by Webb, Nick
“Commander Oppenheimer, casualty report,” he said. For what lay ahead they’d need a smoothly running ship, and a crew he could trust. At the moment he had the survivors of two crews, all of whom had just lived though one of the most traumatic battles he’d ever seen.
And he’d seen many.
“During the engagement we lost, at current count, two hundred and thirty-eight souls. Including Admiral Zingano, Chief Engineer Ryu, the entire bridge ops crew on duty at the time, my deputy XO, and over half our fighters.”
“Wounded?”
“Still too early for exact numbers, but the most recent estimate from sickbay is ninety-one crew members too wounded for duty. A dozen of those are critical and may not even make it.”
He turned to Commander Proctor, who’d been hovering near the empty science station, apparently lost in thought. “Shelby?”
She shook her head, regaining focus. “Yes, Captain?”
“What’s the status of Warrior’s crew? How many made it?”
After a moment of confusion, she brought up her data on a science station terminal. “We lost a handful of escape pods during the flight over from Warrior, but most made it. I count eight hundred and two crew members. Many wounded, but most not critically so.”
“We need to integrate the two crews. Can you do that?” He noticed her head had drifted off to the side again, as if lost in thought. “Shelby?”
“Sorry, Tim, I’ve just been thinking. Trying to put it all together. The Swarm. The two viruses. The Skiohra. The Dolmasi. The meta-space signals. What it all means.”
Granger nodded. He understood—she needed to work on the real problem. Someone else could handle the drudgeries of command. “Commander Oppenheimer. My Lieutenant Diaz is now your deputy XO. You and he will handle the integration of the Warrior’s crew aboard the Victory.”
“How long will your old crew be staying, sir?” Oppenheimer’s gaze was neutral, but the question dripped with meaning. How long will you be here, Granger? How long will we be on the run from IDF?
“As long as it takes to save our civilization, Mr. Oppenheimer.”
Oppenheimer squirmed in his seat. Something had happened. Bridge crew officers were whispering amongst themselves. Granger glanced from Oppenheimer, to the tactical crew, who was also eyeing him uncomfortably. Finally, the comm officer spoke up. “Captain, we just picked up a meta-space signal from General Norton. You are to be apprehended, and we’re supposed to return to his location.”
Granger sighed. It was inevitable, of course. “You should all know that, right before Admiral Zingano died, he told me he suspected Norton was under Swarm control. Your own doctor can verify this. And I think the disastrous results of this hair-brained mission speak for themselves. So think long and hard before you make your call, Mr. Oppenheimer.”
It was mostly true. Of course, in the minutes after Zingano had suggested as much, Granger had reached out to Norton through the Ligature, and determined that, in fact, the man was just being a stubborn jackass. No Swarm-control needed for that. No need to ascribe to foreign influence the ability for an officer to be a moron.
“But I’ll tell you this, Mr. Oppenheimer,” he began again, and turned to look around at the entire bridge crew. “I’ll let you all in on a little secret. They call me the Hero of Earth.” He paused. The bridge was silent. “Bullshit. I’m no hero.” He pointed up toward Proctor. “There’s your hero.” He pointed down in the direction of the shuttle bay. “More heroes down there on the fighter deck and shuttle bay. And here’s another secret. When I was floating above Earth, in the Constitution, broken and hobbled, I knew with certainty that we’d win. Even as those first carriers closed in on us, battering the shit out of us, breaking our noses and kicking our asses, even then I knew. We would win. And do you know how I knew that?”
He rested his gaze on the navigational officer at helm. He hadn’t had to give a good rah-rah speech in awhile—his old crew had gotten to the point where they performed expertly in every battle even when all he said was go get ‘em, but this crew was on the cusp of turning on him. They needed their hero.
And the best hero was a reluctant hero.
“I knew we were going to win, not because I was the hero, but because I was resting on the shoulders of heroes. We won that battle, Mr. Oppenheimer, not because of me, but because of my crew. In fact, I literally rested on the shoulders of Commander Proctor when she carried me to safety as the Constitution blazed through the atmosphere and crash landed in Utah. Came to rest almost nose to nose with the monument to the old ISS Victory, in fact. It was why this ship was named what it was. Zingano thought it was poetic or some shit. But the fact remains, it’s not the guy in charge that’s the hero.”
He turned back to Oppenheimer. “It’s you. And by god, Commander, Earth needs us. Britannia needs us. Novo Janeiro needs us. Marseilles needs us. All of humanity is depending on us, and the decisions we make right now. One wrong move, and it’s over.”
He stepped away from the captain’s chair and made for the exit. “You all have a duty. What that duty is is your own decision, and I won’t stand in the way of it. Let me know what you choose.” He motioned for Proctor to join him, and silently prayed that Oppenheimer wouldn’t call the marines on him before he managed to leave the bridge. “But for my part, I hope you choose to be heroes.” And with that, he passed through the bridge doors which opened to receive him.
After they’d rounded the bend, Proctor whispered behind him. “That was pretty good.”
“Think they bought it?”
“If they don’t, this’ll be the shortest mutiny on record.” She smiled, even if briefly. Good—her old sense of humor was intact. “Where are we going, by the way?”
“Sickbay. We need that information that Krull has. Unconscious or not, I’m going to get it out of her.”
Chapter Sixty
Sickbay, ISS Victory
Interstellar Space, 2.3 Lightyears From Sirius
Sickbay was still crowded and busy, possibly more so now that the wounded from the Warrior’s crew had begun trickling up from the fighter deck and the shuttle and cargo bay. Though, fortunately, the Warrior’s medical staff had also transferred over, so at least there was care, if not space, for the patients.
On one of the beds he saw Ensign Prince, half his head wrapped in a bandage, tinged with blood. He must have had a mishap either during the evacuation or the flight over to the Victory. He recognized a few more injured crewmen from his old crew, and the conscious ones gave him small salutes as they were able. He was still their hero. Their symbol of survival. And it showed in their eyes. Just seeing him seemed to give their eyes life.
In the private examination room Krull lay unconscious on her bed, and to his credit the doc was still there, taking life-sign readings. “I’ve got nearly a hundred of your people out there, Captain. One of them already died for lack of immediate care. This alien had sure better be worth it.”
“She is. She and all twenty-two thousand of her Children.”
The doctor nodded. “Yeah, I found them. In her abdomen, lining her bones, her ribs, embedded in fatty tissues all along her arms and legs. Not terribly large, but definitely embryos. Highly developed embryos—I’ve never seen anything like them. I can’t even fathom how they get out.”
“Most of them never do,” said Granger. He wondered what it would be like to live the Interior Life, never knowing mobility, choice, independence.
But immediately the Children corrected him. We do have choice. One does not need the Exterior Life to make choices.
He realized he’d been thinking ... forcefully, for lack of a better word, and exposing himself to the Children through the Ligature. He wondered how sensitive it was. