by Webb, Nick
“Are they peaceful?”
“I wouldn’t say that. Rather, they are artifacts. They were the first races the Valarisi conquered. From one, they learned interstellar travel, and nothing more. From the other, they absorbed their life cycle. The pattern of expansion, and rest. I think you’re aware that the Valarisi were not supposed to have emerged from their lifecycle for another seventy-five of your years?”
“We’d worked that much out, but have no idea why.”
“For that, you’ll need to ask your own kind, Captain.”
The Khorsky incident. He knew it. He’d suspected Russian involvement with the Swarm ever since that day, ten years ago. “The Russians?”
“I think you know the answer to that.” Kharsa held out a hand one last time, indicating affirmation. “The question is, why?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
President's Stateroom, Frigate One
High Orbit, Earth
Norton stalked through the door, motioning to his marine guard to wait outside with the secret service officers. “Madam President,” he said in greeting as he sat down. “I assume your meeting with Isaacson was fruitful?”
“Very. My team uploaded the new programs while he was sitting here.”
“Does he suspect anything?”
She chuckled. “Oh, he suspects a lot of things. But his greatest suspicion will be his undoing. He suspects that I’m telling the truth. That I’m sending him out there to make a treaty with Malakhov, and that when he gets one I’ll truly let him go.”
“Why would he think that, Madam President?”
“Because he’s a narcissist, General. He’s at the center of his world. We—me, you, the rest of us—we only exist as shells of skin and flesh to him. We don’t exist as human beings in his mind, at least, not self-aware, feeling individuals. He’s a true psychopath. He can’t empathize. He’s incapable of it. And so, when I dangle the chance in front of him of being worshipped by the masses, of being in a position of true power, he can’t resist.”
Norton scowled. “Is he really that naive?”
Avery expression was clear: are you kidding? “General, this is Eamon Isaacson we’re talking about. The oligarchic buffoon with the nice smile and boyish good looks who, in spite of his family, connections, wealth, and power managed to spend three whole years of his vice presidency trying to kill me with nothing to show for it except for making me late to a hair appointment once. The man wouldn’t know his own dick from a hot dog if it was wrapped in a bun. His mind is so prodigiously empty that my technicians had to invent a new sensitivity setting for the inter-cranial monitoring system I put inside him,” she said, patting the terminal nearby that gave her the readout of Isaacson’s thoughts and mental state.
The general nodded. “Well sure, he’s a few tines short of a pitchfork, but don’t underestimate him, Madam President. Once Volodin got involved in the assassination attempts a few months ago he very nearly succeeded. Don’t forget about Interstellar One. And the Verso and Recto,” he added, referring to the president’s former starliner and its two military escort frigates.
“Yes, Volodin,” she sighed. “Did we ever grab a sample from him?”
“No, Ma’am. CIA is still working on it. But until they do I think it’s safe to assume he’s Swarm, like the rest of the Russian high command.”
“Agreed.” She sipped her coffee. “What’s our ETA at Britannia?”
“Two hours. Zingano is already there. The Hero of Earth is on his way,” he added with a snort of derision.
Avery gave him a sharp look. “You need to get over him, General. Focus your anger on the enemy, not our best weapon.”
“I am focusing on the enemy, Madam President. I think it unwise to place so much trust in him. He’s been compromised. By his own admission, for god’s sake.”
“And that’s why I trust him, General. The very fact that he’s so unsure and hesitant about his own loyalties, so anguished about once being under Swarm control—that alone tells me he’s on our side. Plus, if he were still under Swarm control, the Swarm must be the worst tacticians in the galaxy. They could have destroyed Earth months ago. Earth, New Dublin, Marseilles, Johnson’s World, Tyr ... they all would have fallen were it not for Granger. The man has spine, and even if he’s rough around the edges and borderline insubordinate, so be it—he’s the best we’ve got.”
“Then god help us all,” said Norton. “I don’t trust him. Not since the Khorsky incident. Not since he demonstrated he’s willing to disobey direct orders, and throw his superior officers under the bus during congressional questioning.”
“This is not the playground, General. Just because he told on you once doesn’t make him evil or the teacher’s pet or unpopular or whatever your problem with him is. Man up, and win me this war without all the catfighting. Got it?” She’d started glaring at him. He glared back. It was clear he detested being told by a civilian how to do his job, but to his credit he nodded stiffly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“What do you make of Granger’s report?”
“Troubling. The Skiohra add a new wrinkle to the patchwork of threats we face. Those super dreadnoughts are overwhelmingly powerful—the battle of Indira is the first time any of our commanders has defeated one—”
“And yet you still distrust Granger,” she said derisively. “Go on.”
Norton scowled again. “His initial report claims that there are six of them—”
“Six? I thought IDF Intel said there were three. Four tops.”
“They could have lied to Granger. In either case, the meeting they requested with Granger is tomorrow.”
She swiveled her chair and stared out the window at the numberless stars and empty interstellar space. “We need something big, General. We’re losing. Losing badly. We need to do something daring. Completely unexpected. We can’t continue to rely on outside events to save us. Just like what I’m doing with Isaacson, we need to do something that will result in our gain no matter what the outcome of the tactic is. We’ve fought bravely, we’ve fought desperately. It’s time we started fighting intelligently. Ruthlessly.”
