by Webb, Nick
“Yes, sir,” agreed Diamond.
Granger paced a few times across the bridge before deciding. “Very well. Take us the rest of the way in. They’ve probably detected us by now. This was probably good for them too. Let them see from a distance that we’re coming alone.”
Even though a five-hundred thousand strong army is right behind us.
“Q-jump in five,” said Ensign Prince.
Granger glanced back at the XO station, and caught Lieutenant Diaz’s eye. The deputy XO nodded back, indicating his readiness. Proctor was holed up in her lab, continuing her cowboy research, as she called it, right up until the last minute before battle operations were scheduled to begin. Granger was supposed to keep the Skiohra talking for at least an hour.
The screen shifted one final time, revealing the immense mass and mind-boggling length of the super dreadnought. It stretched off into the distance, its hull mostly dark and invisible due to the lack of sunlight, except where it was punctuated by thousands of lit viewports.
“I just can’t used to how massive that thing is,” said Diaz.
Granger paused his pacing in the middle of the bridge. “And that there’s six of them.” He turned to tactical. “Begin scans. Go through the checklist provided by Colonel Barnard of things to confirm. Ship layout, atmospheric conditions, numbers of life signs, automation systems. All of it. I’ll buy you as much time as possible.”
“We’re being hailed, sir,” said Ensign Prucha.
“Patch it through.”
The familiar form of Vice Imperator Scythia Krull filled the screen. One of her deputies stood nearby, another Skiohra woman who eyed Granger carefully. “Captain Granger. You’ve come. We were undecided of whether you would arrive or not.”
“Of course I’ve come. We owe you a great debt. To not come would have been disrespectful to you.”
And you have no idea how much we’re about to disrespect you.
“Thank you, Captain Granger. I’ve summoned my people’s ... I believe a close translation to your language would be ... Bonded Council of Seven—our leaders and matriarchs. They come for a council of war. A war to finally liberate all of the family from its master.”
Granger raised an eyebrow. “You have your own Concordat of Seven?”
“The Swarm appropriated the social structure from us. Almost ten thousand years ago. They don’t have original ideas, Captain: that is their failing. I’ve debated with my sisters as to whether they are truly alive or not. Living beings must create to survive. The Swarm does not create. It appropriates. It infests and corrupts and controls. And so when the Swarm came to our world, they took what they thought would serve them, and destroyed the rest.”
“And yet here you are,” said Granger. He weighed the benefits of putting up a skeptical front this early in the conversation. But he supposed if he had entered into the dialogue under the pretenses the Skiohra assumed, he’d most likely sound doubtful at first. Either way, Vice Imperator Krull took it in stride.
“Over the millennia, the Swarm permitted us to retain those parts of our culture they found useful. And now, finally, we have discovered the key to thwarting their control over us.”
Granger was becoming more skeptical by the second. How could a species, after millennia of control by the Swarm, suddenly figure out a way to break free, when the Swarm’s control extends so completely over every individual they dominate? How does one suddenly just spontaneously cast of complete control? Though, he remembered, the Dolmasi had already proven it was possible.
“And how is that? How was it that you suddenly found yourselves free of Swarm influence? To be honest, it seems suspect.”
The Vice Imperator’s face sagged a little. Granger couldn’t even guess what the expression meant.
“Captain Granger, we are here, all of us, all of my people, because of you. What you see here, this ship—and five others like it—contains all that remains of the once proud race of the Skiohra. And we are here, and free, because of you.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Russian Singularity Production Facility
High Orbit, Penumbra Three
“Welcome to Penumbra Station, Eamon,” said Ambassador Volodin at the exit of the docking hatch. The crew had been instructed to remain with the ship. Only Isaacson’s secret service escort was allowed to accompany him, though Isaacson had half a mind to dismiss them, too, given their inability to protect him during the bombing attempt on his life two months ago and the fighter attack immediately after. The Swarm had penetrated deep into the bureaucracy: he couldn’t even trust his security folks.
“Yuri, this is incredible. Is this the rock that was caved out by ... you know?”
“It is. Actual construction took far longer of course, but the excavation only took a few months.” He started walking down the hallway. “Come. President Malakhov awaits.”
Volodin took them deep into the complex, passing first by a series of bays holding equipment, large containers, and storage boxes which merged gradually into a section of the station devoted to experimental work, with gleaming high-tech labs, high energy power sources, and gas chambers, and then through what appeared to be the administrative area. The desks and cubicles gave way to a large expanse filled with what looked like natural light reflected in from Penumbra’s sun. The space in the middle stretched up at least fifteen levels, each floor bordered by a railing that wrapped around the free expanse in the middle.
It wasn’t crowded, but the occasional worker glanced their way, sometimes recognizing Isaacson with wide eyes, but no one stopped to say anything. Instead, Volodin led them to an elevator shaft near the central railing on their deck. Its walls were clear, and Isaacson felt a moment of vertigo as they shot up through the empty space.
At the very top, at least a hundred meters above the ground floor, they arrived at the executive offices. Lush carpeting covered parts of the floor of the atrium, and the fine surfaces of marble, granite, and crystal glittered everywhere. There was even a giant fish tank with coral and exotic, colorful fish that could be seen in another reception area nearby.
