by Webb, Nick
“Dead?”
She shook her head. “Not sure. I’d say no, as I still detect marginal electrical and chemical activity. But I can no longer coax it into producing Swarm virus. The stuff that actually controls people.”
“Interesting,” he said, as they walked through the doors to the bridge. The two marines saluted at the entrance. “And your conclusion?”
“I can’t conclude anything yet. But I suspect,” she lowered her voice, subconsciously noting how the crew stiffened their backs slightly as their superior officers walked onto the bridge. “I suspect that it has to do with the conversation we were having earlier, and what the IDF Chief Scientist was talking about. Quantum mechanics and general relativity. They’re like oil and water. But since it seems that the Swarm matter responds strongly to meta-space signals, which are general relativity-based, they must be, I don’t know, general relativity-based beings? Whatever they are, sending them through the very indefinable intersection of QM and GR—a quantum singularity—could be like the solvent that neutralizes them. Or at least their effect on regular matter.”
He leaned in close. “That sounds highly speculative.”
“It is,” she agreed. “If we had a team of a thousand scientists working for a decade we could do the proper science. Peer review, conferences, research papers, the works. But I’m doing cowboy science here, and sometimes speculation, duct tape, and a good hunch are all I’ve got.”
A flurry of readiness reports were starting to come in from all the department heads. Granger nodded at her. “Keep it up. I think we need to understand this if we want to have any hope of defeating the Swarm for good.” He sat down in the captain’s chair and then looked back at her. “And Shelby, next time you plan on making a quantum singularity onboard the ship, I’d appreciate it if you let me know.”
She retreated back to the XO’s station. That went about as well as I could expect....
Most of the departments were not as ready as she would have liked, owing to the widespread destruction from the previous battle over Indira, but it would have to do. Her head snapped up to see a flashing red message pop onto her screen. A priority one from Zingano. She read it, letting the news seep in. Just when it seemed like things couldn’t get worse.
“Sir,” she said sharply, wrenching Granger’s attention away from the navigation officer. “Emergency at the Wellington shipyards.”
He raised an eyebrow. Little seemed to phase him anymore. “Oh?”
“Rear Admiral Littlefield is dead, and about thirty ships are either destroyed or disabled. The shipyards is in shambles.”
Granger nodded calmly, taking in the news and reanalyzing the new tactical situation. “Looks like our little fleet’s on its own. Again.” He turned back to Ensign Prince at navigation. “Q-jump in three minutes.”
Proctor scowled. “Aren’t we going to wait for orders from Zingano? Surely they’ve been revised—we were supposed to be accompanied by at least twenty new ships from Wellington.”
He shrugged. “Why? I know exactly what he’ll say, because they’re the orders I’d give myself.” His eyes were deeply lined; heavy bags sunk low underneath. To Proctor, it seemed like age, fatigue, and constant stress were all competing to see which could destroy him first. “We’re expendable, Shelby. If we don’t stop them at York, the road to Britannia lies open and uncontested. And if Britannia falls, the only other major defensive center of all United Earth is, well, Earth itself.”
Her console beeped softly, indicating new orders from Zingano. Granger was right. Proceed to York asap without escort. Godspeed.
Chapter Nineteen
Tyler Volz was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming because every time it happened it felt like he was flying his bird through the middle of a firefight.
Regular, real-life firefights always felt like a dream—his actions became automatic, instinctual—so it made sense that when he actually was dreaming, it would feel like a life-or-death battle.
Space twirled around him. Like he was perched on a spinning top. Stars wheeled over his head. He couldn’t remember what was happening, or what he’d just done. Or what he was looking for.
He was looking for something.
Sleep overcame him again, but when he awoke, it was to a voice. He recognized it—it sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite remember who it was. Looking out his cockpit viewports he saw ships—he knew he was surrounded by enemies. One was coming toward him.
He maneuvered and dodged and veered, though he couldn’t remember why, but he knew he had a goal. And up ahead, there they were.
