Victory

by Webb, Nick

  “Thank you. Thank you. You’re too kind,” he said, his voice amplified by a microphone hovering just a meter in front of him. Thousands of people had crammed into the plaza and neighboring streets to see him in person. It was just another ribbon-cutting ceremony for the newest heavy cruiser coming off the line at the nearby shipyard, but the people of Athens, Alabama were proud of their contribution to the war effort.

  It was their fifth ship completed since the start of the war. All four of the previous ships had been lost, of course, just like over sixty percent of all newly-built ships these days. But the pride of the crowd was palpable. “You know, back when I was interning for Senator Hill,” he paused for dramatic effect, “I guess some of you may have heard of him.” The crowd roared. The late Senator Hill was, in fact, an Alabamian native. “Back when I interned for old Joe he told me, he says, ‘Eamon, the people in my senatorial district are simply the best people in the galaxy.’”

  More roars from the crowd.

  Isaacson continued. The crowd was putty in his hand—he may have hated his forced servitude at the scheming hands of President Avery, but this part—the adoration of a war-weary crowd—this part he loved. “He says to me, ‘Eamon, the people in my senatorial district are simply the best in the galaxy,’” he said again, expertly knowing that the key to any good political speech was repetition, repetition, repetition. “‘And you know why they’re the best, Eamon? It’s because they never give up. They never give up. They’re the most bad-ass, unbreakable people on the planet. They never give up. And you know what, Eamon? You know what? If the Swarm ever comes back, the shitheads—I’m sorry folks, Senator Hill was pretty colorful, if you know what I mean—the shitheads will never know what hit ‘em.’”

  He paused to let the crowd scream ecstatically again. Old Senator Hill was an Alabama legend, especially here where he grew up. It didn’t matter that Isaacson was making up the story about the old bastard, one hundred percent blatant fabrication—the crowd ate it up. “When old Joe died a few years later,” he continued slowly, adding a note of heaviness to his voice. The crowd hushed. “When old Joe died, I found a letter in my mailbox the next week. He’d included it in his will. Imagine little ole’ me, just a snot-nosed intern, getting a personal letter from a United Earth senate legend. I opened it. Hands trembling.”

  The crowd was utterly silent.

  “I pulled out the letter. I read it. I read it again. Tears came to my eyes.” He continued, filling in with meaningless words as he racked his brain for what he’d say next. There was no letter. He’d only interned for the old codger for a week before the man died suddenly of a heart attack during a blowjob from some prostitute, and Isaacson had never even met him. But he needed a good line for the crowd. “And through my tears I saw the firm, hand-written signature of that patriot, that giant of a man.” He cleared his throat, summoning a good show of emotion. “The words he wrote are these. And I quote: ‘A sacrifice made in the service of your fellow countrymen is no sacrifice at all.’”

  Brilliant, Eamon, he thought, as the crowd went wild. He held up a hand. “Thank you for your sacrifice. I know you’ve seen hunger, pain, loss, and seemingly endless war. And through it all, you’ve persevered. You’ve given us a fighting chance against our mortal enemy. You’ve given us this,” he said, indicating the giant cruiser in dry dock about a kilometer away.

  He slipped in a few more anecdotes, some good old fashioned folksy homespun wisdom, pumped up the crowd with a bit more cheerleading, and finally called it a day. Three speeches in a row. Three starship naming ceremonies. Three ceremonially broken bottles against tungsten-iridium hulls. Hundreds of local dignitaries and factory chiefs and shift managers. Thousands of handshakes. His hand ached. His back ached. His head ached. And when he finally collapsed on his bed at the end of the day, he groaned when his comm card alarmed, indicating she wanted to talk to him.

  He couldn’t mentally swear at her. He couldn’t slather her with creative insults and curses. All he could do was take a deep breath, and tap his fingers against his leg in the same rhythm as the syllables of one particular insulting vulgar phrase. He couldn’t think the words—she’d hear that. And she’d punish him severely for it. But he tapped the rhythm. Tap, tap-tap, tap. Tap, tap-tap, tap. It was his only release. The only way he could impotently strike back at her.

