by Webb, Nick
Krull held up both palms, revealing three long, delicate fingers and one beefier thumb on each hand. “The same is true for us, Granger. The Valarisi guard knowledge of the other friends very jealously. We know little of the Dolmasi, for instance, only that you’ve been in contact with them. We were there when they became friends and entered the Concordat of Seven, but have not seen them for thousands of years. Similarly, we know little of the Adanasi, the part of your race that has been made friends. We have no idea who among your crew are communing with the Valarisi, or even if you, Granger, are one with them. Through the Ligature I sense that you were once a friend, at least. But now?”
“I assure you, I’m not. But I propose a test, Vice Imperator. We have the ability to detect the presence of Swarm matter in the blood. I assume you have blood?”
“Of course.”
At that moment Proctor walked through the doors. Granger waved her over. “My associate here has developed a test that will reveal whether one is under Swarm control or not. Will you submit to the test? I think just your blood will suffice. At the same time, you can watch us test my blood. Or, if you prefer, we can pass along the method and your scientists can try it themselves.”
Proctors eyes widened almost imperceptibly. It was a huge gamble to tell the Skiohra that they’d figured out how to detect Swarm influence. If the Swarm were playing them, they were giving up one of the few intel advantages they had.
“We accept,” said Vice Imperator Krull. “And seeing the results from your lab will be sufficient, if you’ll permit me to verify them. I will board a shuttle immediately. Shall we meet shuttle to shuttle, or shall I come aboard your ship?”
Granger had no idea what she meant by verify, but he nodded his agreement. “Meet me in our shuttle bay as soon as possible—my superiors have given me a deadline that I must adhere to, or there may be unpleasant consequences. We’ll relay coordinates momentarily.” He inclined his head toward Ensign Prucha, who began entering in the shuttle bay coordinates into the comm to send to the Skiohra.
The screen flickered off. Proctor raised her eyebrow. “Risky.”
“I know.”
“But I think they’re telling the truth.”
“Me too.” He motioned toward the doors. “Let’s go.” He glanced over at the deputy XO. “Have Sergeant Washington set up in the shuttle bay. Guards at the doors, and at least twenty more in the hallway beyond. And sharpshooters. But tell him to keep it discreet.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Diaz.
As they walked out the doors he called back to the tactical station. “Time, Mr. Diamond?”
“Forty-five minutes, sir.”
“Damn,” he mumbled. “We’re cutting this a little too close.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Shuttle Bay, ISS Warrior
Interstellar Space, 2.4 Lightyears From Sirius
They raced to the shuttle bay, making a quick detour to Proctor’s lab to pick up a few sample vials and a blood draw meta-syringe. When they arrived, the Skiohra shuttle was already passing through the force field holding the air in. Granger noticed three men, including Sergeant Washington, perched up on the second level walkways spanning the perimeter of the room. No weapons were visible, but if they were doing their job they could get set up for a shot within two seconds.
The shuttle landed—it was almost like a miniature version of a Swarm carrier—and as the ramp descended Vice Imperator Krull didn’t even wait for it to lock into place as she quickly descended. She was short, no more than five feet, but walked almost disconcertingly fast for such a small person.
The viewscreen hadn’t done her justice. Though lithe and thin, a powerful muscle structure flexed noticeably behind her taut, faintly blue-beige skin. He began to wonder if perhaps Vishgane Kharsa was right. These people didn’t sound like vicious warriors, and they didn’t look it, but watching Krull’s gait and the way she carried herself, he started to suspect that she could be deadly in a close quarters fight.
“Granger.” She outstretched her two hands out above her shoulders and to the side, palms toward the two wall. A greeting. He mirrored the motion back to her. She responded with an unexpected laugh. How interesting—facial expressions, gestures, these all varied, but the laugh seemed to be universal. At least for humans, Dolmasi, and Skiohra. “You honor me by returning my greeting after what you suppose is our custom. But among us, the male reaches forward, not to the side.”