They?
There were two of them. Two fighters. Both in danger. He had a choice to make—a terrible choice.
More maneuvers. He fired off a few shots. The Swarm was there, he knew it. And the voice in his ears again told him they’d all been betrayed.
But he still had time to make the choice. To save one.
And kill the other, before the Swarm got to them first.
Chapter Twenty
Pilot's Locker Room, ISS Warrior
York, Britannia Sector
Volz was half-asleep when the klaxons started blaring. Dammit, he thought. Another engagement. They weren’t ready. He rolled out of his bunk and, still groggy-eyed, slid into his flight suit and pulled on his boots, clicking the magnetic air seal into place between them. The boots were still ripe—he’d run his crew through the wringer today, practicing new maneuvers using tow cables, carbon-composite nets, and new targeting algorithms that would allow them to fling debris into singularities instead of osmium bricks, or, barring those, broken-down fighters, along with their helpless pilots.
Morale was low. The pain and shock at the loss of the Lucky Thirty—the nickname Pew Pew had given to the sacrificed pilots—was still fresh on everyone’s minds. It was normal to lose that many during an average engagement with the Swarm. But to lose them like that, chosen because their last name happened to start with the wrong letter ... it just felt so ... mechanical and inglorious and ... wrong.
They all—all the pilots—knew it was necessary. It was what they all signed up for. They signed up to die.
But that didn’t mean they had to like it.
“What do you say, Ballsy, is it your lucky day?” said Pew Pew. “We just replaced all the A’s through H’s. Maybe today it’s the R’s through Z’s.” The other pilot pulled his flight gloves on and engaged the air seal.
Fodder snickered. “Every day is my lucky day. I just officially changed my last name. Say goodbye to Dave “Fodder” Zavaleri. Say hello to Dave “Fodder” Asterisk-One-Big-Unit.”
Volz rolled his eyes. “Big Unit?”
“Yeah. I’m the Big Unit, didn’t you know?”
Pew Pew grabbed his deodorant before glancing up toward the blaring klaxons, shaking his head, and tossing the stick back into his locker. “He’s just compensating. Also drives a big-ass truck back home. Classic small-man compensation.”
“Asterisk-one?” Volz asked, a little absentmindedly. He had little patience for the locker-room joking lately.
“Yeah. Except not spelled out. Just the symbol. Asterisk-One-Big-Unit. That way I’m strategically placed in the alphabet in case Pierce has any more bright ideas for dishing out the less desirable assignments.”
“How the hell is Asterisk-One-Big-Unit going to help you, dipshit?” Pew Pew struggled to pull his boots on.
“It’s obvious, Vacuum-Dick. Asterisk ain’t a letter. Next time he says something like A’s through H’s, go ahead and fly your sorry asses into that singularity, I’ve got an out.”
Pew Pew snorted, but Fodder pulled his flight helmet out of the locker and pointed to a label that he’d taped to the side. In bright red letters it read, Dave *1BigUnit.
The other pilots around them in the locker room laughed. Volz and Pew Pew were still waiting for Fodder to finish dressing when Spacechamp poked her head through the door. “Oi! Briefing room! Now! Pierce is starting.”
They jogged
down the hall to the pilot’s briefing room where Commander Pierce had already launched into his pre-engagement pep-talk. Except his pep-talks these days were more somber affairs. Not that Pierce had ever been anything even approaching a cheerleader, but the weeks and months of sending pilots to their deaths were obviously wearing on the man.
“—won’t know until we get there. Alpha Wing, you run interference for Beta Wing for package delivery.” He looked up at the late arrivals. “Untouchables, nice of you to join us. Lieutenant Volz, I want your crew ready and available for special maneuvers—”
“Save those for F through K,” grumbled Pew Pew. The uneasy silence was punctuated by a few gallows-humor chuckles.