The walls were lined with giant pictures of President Malakhov in various, manly situations. One showed him at the top of Everest, shirtless, no oxygen tank in sight, looking through binoculars at some unseen sight off in the distance. Another was of him doing what looked like a pull-up, dangling two kilometers from the famous Wittingham suspension bridge connecting two towers in Britannia’s capital city. Frame after frame boasted of his physical and testosterone-filled exploits, occasionally softened by a random image of him caressing a poor, wrinkled grandmother’s face, or of the president sitting on a tree trunk in a picturesque setting, with children on his lap and surrounding him, fawning over him playfully, yet worshipfully. They reminded Isaacson of the old kitschy christian paintings of Jesus showing him in similar settings, all unbiblical, but inspiring to the simple people that needed such unrefined and simple-minded inspiration in their lives.
Oh, the poor masses. Taken in by such tripe and propaganda. And yet Isaacson couldn’t help but admire it. Crude, but brilliant, he thought. If I ever knock Avery off, I should keep something like this in mind....
He automatically cringed, expecting the usual shock that accompanied the treasonous thoughts whenever they slipped through his guard. And sure enough his head felt like it contracted and twisted in pain. It only lasted a moment, but enough to make him sway and nearly lose his footing. Surely Avery couldn’t monitor him from this far away, could she? Had the reaction simply become automatic on his part?
“Eamon? Are you all right?”
Isaacson waved him off. “Fine. Just dizzy from the ride up.”
A door opened nearby. Isaacson expected to see a security contingent come in and escort him to the Russian President. But instead, just a single man walked through, dressed in a simple business suit with an old-fashioned red power tie, clicking along the marble floor in sensible but fashionable black shoes at a confident pace, gazin
g straight ahead toward Isaacson, his hand extended for a greeting.
President Malakhov.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Bridge, ISS Warrior
Interstellar Space, 2.4 Lightyears From Sirius
Because of me?
The words began to dawn on him, the gravity of their meaning finally weighing on him. “Are you telling me, that your ship is full of your entire society? Families? Children? This ship and the other five contain your entire civilization?”
“That is correct, Captain.”
Which meant, he, Granger, was guilty of a genocide. Or at least, one seventh of a genocide. “And the ship I destroyed? Over Indira?”
“The Harmony held the once-great house of the Trell, fifth family of the Bonded Council of Seven. Vice Imperator Tyree Trell, my third cousin, was their matriarch.”
Granger stumbled to his seat. “How many?”
“Excuse me, Captain?”
“How many of your people were on that ship? The Harmony?”
“It doesn’t matter, Captain Granger. All that matters is that we make plans—”
Granger waved a hand dismissively. “It matters to me. How many?”
Vice Imperator Krull hesitated. “Approximately fifty billion.”
The words pierced him to the core. He felt hollow, and distant, like he was observing the situation from above his head.
“But ... how is that possible? Our scans of your vessel reveal only around two hundred thousand life readings. Does your ship carry similar numbers?”
“As the Harmony? No. Not by far. We only number fourteen billion here in the House Krull on the Benevolence. The life readings you see are accurate, Granger. But most of us are mothers. And our Children are already born, inside us, waiting for us to give them the Exterior Life. I still hold over twenty-two thousand of my Children within me.”
“Twenty-two thousand?” breathed Granger, incredulously. “How is that possible?”
“They are embryos, of course, and mostly composed of brain tissue. But even though they lack the rest of their bodies, each is a fully developed individual. A person.”
“And they will all be born later? To the Exterior Life?”
“Some will. Most won't. Most will live the Interior Life for their whole existence. And they are linked to me. They are part of me. I hear their thoughts, their passions, their fears, and their hopes. Each of them has memory, and some are suited to remembering certain things, certain concepts. The majority of mine are suited to remembering communication, diplomacy, and relationships, and so I was chosen as Vice Imperator of my house at the moment of liberation.”
“When was that? When were you liberated?”
“You don’t know?” Her face stretched. Surprise? “This happened two days ago. During the battle over your world. Indira, you called it. One moment, we were thralls of the Valarisi. Then you came. You destroyed the Harmony, coming with such speed and destruction that it was ripped into pieces. Some of those pieces broke off and collided with singularities. Those were the first to be liberated, and from them, it spread. And through our meta-space link ... a good translation might be ... the Ligature, the effect spread to us all. Something about what you did saved us all, in spite of the ... unthinkable destruction.”
Finally, Granger understood. The singularities. The Swarm matter. When those doomed Skiohra fell into the singularities, they emerged cleansed from the virus ... somewhere.
Just like Granger.
And, through the meta-space link, the effect spread to their whole race. Yet the Vice Imperator seemed to have no idea of how it actually happened.
Which was good—the fewer people who knew about the effect, the better. If they could keep the Swarm in the dark about their knowledge, it would give them more of a tactical advantage.
But he was still wary. Was this a trick? The Swarm could be feeding her what to say, drawing him in, gaining his trust, waiting for him to lower his guard.
