with the official rulers of Tyrillia – the Landford government. The Esper Monarchy were not too impressed either, as they believed that the Ressh were behind the assassination of their Monarch. The Ressh, naturally, pointed the finger at Landford and cited the convenience to Landford if the Espers attacked the smaller nation on Tyrillia. The DonCrest Corporation, originally thought to be behind the regicide, claimed grievance against all parties as they were, after all, innocently attacked in retaliation by the Esper Royalists.
In return for recognising the Ressh, the troublesome fledgeling government agreed to a cessation of attacks against Landford interests and would be allowed to police its own area of influence. They were also to become signatories to the Votus-Eridani Treaties.
This, in turn, allowed the Tyrillian planetary council to approve the return of several key assets to Protectorate command. The Royalists, promised a lifting of the embargo by DonCrest, could also free up resources used to strong arm their way through blockades or defend against isolationist attacks. DonCrest, on the other hand, had no such obligations to provide vessels or troops to the Protectorate but offered to pay out many mercenary contracts and release them from the Corporate war machine.
All up, the Protectorate were fairly chuffed with themselves.
The final caveat with this tenuous agreement was that it all hung on the status of the Ghantri invasion. The Protectorate had to provide proof of the threat, undeniable and tangible proof, and present a defence strategy to the
Eridani governments.
There were no illusions that if such proof were not presented in a timely manner, then the various factions would return to their endless bickering and fighting. Nor were they naïve enough to assume that covert operations would cease, either. Schemers would continue to scheme and shadow plays would continue to unfold, but everyone agreed that committing themselves to a military campaign would be foolish in light of impending invasion. It was also hard to deny the testimonies of so many refugees – that alone gave them pause.
So, as Admiral Jalabir prophesied, a clear objective was decided upon. An exploration of the Ar’od Dar nebula – a distant blur to the naked eye from Eridani. The powers in the system were overjoyed at the choice of agent for this role – the most successful man ever to go against the Ghantri threat, the pinnacle of Protectorate hopes and ideals. Never mind that I was just a man, the Protectorate blew my image out of proportion. My exploits were exaggerated by spin doctors and public relations gurus paid for by Protectorate credits. Unwillingly, I became larger than life itself.
The way they spoke about me to the media, one could be excused for thinking they were sending me off to deal with the threat single-handedly. I began to suspect that this was exactly what they hoped I would do.
Wheels within wheels, the Protectorate Admiralty had agendas of their own. Those men and women who reached the heights of Admiral were more politicians than strategist, although they were shrewd and cunning all. I had already made an enemy of Stirges but knew that I was not so popular with the others. Irib’en Jalabir seemed to have taken me under his wing, for now, providing a measure of protection against the machinations of the others. His patronage was not without strings, I had to periodically voice my opinions of various Protectorate agendas and policies – opinions that were carefully constructed by the Admiral and his people. I began to despise seeing my image broadcast on mainstream media, my smile faked and my words not my own. People I interacted with from the broader public would often quote the various mottos and slogans I was forced to utter, I had to fight the urge to cringe each time I heard them.
We had stayed at Collumus Station for several months, but eventually, our shakedown cruise was due. It was time to test the newly refitted ship, time to work out how these Jump Drives worked. Time to name my new ship.
It was a short, personal ceremony when we launched the Cruiser. Maxine and the gang, along with the new crew, were present. Admiral Jalabir and a couple of media people rounded out the number.
I stood on a podium before the bow, thanked everyone for their attendance, and cleared my throat.
“It isn’t every day that someone gets a second chance to fix something that had gone wrong in their life. For some, it’s an apology for harsh words, or an opportunity to pay something back that was taken. For me, it was believing in something that I know now was a mistake.
“Years ago, I rode an assault shuttle down to Ambrose Station thinking I was unstoppable. I bought into the hype and propaganda that our chain of command rammed down our throats – I ate it up. As a Primacy Star Marine, I had the best training the Network had to offer. The finest tactical training, the best equipment and the will to use it. It was an underestimation of our enemy that brought all that to a halt.
“The consequences of that failure were far reaching. Many of you here today are very familiar with those consequences, for they were your daily struggles for the past nine years.
“But I recently received a second chance to make things right, to set the balance even. It took the death of a dearly beloved friend to show me that opportunity, so it was vitally important to me that I did it right this time around.
“This ship, it represents a chance encounter that ended up being the instrument of our salvation – the escape from a dangerous place and the redemption of my past. Within this ship, thousands of refugees, many of whom signed on as my new crew, were able to leave the Gossamer System for good. We stole it from the galaxy’s biggest thieves, you could say.
“So a ship such as this needs a name that says all these things, as well as the future that this ship represents for us. I won’t keep you here long, I know how busy you all are. So without further ado, I present to you – the Restitution.