“And save the sass for your mom, Lieutenant,” said Pierce, but his face was white. “Like I said, we won’t know the tactical situation until we get there in—” he glanced at the status board, “—eight minutes. Just remember, York is small, only a few major cities. Over half the population is scattered across the main continent in smaller towns and villages. Very few orbital structures to make use of in our engagements. Most of the action will take place close to the capital ships, but pay attention to fleeing transports and freighters—offer them cover until they make their q-jumps. And—” he paused, and looked down before continuing. “Let’s save this one, boys. Our record has been spotty the past few weeks. Let’s save this one.”
He manner was a bit off—forced, even. With his patrician accent he often came across as stiff, but this was backed by a quiet, underlying sense of emotion that seemed out of place for the unflappable CAG. Volz glanced at Spacechamp seated next to him, questioningly. She leaned in and whispered, “His family’s down there.”
“Launch in five. Dismissed.”
The crew of pilots broke up into their squads and rushed into the fighter bay through the double doors on the side of the briefing room. Techs and flight crew members were in a frenzy, making last-minute adjustments, clearing the launch paths, removing restraints on the fighters. Volz climbed up into his bird and clicked his restraints in place. His body on autopilot, he ran through the pre-flight checklist—it was the same almost every day for the past four months. Confirm ammunition levels. Check. Osmium brick release hydraulics. Check. Find Fishtail.
Check.
Check check check check except she was not dead, and not alive. She wasn’t Fishtail. And it was Granger’s fault. Volz’s memory of the other side of the singularity was still hazy—Commander Proctor guessed that was a side-effect of traversing a relativistic quantum singularity—but the memories he had were unambiguous. Granger had, at one point at least, been a Swarm agent, he was sure of it. He remembered seeing that same, huge dreadnought. And a station. And the Constitution. And Russians were involved somehow. But Volz had eluded him. Found Fishtail, and somehow, miraculously, found the exact singularity he’d left, and went back in. How did he find her again? It was so hazy. He remembered space. Debris. Floating. Gasping for air. But against all odds, he’d rescued her.
And now, in spite of all his efforts, Fishtail was just like Granger had been. Gone, but still alive.
The kid, Zack-Zack, had sent messages, the grandma had sent requests to vidcom every time the Warrior made it to Earth for resupply and crew transfer, but he’d ignored it all. He couldn’t face them. He couldn’t give them the news. Not only because the information was classified, but the truth was too horrible, too painful, to share with them. That their daughter, the kid’s mother, was a monster. Not dead. Not alive. And definitely not human.
“Ready for launch,” came Commander Pierce’s voice. Volz looked out the cockpit, giving a thumbs up to his team. Spacechamp, Pew Pew, and Fodder all nodded back at him. He watched his tactical screen. A green indicator message popped up. They’d arrived. The final q-jump had placed them just fifty thousand kilometers out from York. Their velocity would take them into a close elliptical orbit, which meant they needed to be ready to launch within minutes.
Except....
Spacechamp swore in his headset.
“Bloody hell,” breathed Fodder. Volz switched over to planetary view.
York was already hit hard. They were too late.
A voice came over his headset. Lieutenant Schwitzer. Commander Pierce’s assistant. “All pilots, stand down. Please remain on standby. Schwitzer out.”
Pierce usually gave both the engage and disengage orders. Volz glanced out the cockpit toward the command center. Through its window he could see Schwitzer at the command station. The CAG, Commander Pierce, sat nearby on a bench.
Holding a framed picture in his hands. Staring blankly ahead.
Chapter Twenty-One
Bridge, ISS Warrior
York, Britannia Sector
Captain Granger stared at the bleak view on the screen. Dozens, hundreds, of mushroom clouds had billowed up into the blue atmosphere, rendering the entire planet a gray, desolate, swirling maelstrom of dust and lightning.
“Ensign? Final sensor report?”
