Victory

by Webb, Nick

  We hate you we hate you we hate you, but we need you. For now. Learn from us. And as he stared at the controls, he know what to do. They were instructing him, in spite of their anger. He pressed several buttons, in the order they indicated to him, not with words but with images and impressions, and moments later the engine roared to life.

  “Go!” he said, and she pulled up on the controls, bringing the nose of the shuttle toward the force field, and squeezed hard on the accelerator.

  The shuttle shot out of the bay, and he breathed a grim sigh of relief. Before they’d gone two hundred meters, the ISS Warrior exploded.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Bridge, UESS Albright

  High Orbit, Penumbra Three

  Captain Hall of the UESS Albright paced nervously, her eyes flicking between the clock, the Russian fleet docked at the massive space station, and the growing cloud of debris surrounding the giant ball of rock and ice that floated in the distance. Every so often, a flash of light announced the arrival of a new chunk of rock, often glowing red, as if part of it was more magma than rock. The new arrivals would careen toward the central mass and slam into it, sending more dust and debris out into the maelstrom of swirling clouds surrounding it.

  She’d read the reports—even though her security credentials weren’t all that high, she could clearly see what was happening. The Swarm weaponry used against the United Earth worlds seemed to be sucking up material, and transporting it lightyears to this point, where they were collecting it.

  For what purpose she could not fathom.

  “Keep scanning that debris cloud. We should be gathering as much intel as we can to bring back to IDF.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He was late, she thought. She glanced at the clock again. He was supposed to have checked in by now. Or at least, his secret service detachment. They’d heard nothing from either Isaacson or his security for over two hours. “Still nothing?” she asked the comm officer.

  “No. Nothing.”

  On the viewscreen, something flashed white again, amid the debris field. Or rather, dozens of somethings, all at once.

  “What was that? Wu-Jin, get us a closer look.”

  “Zooming in,” said the woman at sensors.

  On the viewscreen, the image was unmistakable. IDF fighters, all tumbling end over end through the debris field, straight for the giant ball of rock.

  “I’m reading exactly thirty of them, ma’am.”

  “Retract docking clamps. Jill, maximum acceleration. Move in to assist.”

  With a distinct clunk, she heard the docking clamps release. The Albright’s nose pointed toward the spiraling fighters, and Captain Hall wondered if they’d even get there in time, or what they could even do to help once they did.

  An explosion arced across the bridge, engulfing the helmsman in fire. Other bridge crew members screamed.

  “What the hell...?”

  The color drained from her face as she watched the viewscreen, and three Russian cruisers descended on the Albright, weapons firing. The ship shook, and another explosion rang out, knocking her to the deck.

  The last thing she saw was the thirty IDF fighters colliding with the ball before another explosion ripped through the bridge.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Skiohra Shuttle

  Interstellar Space, 2.4 Lightyears From Sirius

  “Where to?” said Proctor, after they’d emerged from the shock of seeing their ship disappear in an inferno of destruction, less than an hour after watching their beloved Old Bird die a similar death. Luckily, the Swarm carrier in whose fighter bay the Warrior was lodged got caught in her fiery death throes, and though still intact, drifted harmlessly away from the carnage.

  “Victory.” He realized he’d forgotten to tell the crew their destination, he’d been so focused on getting them all out to the relative safety of the fighter battle still happening all around them. He reached inward, still holding Krull’s hand though he’d placed her on the floor, and asked for the wide-band comm controls. Reluctantly, the Children responded, showing him in his mind how to operate the controls.

  “This is Captain Granger, to all ISS Warrior escape pods. Get to the Victory. I repeat, all Warrior personnel get to the ISS Victory. Wherever you can find room to dock. Fighter bay, shuttle bay, empty escape pod hatches. Commander Diaz will coordinate,” he added, hoping that his deputy XO was still alive. The Skiohra shuttle wasn’t equipped to interface with all the escape pods, and there would be no way to coordinate all two hundred from there—only another IDF shipboard computer could do that.

  “Aye, aye, sir,” came the man’s voice, steady and sure, through the speaker. The man was a rock, unflappable. If Granger didn’t make it through, Proctor would have an excellent XO on her hands.

  “ISS Victory fighter bay, do you read me? This is Captain Granger.” he fiddled with the comm controls, trying to remember the exact frequency band for intra-ship comm lines.

  “Yes...?” asked the voice, apparently surprised to hear directly from him.

  “I hereby transfer all Warrior fighters to your command and control. Please inform Admiral Zingano. Granger out.” He cut out before they could respond—he had no idea what garbage General Norton had been feeding the rest of the officers in Zingano’s fleet, but he didn’t have time to listen to any protests.

  “Almost there,” said Proctor. Out the front viewport the fighter bay of the Victory loomed ahead. Dozens of escape pods already littered the deck. She guided them carefully in, finding a space off to the side that just barely fit the Skiohra craft. With all the pods, plus all the surviving fighters from both the Warrior and the Victory, space would be tight.

  He hoisted Krull back onto his shoulders and followed Proctor down the ramp which was still descending. The fighter deck was utter pandemonium, with hundreds of Warrior crew members streaming out of escape pods, many of them injured, all of them wild-eyed, having just escaped the destruction—for the second time—of their home in space.