“My apologies,” said Granger, bring his arms forward toward her.
“No need to apologize. No need even to honor our customs. If I knew yours I would participate.”
“A simple handshake is customary,” he said, before pausing, thinking better of it. He remembered what happened the last time he’d shaken hands with an alien he’d just met. Vishgane Kharsa had implanted the false memory of seeing the Swarm homeworld, leading to near disaster.
Her hands, still extended to the side, started to quiver. Realizing what she was doing—shaking her hands—he grunted a laugh as well. “No, I mean we clasp each other’s hands. But that can wait. Until we know each other better.”
“I understand.” She lowered her arms.
He waved Proctor forward. “My second in command. Shelby Proctor.” They nodded at each other.
“I and all my Children greet you both, and thank you.”
“Your Children,” began Proctor. “You say they are alive, already individuals. Are they self aware? Conscious?”
“Of course,” Krull replied. “I know them all, individually. If they ever attain the Exterior Life their knowledge and personalities will develop further as they grow. But they are intelligent. I wouldn’t be a fraction of what I am now without them. Most of them will never see the light of the Exterior Life, but the Interior Life is a full and beautiful one.”
“You rely on them?” asked Proctor.
“Yes. I store memories in them. I confer with them. They help me reason and make judgements and work out problems. Even under Valarisi control. In a sense, being under their control was almost second nature, as it was just one more voice in my mind, albeit an all-powerful, overriding voice that I could not disobey. And now, for the first time in millenia, my thoughts are free of them. Just me and my Children in here now,” she said, touching her head.
“If you’ll excuse the question, Vice Imperator, exactly how old are you?”
“Measured in the time cycle of our home ships, one thousand and seven. Seven hundred and fifty of your years. I am one of the oldest. My Children are on every ship. Thousands of them. I’ve mated with tens of thousands.”
Granger and Proctor exchanged significant, uncomfortable glances. But it was fascinating. He had no idea that a species could be so vastly different from themselves, though he supposed it shouldn’t come as a surprise, given the extreme biodiversity even on Earth. He wanted to interview her for hours. Days. Her people and her culture were beginning to be beautiful to him.
But time was running out.
“Vice Imperator, if you’ll permit Commander Proctor to extract a sample,” he said, indicating the meta-syringe Proctor held. Krull held out a long arm, the muscles rippling subtly beneath the skin. No sagging, no wrinkles. Granger wondered just how old an individual Skiohra could get. Or how age manifested itself in one of their bodies. So many questions. So much to learn, and so little time.
The sample vial filled quickly with blood, which, surprisingly to Granger, came out just as red as his. For some reason he was expecting it to be blue, or green, or some other alien color. Red. Just like him. Even Skiohra blood flowed red.
Proctor nodded. “All done. I can get this analyzed in minutes.” She pulled out a datapad, brought up a display, and handed it to Krull. “Here are the results of Granger’s test. I’m sure the two of you can discuss them further. Now, if you’ll both excuse me....”
She raced out of the shuttle bay, toward her lab. Granger turned back to Krull. “As you can see, the virus is still present in my blood, bu
t it has been effectively deactivated. I can still use it to ... how did you put it ... use the Ligature? But otherwise it has no sway over me.”
Krull examined the data displayed on the chart. She appeared to have a decent grasp of English, but he wondered how much of the written language she understood. “I see,” she said.
“You mentioned something about verification?”
“Yes. Through the Ligature. I can do it mind-to-mind, but physical contact is more precise. All I need is your hand.”
He was worried about this. She wanted to do exactly what Kharsa had done. Get in his head, sift around. Could she alter memories too? Could she control him? He hesitated.
She seemed to sense his uneasiness. “You have nothing to fear. I can not control you. I can not even control my own Children. Even the very youngest, at just ninety cycles, has such a ferocious will of his own that I can not even say good morning to him without getting an ear-full, so I’m sure an old man like you is in no danger of influence from me.”