Ensign Diamond nodded. “Nearly there, sir.” He pointed to a few of his sensor crew members, indicating that they finalize their scans. Moments later he continued, “Destruction is nearly total, sir. All major cities and towns gone. A few outlying settlements still there, along with ... perhaps a few thousand single houses scattered out on farms and ranches, and up in the Bolen mountain range and the Huxley Hills.”
He paused, to either catch his breath, or to let the enormity of the destruction sink in. “We estimate about one hundred and twenty-five singularities were fired into the crust. Atmospheric dust coverage is at ninety-nine percent.
“Any sign of the Swarm fleet?”
“None, sir.”
No. No you bastards, you’re not getting away that easily. “Continue scanning. Scan toward the other inner solar system planets. Athena is the next one out, and there’s a few orbiting mining colonies out there in the asteroid belt.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Tim,” said Proctor, who’d been talking to the Science Station crew. “We estimate about two billion tons of material billowing around, screening out most solar radiation. With the sun completely blocked out, the average planetary temperature will start to plunge within days. Recommend we request a relocation fleet to set out from Earth immediately.”
“Do it,” he said.
Relocation. Perhaps twenty thousand people left, out of tens of millions.
He was tired of this. It was time not only to take the fight to the enemy, but to turn their own weapons on them.
Hanrahan. Colonel Hanrahan. Back when Granger had confronted his Swarm-compromised security chief, he’d used the Swarm’s own communication method against them. Somehow. He still had no idea what he’d done, or how he did it. All he knew was that, at some point, he’d been tied into the Swarm’s communication network, and had somehow tapped into it to convince Hanrahan to lower his weapon, even if only for a second.
He closed his eyes.
Where are you? Where the hell are you, you miserable rat bastards?
No, he wasn’t going to find them that way. His state of mind was too angry. When he’d influenced Hanrahan, it wasn’t with anger. He breathed deeply, and slowly, calming his mind.
Where are you? Where are you, my friends?
He searched his mind, grasping at any stray thought, any hint of Swarm presence. They had to still be there somewhere. There was no reason for them to stick around after the fall of York, but part of him raged against the idea that they could simply swoop in, destroy a world, and not stick around for the consequences. There had to be consequences. He needed to bring justice to them.
Where are you, my friends?
We are here, our friend. We never left. We will be with you, always.
He opened his eyes.
“New course. Distribute this heading to the fleet.” He keyed in a set of coordinates and sent them to Ensign Prince.
“Sir? These ... these are in the asteroid belt out past Athena.”
> “I know, Ensign.”
“But sensors show nothing there. Nothing but asteroids.”
He glanced up at Prince. Then Proctor. The entire bridge crew was staring at him. “Regardless. That’s where we’ll find the bastards that did this. When we’re clear of York’s gravity well, engage q-jump drive.”
“How do you know, Tim?” Proctor had stepped forward. Everyone was now looking at her. Then back to him. Like there was a showdown of wills. Not that she was challenging him, but she was voicing all their doubts. All their unspoken suspicions about him.
“I just know. That’s where we’ll find the cumrat ships that destroyed York. Anyone got a problem with this? We’re going there to destroy them. Anyone got a problem? I imagine Commander Pierce doesn’t. His family is buried down there. I imagine the ISS Lancaster doesn’t—their entire ship was crewed from York. They’re in our fleet right now—I imagine they’ll lead the charge.”
“But sir, there’s nothing there,” said Proctor. She held up a datapad. “Here. Look for yourself. All visual scans—”
“Are over thirty minutes old,” interrupted Granger. “It might not look like they’re there now—the light from their ships won’t hit our sensors for another thirty minutes—but they are. I know it.” He stood up, taking in the gazes of the bridge crew. “Anyone else want to speak up?”
Silence.
“Right, then. Maximum thrust.”
Warily, the crew moved into action. Five minutes later, they were sufficiently clear of the gravity field to safely initiate a q-jump.
“Signal to the fleet. Q-jump on my mark.” He paused until Ensign Prucha at comm indicated everyone was ready.
“Now.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bridge, ISS Warrior
York, Britannia Sector