“You have something in mind, Madam President?”
“Of course I do. Send a meta-space message to General Palmer.”
“Army chief?” said Norton in surprise. “Ground troops?”
She nodded. “We’re going to do something that, whatever the outcome, will leave us in a stronger position. Just like with Isaacson.”
“I’m afraid I’m still not following on how allowing Isaacson to go out to Penumbra Three with Volodin will result in anything but headaches. Once outside your immediate control, there’s no way he’ll do what you want. He may not even return.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m finally playing smart, General. He’ll go out there, and whether he chooses to follow through with it or not, the programs I’ve uploaded into his implants will accomplish our goals.”
“Are the scientists sure? Are they absolutely certain it will work?”
“Nothing is certain, General. This is a gamble. And in a game of chance like war, what else do we have?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bridge, ISS Warrior
High Orbit, Britannia
As soon as the Warrior q-jumped into the Britannia system, a message from Admiral Zingano appeared on Granger’s terminal.
Meet me on the Victory, as soon as you get in. Bring Proctor.
“Diaz, you have the bridge. Commence resupply and general repair ops.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
He left the bridge and headed for Proctor’s lab. It was on the way to the shuttle bay anyway, may as well tell her in person. Plus, it would let him get a peek at that singularity equipment she’d hauled over from the Constitution.
They’d only left the devastated York system two hours before, but she was spending every waking moment he didn’t need her on the bridge stowed away in her lab. He suspected she slept there. With his permission, she’d reassigned a fifteen
-person science team from fleet headquarters. Ostensibly, this was merely a satellite lab of IDF Science Division. A mobile lab that could be on the front line, the first to take data or draw samples or make observations. But in truth, Proctor was the main show. At least, that was what Granger suspected. He’d met the eggheads at IDF Science. All hat, no cattle, he believed the saying was. Most of the best scientific minds these days went to either medical or materials and weapons science.
“Tim. Good, you’re here. Come look at this.”
He sat down next to her at one of the molecular imaging scopes. She gestured to the eyepiece, and he looked inside.
“What am I looking at?”
“Not entirely sure, but I think I’ve isolated three separate strains of Swarm virus.”
“Swarm matter comes in three flavors, huh?”
She selected the next sample and moved it into the scope’s field of view. “Not quite. If you’ll remember, a few months ago I discovered that Swarm matter itself was just a precursor to virus, not a virus itself. It can manufacture billions of different types of proteins, enzymes, and structures with so many functional groups that I don’t even begin to know what to call them. But then I hit the Swarm matter with a focused meta-space field, and voila, virus. Highly transmissible, but not through the air, thank god. Mainly mucus membranes. Saliva, blood, etc.”
“So, you’re saying you want my dating history?” He deadpanned the joke as he watched the sample change yet again through the eyepiece when she dialed in the next one.
“Actually, the more research I do, the more I’m convinced you’re completely safe. Recent evidence to the contrary be damned ... really, Tim, do you have to go around flaunting your newfound mutant telepathic skills? I’m sure it unnerved the hell out of the bridge crew.”
He nodded, still peering at the sample. “You’re right. I’ll be more discreet.”
“And speaking of the crew....” She paused, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her bite her lip, hesitating. “We’ve been going nonstop for four months, Tim. From the original Constitution crew, only about two thirds have survived. Lots of people are on their last leg.”
“We’re at war, Shelby,” he said, still gazing at the virus.
“I know, Tim. But it wouldn’t hurt to pay attention to their mental state on occasion. Rayna is on edge—she babies those engines like, well, her baby, and she hasn’t gotten more than four hours of sleep a night since Lunar Base.”
“She’ll be fine. She’s made of tougher stuff than you or I.”
“I agree,” said Proctor. “But even more troubling is Commander Pierce. He might hide it well, but he’s been at breaking point for weeks. And now he’s lost his family—”
“We’ve all lost family, Shelby.”
“Not like him, Tim. Neither of us are married with kids.”
“Other people have lost spouses and kids. They’re still fighting.”
“Barely, Tim, barely. They’re barely fighting. You don’t see them the rest of the time. I do. I’m the XO. When I’m not in here with the science team or up on the bridge, I’m down in the galley or on the rec deck.” She sighed. “Look, all I’m saying is, maybe make some time to have a few heart to hearts with Pierce and Rayna and Prince and Diamond and Diaz. Make some appearances down on the rec deck. Let the crew know that you care.”
“Caring’s not my job, Shelby. Keeping us all alive is my job.”
“Caring will help them stay alive, Tim. That makes it your job.”
Dammit. She was right. Again. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do. Now tell me what I’m looking at.”
“You’ll do fine, Tim, just like you have with everything else. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.” She rested a hand on his arm—what was she doing? But rather than pull the arm away, he kept it there. Not that he had anything even approaching romantic inclinations—he simply didn't have the luxuries of time nor circumstance for that. It was just nice to have a friend. He’d missed Abraham Haws so damn much after he died during the battle of Earth—it was good to know he wasn’t alone.