  Krull was still bleeding. The voices of the Children were like an enormous stadium of people shouting in the background of his mind. She was critically injured, he knew, from the tone and emotion of their voices.

  And she had critical information. She had been about to expose some secret about the Russian motivations before Proctor had nailed her on the head. “I’ll be in sickbay—we need to find out what she knows,” he said to Proctor. “Get to the bridge and find Zingano. Try to convince him to call this madness off. He may listen to you.”

  She nodded her agreement and they both rushed out the fighter bay doors, in opposite directions.

  Luckily, the ship layout was identical to both Constitution and Warrior, with just a few exceptions. When he arrived at sickbay, he was dismayed to find it overflowing with wounded. Bodies lay in the hallway outside, where they’d been placed, lining the walls, presumably because there was no time to properly store them in the morgue, which he supposed was probably full. When your ship is about to blow up, hygiene and sanitation is the first to go.

  Heads turned toward him. Usually, in the past few months, heads turning his way meant that people were craning their necks to see the Hero of Earth, and he almost acted on habit by giving a stern, resolute nod and a quick salute.

  But then he realized they were staring at the alien on his shoulders. The existence of the Skiohra was still a tightly guarded secret, known only to the President, the top brass, and now, five-hundred thousand marines. He supposed the sight of a blue-hued, hobbit-sized alien on his shoulders was sure to draw attention.

  “Doctor,” he said, approaching the woman wearing the sickbay chief’s uniform, “this individual needs urgent help.”

  Her eyes grew wide as she saw Krull. “Is that—”

  “Swarm? No. But national security depends on this individual being treated and revived. In fact, I’m pretty sure we will all die if you don’t.”

  Her eyes widened further, if it were possible, and she point
ed to a private examination room off to the side. “In there. You’ll need to see who’s in there anyway.”

  Granger carried Krull through the doors to the examination room and looked down at its occupant.

  “Bill?” he said, horrified. Blood oozed from the admiral’s forehead, which was clearly fractured. More blood seeped into his uniform where his abdomen was obviously torn open in several places.

  The doctor whispered in his ear. “He’s got massive internal bleeding. His organs are shutting down—there’s just nothing we can do, Captain.”

  Admiral Zingano roused from a daze at the sound of Granger’s voice and waved him forward with a bloody hand. He whispered. “Norton.”

  “You want General Norton in command of the fleet?” asked Granger, unsure of what he meant.

  “Nor—Norton. P—p—possibly compromised,” he forced through labored breath, licking his lips with a bone-dry tongue. Then he turned to the doctor. “IDF protocol. Standing ... standing order ... ten. Command transferred—”

  His eyes glazed, and closed, but his hand stayed up.

  His lips moved. “Victory transferred to Timothy J. Granger. In ... in ... inform the co—”

  He trailed off.

  Dead.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Executive Command Center, Russian Singularity Production Facility

  High Orbit, Penumbra Three

  The sight of a sickly Granger, feeble and white, shocked him.

  Isaacson spun around toward Malakhov. “But everyone in IDF and Avery’s senior staff agreed: he went to the past. The Dolmasi confirmed it. Vishgane Kharsa said that Granger used to be a friend. That he’d been compromised by the Swarm in the past, but no longer was.”

  “Vishgane Kharsa ... is lying,” said Malakhov.

  “So he’s still aligned with the Swarm?”

  “No. But he’s not aligned with us either. Or Avery. Or Granger. The Dolmasi care about the Dolmasi. They intervene only when it benefits them. And in Granger’s case, they used him. He’s been their most effective tool, convincing him that he was destroying the Swarm homeworld while the whole time he was liberating the Dolmasi homeworld. Brilliant, if you ask me.”

  “But why allow Granger to think he went to the past?”

  Malakhov shrugged. “Think about it from the Dolmasi’s perspective. You’ve just used Granger to liberate your homeworld. You know that at some point in the future, the old Granger is going to show up, then return to the past to a point before you’ve liberated your home. Do you tell current-day Granger about that? In the Dolmasi’s case, no, you don’t. Kharsa won’t risk anything that will threaten his homeworld. Now that he’s liberated it, he’ll stop at nothing to keep it. Even if it means the destruction of humanity, for all he cares. No, Kharsa lied to Granger about The Event—his Vacation—because if he didn’t, he risked current-day Granger rushing off to intercept himself when the old Granger arrived in the future, potentially messing up the timeline and Dolmasi plans for their homeworld’s liberation.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Malakhov tapped his head. “I don’t. But it’s the only thing that makes sense. It’s what I would do. Plus, I’ve had the benefit of eavesdropping on the Swarm for the past few years and I have some insight into Dolmasi thinking. In fact, I predicted their liberation years before it happened. The Swarm never saw it coming. But I did.”

  Isaacson turned back to Granger. “So? What are you going to do with him?”

  “Keep him here, for now. My doctors have kept his cancer in check, at least temporarily. He’s in no danger of dying in the next few days. Come. Let me show you your part in all this.”