I signalled to Kekkin, standing over by a control panel. He pressed a button and several spotlights lit up sequentially along the broadside of the ship, showing the finished Cruiser in all her glory.
I turned back to the crowd as the applause started, smiled for the holo-recorders, and made to step back from the podium. A bright flash caught my eye, but I never had the chance to realise what it was.
A strange sensation came over me and strange noises filled my ears. I felt this hollowness and disconnect with reality. For some reason, I was on my back and people were trying to fuss over me. Their faces and voices unknowable, a ringing in my ears drowning out all other sounds. With fading clarity, I noted that a rather large hole had been punched through my chest, my fingers brushing the burnt edges of puckered flesh where my sternum once was. I somehow remember muttering a single word before losing consciousness.
“Damn.”
26.
A coma is a strange place to exist. One never knows if you are real, or if anything is real. You don’t remember anything about your life before the coma and are incapable of existing in anything remotely resembling the present. My sub-conscious, my damaged psyche, was given free reign. I was completely at its mercy.
My nightmares had been mild, since escaping the Gossamer System, but now they returned in full swing. I replayed every decision I had ever made, refought every battle ever fought, and lost time and time again. These were not like the usual post-op nightmares; they seemed so real as if I really was there. I had no recollection of their resemblance to past experiences but knew that they were familiar, regardless. The ever-present sea of data, my constant companion, flowed at my feet through each encounter, dragging me down.
Each time I endured these conflicts, they ended the same. A single flash, a light, and a bullet hole in the chest. They all led to my death.
I spent an eternity in this darkness, this limbo. I know now that I came close to death many times, but was never aware of my condition until I awoke.
Pain, mercifully absent for the aeons I drifted in torpor, spread about my perception like liquid fire. I welcomed it, the first physical sensations I had felt for a long time. A quickening of my senses revealed that I was in a bed, the sounds of medical sensors faintly beeping and buzzing.
“Apologies for waking you early,” said a distantly familiar tone, “But my experts tell me you’ll wake naturally tomorrow morning anyway, and I want some alone time with you before then. Don’t worry, I’ve blanked your monitoring equipment so your minders won’t be disturbed.”
I tried to open my eyes, but my lids were made of stone.
“Relax, son,” said the voice again, “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to return a favour. When you’re well, you’re going to want revenge – against me, against the Ghantri, and against those who did this to you. I’m hoping you’ll be a worthy opponent, just like your grandfather was, so I’m giving you the chance to prove it. I wasn’t the orchestrator behind this attack, but I know who was.”
I felt a cool metal device pressed to my temple and a data file began to appear in my dormant overlay. I hadn’t even accepted the transfer, it just appeared.
“Follow this account. Follow the credits.”
Just like that, the voice was gone, with it the chemicals used to wake me up. In moments, I felt the irresistible pull of the coma once more.
I awoke, the memory of the encounter evaporating like smoke as I tried desperately to remember the import of the words. Thankfully, I had long since started keeping a dream journal on the advice of Zoe while she treated me. I dumped what I could remember into my journal file, solidifying it in my memory.
“Osiris,” I murmured.
I felt cool hands grip mine and sighs of relief from mu
ltiple sources around me. A quiet, yet welcome voice to my left cooed to me.
“Don’t get up, love, you’re safe,” said Zoe.
“Osiris,” I croaked on a dry throat. A tube was pressed to my parched lips and cool moisture trickled into my mouth. All too soon it was pulled away, a few drops trailed down my chin.
“You’re safe, Donny,” said Max, “He can’t hurt you here. We’re going to find him.”
“No…he was here.”
A gravelly growl sounded from the foot of my bed. “He’s delirious.”
“He’s just woken up from a coma, Hieron, give him a break,” said Max.
“Osiris was here. Told me it wasn’t him,” I said, opening my eyes. The light was bright, I had to squint against the pain it caused.
“What are you saying, boy?” said an ancient figure standing before me. It took me several moments to realise who it was.
“Hieron?” I said.
“In the flesh!” he said, striking a heroic pose he often did when I was a boy.
Old man Hieron Donovan – my grandfather – was the oldest man I knew. His biological age was almost two hundred years, but his chronological age was…I don’t even know. At least twice this number. I think. He tells a lot of tall tales, so it’s hard to know where the stories end and reality begins. Never let the truth get in the way of a good story, he was famous for saying. He ruled the Dreaming of Atmosphere for the longest period of its storied history, his name firmly embedded in the annals of the Votus-Eridani Network. He had plied his trade as a bounty hunter, mercenary, courier, trader and information broker at one time or another. Since his retirement shortly after handing the Dreaming over to my late father, he had sequestered himself on the tropical ocean world of Oceania in the Votus II System – a six-month journey.
“How…how long have I…”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Zoe, rubbing my forearm, “What matters is that you get well.”
“What happened?”
Frontier's End: A Seth Donovan Novel Page 14