  The alarm sounded again, and one of his thirty implants buzzed slightly. Not painfully, but as a warning: Don’t keep me waiting, Mr. Vice President, I’m not a patient woman.

  He pulled his comm card out and tapped it. “Yes, Madam President?”

  “Good work today, Mr. Isaacson. I trust you’re not too exhausted? Three naming ceremonies. Three! That sounds downright tiresome!” She laughed.

  Tap, tap-tap, tap.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll let you sleep soon. Any word from Ambassador Volodin?”

  “Not yet. He says an audience with Malakhov is highly unlikely, but that he’d pull all his strings to arrange it.”

  “Good,” said Avery. “We need to get you in there. Much depends on it.”

  “If I may ask, Madam President, why not just meet him yourself? If the message you want delivered to him is that important, wouldn’t it carry more diplomatic force if it was the President of United Earth delivering it?”

  She laughed. “Oh, Eamon. You’re so incredibly naive sometimes.”

  Tap, tap-tap, tap.

  “Oh?” he couldn’t help but let a hint of sarcasm seep into his voice. Luckily, she let it slide—his implants remained silent.

  “Mr. Isaacson, the message I want delivered is one that is suited uniquely to you.” She laughed again, then added, “Besides, it wouldn’t look good at all if I were the one to negotiate with Mr. Malakhov. Just think of the optics! I’m the bad-ass no-nonsense take-no-prisoners President of United Earth. I can’t be seen talking to war criminals.”

  He’d been halfway through sitting up to walk to the bathroom, but he froze. “I beg your pardon, Madam President?” Was she actually thinking of sending him off alone, outside her influence, to talk to her mortal enemy?

  “You heard me, Eamon,” she said, using his first name for the first time in two months. “You’re going to negotiate with President Malakhov. In person. In his own office. You need to get inside his head. See what he’s thinking. Otherwise, we don’t stand a chance.”

  He heard her take as sip of a drink she was holding, the clink of the ice rung against the glass. She continued, “And if that doesn’t work, then you’ll sabotage his secret computer network. Preferably with a bomb or something. In full view of live television cameras. The whole galaxy will see it live.” She laughed again. “Should cause quite a stir, don’t you think? People will see that we’re finally striking back against the Russian bastards. Oh, don’t worry, I know what you’re thinking. I’m sure you’ll escape the blast. Well, reasonably sure. Ha!”

  Tap, tap-tap, tap.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sickbay, ISS Warrior

  High Orbit, Britannia

  Volz watched her through sickbay’s window. She was asleep, and still bound to the bed by thick straps and cuffs. They weren’t going to take any chances with her—Commander Proctor had done some tests involving meta-space signals and determined that while Fishtail was unconscious the Swarm was not able to control her or send and receive signals though her, but even so it was safest to keep her chained.

  When she could transmit the Swarm virus with the touch of a single finger, it was the only thing that made sense. A transparent panel had been set up around her to prevent medical staff and other patients from inadvertently brushing up against her skin, but otherwise sickbay still made the most sense as the place to keep her. This way she could be easily kept under sedation, and under constant monitoring.

  He watched her. Just as he had almost every evening for two months. When he wasn’t flying his bird, or training his squad, or sleeping and eating, he was here.

  Was she in there somewher
e? Could she be saved? Proctor had assured him that she could be saved. Just like Granger. But he had trouble believing his XO when he passed away the long hours watching her.

  “If you keep watching her this much I think I’m going to rename you Stalker. Tyler “Stalker” Volz.”

  Volz gave a short, gruff laugh. “What do you know about stalking, Spacechamp?”

  She stood next to him, watching the former pilot sleep. “Clearly not as much as you, Ballsy. Though, if a guy were to stalk me, I think I’d want him to at least leave me some chocolates or something. Maybe some small talk. If I was really drunk maybe a quickie.”

  He looked at her aghast.

  “Kidding, Ballsy.” She turned to him. “Seriously, man. You’re obsessed. What’s up? You can’t go on like this, pining over her. You guys weren’t even an item, right? I mean, she was married, has a kid....”