She cleared her throat and continued on. “But what we’ve got here are three strains. The first matches the ones I pulled from Hanrahan and Wyatt. Fishtail too. All of them were—and in Fishtail’s case is—completely under Swarm control. The second is a similar virus, but it has far fewer functional groups than the first. The first had something like two thousand bonding possibilities. The second one has just eight.”
“Sounds promising. Eight beats two thousand.” He looked up. “Anyone we know have this?”
He nodded. “I took the liberty of getting access to a sample of Admiral Azbill’s blood. Remember him?”
“The one who almost lost us the battle of New Dublin. How could I forget? How did you convince him?”
She shrugged suspiciously. “I had one of my new techs accidentally bump into him before she left Earth. Forged orders from Zingano. I’m sure he won’t mind. Bill hates Azbill anyway.”
Granger looked back into the scope. “You’re telling me that John Azbill is infected with Swarm virus?”
“I’m calling it, the backdoor virus. It seems to lie inert. Dormant, in a person’s body, unless activated by a very particular meta-space signal. The main virus responds to all kinds of signals. The backdoor virus only to a handful.
“Just like the functional groups, right?” he said, connecting the dots.
“Exactly. The backdoor virus can only perform a few functions, responding to only a few meta-space signals. I assume once we examine Admiral Littlefield’s blood, it’ll become pretty clear why Wellington Shipyards blew.”
“You think the Swarm had backdoor entry into his mind? Influenced him, just enough, to destroy the ships?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. And the third,” she said, bringing up the final sample on the scope. He peered inside.
“Anyone I know?”
“Yes. You.”
He pulled back to glance at her, frowning. “Mine’s detectable?”
“Of course. Once I knew what to look for.”
“And what are you looking for?”
“This sample matches the one I sent through the micro-singularity I made. The singularity inactivated the main virus. The first virus. But something about the shock of traversing a singularity pair disrupts most of the virus’s response functionality. It only responds to one waveform of meta-space signal now. But this means that you were, at one point, infected with the full virus. It tells us that Lieutenant Volz is probably right—you were on the other side of his singularity, and you were acting for the Swarm.”
He peered at it, with its hundreds of protrusions and cilia-like extensions and arms. One part of it was labeled with its molecular makeup. Words like ketone and methyl dominated the word-soup, but several stood out to him. “Lanthanum trioxide? Iridium? Thorium? Uranium 238?” He pulled back to glance nervously at her. “I’ve got uranium pumping through my blood, Shelby?”
“Oh, calm down. It’s the non-radioactive isotope. And it’s less than a femto-gram. You’re fine. Better than stage ten thousand cancer, wouldn’t you say?”
He shrugged. “So. We have proof. Actual physical data, that I’m not a crazy time-bomb waiting to go off.” He stood up and stretched his neck after having hunched over to peer through the scope. “Maybe that will calm Norton down and half the top brass. I swear the’ve been calling for my head from day one. God help us all if Zingano ever kicks it.”
Proctor shut the scope down and stowed the samples in her desk. “Proof? That’s a stretch. It’s compelling evidence, but still not proof. I doubt this will sway General Norton. Honestly, if it weren’t for Avery, Norton would have had you tossed out an airlock by now.”
Granger motioned to the door. “Come on. Zingano wants to see us. Let’s keep him happy. I prefer to be on this side of the airlock.”
They walked to the shuttle bay where a pilot stood outside his craft, waiting for them. Once inside with their restrai
nts attached, the shuttle glided out the bay doors, revealing the deep blue atmosphere below, and, beyond that, green continents. Britannia was the most Earth-like planet humanity had settled so far—more Earth-like even than Earth—and one of the first habitable planets discovered. As such, its population was burgeoning, rapidly dwarfing the cradle of humanity. Since it was slightly less dense, but more massive, the land area was nearly twice as large as Earth, and hundreds of cities peppered the coastlines along every continent.
“Shelby,” said Granger, after he’d sealed the hatch to the cockpit so they’d have another moment alone. “We need to be able to block the Swarm’s meta-space signal. They do it. Since the first contact, four months ago, they’ve been doing it to us. They come in, and any ship within a certain range of a carrier loses meta-space comm until the carrier is neutralized. I want that. We need that.”
She closed her eyes, as if running through the possibilities, modeling who-knows-what in that brain of hers, immediately trying to attack the problem. That was Proctor. She never blinked in the face of an insurmountable problem. She just ... figured things out, and then implemented solutions, managing people and resources so expertly that his superiors had wanted to snatch her away from him. Hell, her ship, the ISS Chesapeake, was nearly ready. It had taken longer than planned to retrofit it, but it’d be ready within weeks. Yet there were already rumblings at IDF to make her an admiral, skipping the captaincy altogether. Half the push was to spite Granger, sure, but half came from sheer admiration for her abilities. If she wasn’t careful, she’d end up as head of IDF someday, and would have his condolences.
“And one more thing. We need to be able to shut down an active Swarm virus.”
She opened her eyes. “We’ve been trying desperately. But we can’t seem to move beyond the cure I injected into Wyatt. As it stands, the cure kills.”