Except ... why? The super dreadnought—the Benevolence—out-powered and out-gunned the Warrior over a thousand to one. If the Swarm wanted a shot at Granger, they didn’t need subterfuge to get it. Just a scant minute in battle with that monstrosity of a ship would be enough to finish him off.
Unless—he paused, weighing the possibilities—the Swarm wanted something else.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Bridge, ISS Lincoln
Interstellar Space, 2.5 Lightyears From Sirius
“General Norton, we’re at one hour, sir.”
The general paced the bridge of the ISS Lincoln, circling the captain’s chair, where the ship’s commander waited for the order that would take them into battle.
“And no word from Granger?”
“None,” the comm officer replied. “No meta-space transmissions. Nothing except the constant background noise of Swarm communication, right at the frequencies and phase patterns you gave to us, sir.”
Norton chuckled. Ah, Commander Proctor. At least you’re good for something besides being Granger’s lapdog.
He turned back to the Science Station, where Commander Alonso, IDF’s Associate Chief Scientist and Director for Intra-Swarm Communication stood monitoring the progress of his science crew. “Commander, any progress in actually breaking down what they’re saying out there?”
“No, sir. But we’ve definitely built off of Commander Proctor’s work. She was never able to achieve such tight phase discrimination as we have.”
“Overconfidence, Commander Alonso. Overconfidence, arrogance, and hubris. They’re Granger’s callsign. And it’s rubbed off on his XO. If she would simply collaborate with IDF Science more instead of striking out on her own, trying to be the hero, thinking herself special and above the rules, we may have won this war months ago. But she’s just like the Bricklayer. Just like Granger.”
Commander Alonso shrugged. “She has given us perfectly good data. A little rough, some of her conclusions are a little hasty, but really, she’s done ... adequate work....”
“And yet, if she had have collaborated with you, she’d be scanning for the backdoor virus frequency on the proper phase configuration. But it’s obvious why she’s not doing that. I don’t believe it’s that she can’t, Commander. It’s that she won’t. She knows that if she lets that knowledge out, it’ll compromise Granger’s ability to work, because I’ll catch him in the act. Talking with the Swarm. Collaborating. Just like he’s doing now.”
The science chief shuffled uncomfortably. “Well, sir, that is one interpretation of the data we’re seeing....”
Norton turned to face him, threateningly. “What other valid interpretation is there? Granger is there, with the Swarm dreadnought. Talking to them, virus to virus. Mind to mind. Sharing our secrets. We clearly see the meta-space signals. What the hell are they doing if not that?”
Silence. Commander Alonso had no answer.
“Exactly.” Norton turned to watch the viewscreen. The camera was panned wide, out toward their fleet. Thousands of troop carriers. Hundreds of thousands of marines. And half of Zingano’s fleet, just in case.
And one other thing, floating just beyond the fleet.
None of the vessels were lit, except for a few visible viewports that cast pale, weak light on the hull around them. But even without the light, enough stars were blocked out to make it obvious that this was the largest fleet of ships IDF had ever assembled.
“Give them ten more minutes. If we don’t hear from Granger by then, we’re going in. Relay the orders to Zingano and Colonel Barnard.”
Commander Alonso made one last attempt. “But General, if what you say is true, if you think Granger is being played by the Swarm, or even colluding with them, then he already knows our battle plans. Our secrets. Wouldn’t it be wiser to pull back, regroup, and think this through?”
Norton snorted a harsh, short laugh. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t tell Granger all my secrets.” He glowered at the scientist. “Stick to numbers and data, Commander. Leave the
tactics to me.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Bridge, ISS Warrior
Interstellar Space, 2.4 Lightyears From Sirius
Granger glanced at the countdown timer. He’d promised General Norton and Admiral Zingano he’d keep the Skiohra talking for at least an hour. Enough time for Warrior to take more detailed scans of the dreadnought, compare the readings to the originals and the projections from Norton’s tactical modeling crew, and pass any corrections on to the invasion force when it finally arrived.
Thirty-nine minutes.
And now Granger wasn’t even sure he wanted the invasion force to show up. The entire Skiohra civilization was on those six remaining ships. Could he participate in a genocide of a people that was itself in thrall to the Swarm? Even if it meant deliverance of his own?
Too many questions. “Excuse me for one moment, Vice Imperator.”
He signaled to Ensign Prucha to mute, and thumbed the comm open to Proctor in her lab. “Have you been listening in, Shelby?”
“I have. In between assays. Very interesting. Do you believe them?”
“Don’t know. I think you’d better get up here. I want some meta-space scans of the vicinity around their ship.”
“I’ve been scanning. Absolutely silent, as far as I can tell. I’m no meta-space expert, of course, but—”
Granger glanced at the muted image of the Skiohra matriarch on the screen. “I’d still like you up here.”
“On my way.” The comm cut out. And Granger motioned to Prucha, and turned back to Krull. “Vice Imperator, I hope you can appreciate the difficult position I am in. On the one hand, I recognize the dire need we all have to trust each other and work together to defeat the Swarm. The Valarisi. And yet, you must realize that I need evidence that you are not under Swarm control. It would be foolish to put our fate in your hands by taking you at your word so blindly. Normally, a relationship like this would require time. But time is running out.”