  He waved a hand, dismissively. “No, nothing like that. It’s just ... she was on my team, and she threw herself into that thing to save the ship. And she made me promise to go tell her kid that everything would be ok, and I just, I don’t know. For awhile she was dead, and then, miraculously, she was alive. And I rescued her. But now she’s in limbo, and ... I’m just hung up, Spacechamp. It’s hard to explain.”

  He wasn’t even sure why he was there.

  “Are you just scared that you’ll end up the same way?” Spacechamp folded her arms, studying the sleeping pilot. “That you’ll go into the void and then come back ... changed? Different? That you’ll lose yourself? Demon possession?”

  He rolled his eyes. “This isn’t some B-movie space horror show.”

  “And yet, there she is. Changed. Taken over by an alien race. Sounds like a horror show to me,” she said.

  “Yeah,” he rubbed his arms—he’d clasped his hands behind his back for so long that they had started to prickle. “I guess this is a horror show. It could happen to any of us, at any time. Dogtown? Taken by the Swarm, then killed. Those other two pilots? And Hanrahan? Doc Wyatt?”

  She pat his shoulder. “Don’t worry. At least there won’t be any aliens bursting out of your chest and dancing on the bar. And remember, Granger came back. If he can, so can Fishtail.”

  “Yeah, I know. I keep telling myself that.”

  Spacechamp turned to leave, then paused. “You know why they call me Spacechamp?”

  “Uh ... didn’t you just pick it because it sounded cool?”

  “Pfft. You know you don’t pick your own callsign. No, they called me Spacechamp when I was first assigned to the Oregon. I wore my hair in a bun, and the guys said I looked like that cartoon character from when we were kids. Remember her? Spacechamp? The zany happy-go-lucky nerd girl turned space pirate? Robbed from the rich inter-solar plutocrats and gave to the poor?”

  Volz shrugged. “I played basketball. Never watched many cartoons.”

  “Well,” continued Spacechamp, “the thing with that cartoon was, Spacechamp was a goon. A total gamer girl with bad grooming habits and crazy hair that she wrapped up in a bun. When those jocks called me Spacechamp, it wasn’t a compliment, believe me. Behind my back they called me, and I quote, “Eterna-virge,” referring to their belief that I’d never get laid in my entire life. That first week was horrible. But you know what I did? I got in that cockpit, and I decided that I’d be the best god-damned fighter jock any of those bastards had ever seen. I put up a friggin’ full-size poster of Spacechamp on my locker. I plastered her name on my helmet. I owned it. I wasn’t going to let them define who I was. And, by the time a month had passed, I was the best. Ya know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Mainly because the rest of them were killed by the Swarm. They had it coming, the bastards, god rest their souls,” she crossed herself. Volz had forgotten she was religious. “But I lived. I survived. I fought my way through and clawed my way out when those other wankers got themselves killed. By the time I left, Spacechamp was my badge of honor. It was my title that said, Suck it, bitch, I’m better than all your sorry asses.”

  She turned and pointed to Fishtail. “She survived. Both because she’s a kick-ass pilot, and because you risked everything to bring her back. She had the lady-balls to put her life on the line for all of us, throwing herself into that thing to save the ship. Something tells me she’s going to fight this thing, and win. You just watch.”

  Volz shook his head, finally turning to face her. “You haven’t talked to it, Spacechamp. You don’t know. You don’t know what it’s like. It’s completely taken her. When she talks, it’s all Swarm. All hate and malice and chest-thumping and dick-wagging about how they’ll overcome us all and make us all friends, or kill us if we resist. I just ... I just worry that in spite of her bravery, in spite of me bringing her back, that we’ve lost her after all.” He bit his lip. “And that I’ll have to go back to that house, again, and tell them that their daughter and his mother is dead, again. I don’t know if I can handle that.”

  He was looking her in the eye, but she seemed distracted. Following her gaze, he scanned sickbay for what Spacechamp was looking at, and gasped.

  Fishtail was awake. And staring right at him, with dead, glassy eyes. A joyless smile curled the edged of her lips.

  He put his hand on the window. One of the nurses noticed the monitor beeps announcing Fishtail’s return to consciousness, and raced over to the transparent enclosure, jabbing a few times at the automatic IV to dispense a new dose of tranquilizer.