  Isaacson, still slightly in shock at seeing the old Granger, allowed himself to be led out of the medical room, out of the observatory, and back out to the atrium by the elevator where the heroic pictures of Malakhov hung on the walls. Rather than take him into the elevator, the Russian president led him down the hall, framed pictures of himself on the left, and a massive hundred meter drop-off on the right behind the wall of glass. They walked for several minutes, Malakhov pointing out various features of the station as they passed.

  Finally, double doors opened up to reveal a giant bay. Not just giant. It was monumentally huge. Isaacson had thought that the interior space of the station they’d just left—the hundred meter tall open-air space lined with glass and railing and offices, topped by Malakhov’s observatory—he’d thought that was what the Swarm had hollowed out of the asteroid.

  He was mistaken. Now he saw what a monumental task it must have been—the interior space, lined mostly by craggy rock and thousands of spotlights, was not only large enough to hold a ship, it was large enough to hold dozens of ships. Several were moored to scaffolding, including one Swarm carrier. But Isaacson’s eyes were drawn to the center.

  The ISS Constitution, battered and scarred from its battle over Earth, floated near some scaffolding that served as a docking port.

  “There, Eamon, is my gift to you.”

  Isaacson gawked. “You’re giving me the Constitution?”

  “Of course. It’s not mine. If anyone should have it, you’re it. Though when you’re done with it, we do need to send Granger back in it, otherwise ... well, there’s no telling what happens to the timeline if he doesn’t.”

  Isaacson shook his head. “This is crazy. What happens if we don’t? Does the universe implode or something?”

  Malakhov scoffed. “Of course not. We don’t know for sure, but my top scientists tell me nothing will happen. In some universes that are mostly parallel to ours, Granger doesn’t return. Their timelines will look different from ours, from the moment that Granger disappeared. But for us, he did return. That’s all that matters, or so my scientists claim. But you’re right to be concerned, and that’s why I’ve decided to send him back—to be on the safe side.” He grinned at Isaacson. “Just not quite yet.”

  Isaacson’s eyes followed the path of several work crews as they walked the surface of the ship in gravity boots, carrying tools and boxes containing what he presumed was repair equipment. “How long has it been here?”

  “Two and a half days.”

  So, he thought, if everything happens like it did four months ago, the Constitution, and Granger, will go back through the same singularity he came out of in less than one day. Now, what do I do to take matters into my own hands? How to throw off Avery’s domination? How to not be played by Malakhov? By Volodin? By Granger and Norton and—shit—all of them?

  Malakhov leaned over the low railing, holding loosely to a bar that connected the railing to the ceiling. “And in that time, we’ve cleaned up engineering—it was flooded with radiation from the damage it sustained with the Swarm—and I’ve installed some equipment you’ll find very useful in your mission. Ten singularities should do it. One for each of the six remaining Skiohra dreadnoughts. One for Avery. And three extra, just in case you need them.”

  “You trust me to take the Constitution, fire singularities at the Skiohra dreadnoughts, send Avery into another, and then return in time for you to patch Granger back up and send him on his way back to Earth?”

  “It’s not a matter of trust, Mr. Vice President. It’s a matter of interests. I know you. This aligns with your interests. You want to replace Avery. You want peace with me. You want to be rid of the Swarm. This accomplishes all three.”

  He was right, of course. This was something Isaacson wanted. All three of them.

  But he was tired. Sick and tired of being the tool. Of being the pawn in someone else’s game. That Isaacson was dead. Gone. He wouldn’t stand for it anymore. Malakhov was playing him, using him for his own purposes, just like Avery was doing. No more.

  Malakhov grinned at him, and turned back to watch the work crews scurry over the Constitution. “I take from your silence that you’re in. Good. Preparations have already been made, and within—”

  He was still leaning over the railing, and, surprising even himself, Isaacson grabbe
d the President and thrust him outward with all the strength he could muster.

  Malakhov was surprisingly strong. The epic photographs of him weren’t exaggerations—before he could fall down three hundred meters into the cavern, he grabbed firmly onto the support bar that held up the railing, swinging out, and then toward the ledge, grabbing at the support railing with his other hand, dangling there, his face overcome by shock. This was clearly the last thing he expected.

  Isaacson channeled his anger, all the bottled-up rage and violence he’d been suppressing over the months he’d been under Avery’s thumb. Every violent thought, every feeling of vengeance and malice he’d been pushing deep down within himself and away from Avery’s all-seeing view finally burst out. He screamed, kicking at Malakhov’s stomach and lunging out to punch the man in the face again and again.

  In spite of Isaacson’s assault, Malakhov was managing to pull himself back onto the ledge. Shit, he thought. If the other man stood up, Isaacson was a goner. He kicked at the leg Malakhov had managed to swing up onto the ledge, and without even thinking pulled the pen from his pocket and rammed it straight into the man’s eye.

  Malakhov screamed. He reached up to pull at the pen. Isaacson kicked at the remaining hand holding the rail.

  And President Malakhov fell. Three hundred meters. Screaming, all the way down.

  A final crunch confirmed he was gone. Isaacson felt a thrill of something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Control. Victory.

  He was free.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Sickbay, ISS Victory