The youngest is ninety? He decided not to tell her he was sixty-five, and had nearly died four months ago.
“Is touch necessary?”
“No. I can communicate with all my Exterior Children through the Ligature—the one and only good thing that has come from our subservience to the Valarisi. And I can communicate with you as well, through the Ligature. But the Interior Children, since they are in physical contact with me, I have immediate access to whatever they want to show me. And while in that communion, one can see through deception. Such it is with the Valarisi—there is no lying to them. So it is with my Children. If they attempt to deceive, I know it.” She laughed. Somehow, despite her alien appearance, the laugh was endearing. “A mother always knows. And while we commune, in essence, you will be my child. You can not lie to me. And I will be yours. I cannot lie to you.”
There was no other way. At least, no other timely way. He was sure the hour had elapsed already. Norton and the invasion force would be here soon. With a start, he extended his hand to her. She reached out to his. They clasped each other.
He felt her. There, inside of him. Not as an intrusive presence, but almost as a neighbor, standing patiently on the front porch of his mind. At first he didn’t know what to do, but as she was just standing there, waiting, expectantly, making no effort to in any way push herself into his thoughts, he projected his own thoughts out at her.
With some effort, he brought up the image of Proctor extracting a sample of blood from his arm. She collected the vial and inserted it into the imaging scope in her lab. He wasn’t there for the actual analysis, and had no mental imagery to project to Krull of that process, but he remembered Proctor summoning him back and showing him the results. The virus, broken down and inactivated. He projected his relief that he felt as Proctor explained that the Swarm had no influence over him, that whatever had happened to the virus had made it completely benign. Harmless, but still useful.”
With another jerk, he stopped. The explanation of why the virus was inactive had started to come to his remembrance, and so he shut it down. There was still no reason he needed to let that slip. That traversing a quantum singularity somehow had the effect of neutralizing Swarm virus. He let his hand drop.
“I understand,” she said slowly—he wasn’t sure if she’d noticed his unwillingness to share everything. “You speak the truth. You truly fight the Valarisi, and your blood is cleansed of them. But there is some knowledge you deliberately withhold from me.” She looked down at her feet, as if considering her words. “No matter. I feel your intent. It is not to harm. It is to save.” She held her arms out to the side, as she did in greeting. “I trust you, Captain Granger.”
He mirrored the motion, before remembering what she’d said earlier, and brought his arms forward as was customary for the males in her race. She laughed again. “No, you had it right the first time. Arms forward for greeting in a male. Arms to the side for expressions of....”
“Friendship?” he asked, as she trailed off.
“Family,” she said. “With the Valarisi, we were friends. Or at least their corrupted version of that. But with you, you are family.” She paused, and closed her eyes momentarily. “I’ve communicated this to the other matriarchs and vice imperators of the Bonded Council of Seven. It is agreed. We will wage war alongside you. For freedom, and for family.”
Granger smiled. It was time to send a meta-space signal out to the fleet. With much better news than he’d hoped.
Proctor’s voice cut through the silence in the shuttle bay. “Captain, just finished the analysis. She’s clean. Has a similar inactive virus that you do. Slightly different—that’s to be expected since the Skiohra biology is not the same as ours, but it’s clearly inactive.”
“Any idea why it’s different?”
“Probably a species difference. I mean, she’s Skiohra and you’re human. I’d expect difference in the way the Swarm virus interacts with—”
Her voice cut out abruptly, replaced by Lieutenant Diaz’s. “Captain! The fleet has arrived, with no warning. And they’ve started firing on the dreadnought.”