  A few moments later, she closed her eyes again and fell asleep.

  That look. That look on her face. He shuddered. The expression had horrified him. But there was still hope, wasn't there? She’s got to be in there. He pulled his hand back from the window, and made a decision.

  He needed to talk to her. Break past the monster and reach Fishtail. And bring her home.

  Again.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Conference Room, ISS Lincoln

  High Orbit, Britannia

  “She calls herself Vice Imperator Scythia Krull. Says her people, the Skiohra, have been servants of the Swarm for thousands of years. She claims that once they realized the Dolmasi had managed to throw off Swarm influence, it inspired the Skiohra to do likewise.”

  Admiral Zingano scratched his facial stubble as he studied the schematic of the super dreadnought displayed on the conference room wall. “Sounds damn suspicious if you ask me, Tim.”

  And even as he said the words, something stirred in the back of Granger’s mind. Something someone once told him about the Swarm. But the words eluded him. Was he remembering something he learned during his Vacation?

  On the opposite wall of the conference room was a video feed displaying the image of President Avery surrounded by General Norton and a handful of her military and intelligence advisors, seated in the command center of her new presidential starship, Galactic One. Interstellar One had been destroyed two months ago by unknown saboteurs—somehow the woman had managed to avoid an impressive number of assassination attempts.

  “How convenient for them,” she said with a snort, “that their come-to-Jesus moment came right as Bill’s fleet was about to show up.”

  Granger nodded in agreement. “The optics are unsettling, I agree. And Krull did tell me that she didn’t decide to make her move until she received intel that Bill was on his way with the fleet. She—or he, I’ve discovered you really can’t tell very easily with the Skiohra—thought that switching sides during a major battle would be a lot more devastating to the Swarm than to do it all by themselves, alone. Basically she wanted to desert when she was assured that she’d have the cover of our fleets. If she did it alone, she reasoned the Swarm would have destroyed every single Skiohra ship.”

  “Bastards,” muttered Avery. “Just like that shithead Kharsa. Using us for their own gain. Using us like a shield, or in Kharsa’s case, a spear, and risking our lives instead of their own to free his planet. I’m telling you, gentlemen, if we ever get out of this thing with the Swarm, we’re goi
ng on a nuke spree with these other bastards—things were so much simpler when all we had to worry about were the Russians and a long-dead Swarm threat.” She seemed to notice Commander Proctor’s eyes widen a bit and chuckled. “Not to worry, Shelby, I’m not as cutthroat as that. Still, I’m getting sick of the politics. I know, politics is my game. I’m good at it. Hell, I thrive on it. But intergalactic, interspecies politics where I don’t even know the motivations of all the players is a bit much for even my tastes.”

  Admiral Zingano’s brow furrowed as he studied the dreadnought’s layout on the schematics displayed on the wall. He gestured toward Proctor: “And what do you make of this, Commander? These super dreadnoughts are basically extremely large copies of the regular Swarm carriers. Similar interior design. Same weaponry. Nothing like the Dolmasi ships.”

  Proctor nodded. “It sure does look like one of two things. Either the Skiohra are using ships supplied by the Swarm, or perhaps building their own based off designs supplied by the Swarm....” She trailed off, her brow furrowing, as if realizing something.

  “Or...?” Zingano prompted. All eyes turned to her.

  “Or, the Skiohra gave the designs to the Swarm, or even built the carriers for them. Think about it—the regular carriers have corridors, consoles, even door handles, though the Swarm themselves are essentially liquid. Why? Well look at the size of those corridors, consoles, and door handles. Everything matches the dreadnought. The dreadnought which happens to be a perfect match for Skiohra ergonomics. They’re a little shorter than us, it seems. Smaller hands.” She turned to Avery. “I think we’ve finally solved the mystery of where the Swarm gets their ships, and why they’re designed how they are.”

  Avery leaned in toward the camera. “Do you think that the Skiohra are the Swarm’s shipbuilders? Could it be possible that they’ve just lost their ship-building capabilities with the Skiohra defection?”