Chapter Forty
Executive Command Center, Russian Singularity Production Facility
High Orbit, Penumbra Three
“Mr. Vice President, it is good to finally meet you,” said President Malakhov. Isaacson noticed that his handshake was frighteningly firm, though not painfully so. After seeing all the propaganda, news vids, and listening in on all the intelligence reports from IDF intel on the Russian strongman, it was almost surreal to see him there in person, as a real flesh and blood individual. Someone real, and not a rumor, a caricature, or a terror, as popular culture in the west tended to depict the man. His accent was obvious, but not too thick. He clearly had a good command of English.
“Mr. Malakhov, the feeling is mutual. President Avery sends her ... regards,” he chose his words carefully.
“I’m sure.” Malakhov turned to Volodin. “That will be all, Yuri.”
Isaacson felt Volodin stiffen next to him. He clearly hadn’t expected to be dismissed—that was not part of the plan. They’d discussed the possibilities for how the meeting could play out. Isaacson wasn’t quite sure how they’d get the President into a vulnerable enough position to take him out, and they’d rehearsed various scenarios together.
Being alone with the President was not one of them.
“But, Mr. President, I thought we were going to discuss—”
Malakhov waved him off. “Later.” He pointed to the elevator. “Go. Now.”
Uneasily, Volodin edged toward the door, glancing tentatively at Isaacson, who wanted to protest, to say something to keep the ambassador there.
“Mr. Isaacson, you’ll notice I have no security here with me. I have no need of it. Neither do you. Your men will wait downstairs with Mr. Volodin.”
Red flags were going off in Isaacson’s mind. The secret service chief protested. “Sir, we’re not going to leave you here alone with Mr. Malakhov.”
Malakhov turned toward Isaacson. The expression on his face was clear: are you a man, or not? The look on his face, his stance, his upturned eyebrow, they all said the same thing, daring him to dismiss the guards, questioning his resolve. His manhood. Dammit, Isaacson wasn’t going to stand for that.
“No, no I’ll be fine. I’m perfectly safe here. Wait downstairs.”
“But—”
“Go!” shouted Isaacson, pointing toward the elevator door where Volodin waited. He was not going to be second-guessed, have his authority questioned in front of the Russian president, who seemed more than in control of his own situation. He could be in control too, dammit.
The secret service guards reluctantly filed into the elevator, and a few seconds later, he was alone with President Malakhov, who, to Isaacson’s surprise, burst out into a boisterous laugh. “Ha! Did you see the looks on their faces? Sycophants. Pretenders and attention-seekers. All of them. Including good old Yuri. Come on, Mr. Isaacson,
let’s go discuss matters in my observatory.”
He started walking toward the door he’d come out of, though Isaacson stayed put, confused.
Malakhov paused and looked back. “You don’t trust me, do you, Mr. Isaacson?”
“I don’t know you, Mr. Malakhov. Plus, we’re at war. How can I possibly trust—”
“Because, Eamon—can I call you Eamon? Because, my estimable opponent, even though we are at war—I do acknowledge that—we are actually on the same side, though you might not realize it.”
“Oh?” Isaacson raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. “How so?”
Malakhov paced back to him and put an arm around his shoulders, guiding him toward the door. “Because, we are both human. We both fight to survive. Individually, nationally, and, more importantly, as a race. A civilization.”
“You fight the Swarm?”
“I use the Swarm, Eamon. I’m not to be controlled or taken advantage of by some race of vile raw sewage. I shit more intelligent sludge than the Swarm. I’ve played for fools many people in my career, Eamon. The United Earth Senate, President Avery, her predecessor, all the governors of all the United Earth worlds and the worlds of the Confederation. But the ones I’ve played the worst are the Swarm. My finest accomplishment. The pinnacle of my career.”
Isaacson rolled his eyes, even as he allowed himself to be led through the door into a large room that looked more like a science laboratory than an office or ... what had Malakhov called it ... an observatory? “Please, Mr. Malakhov. You’re not claiming to have been on our side all along, are you? Just pretending to be allied with the Swarm so you can stab them in the back when the stakes are at their highest? I’m a little smarter than that.”
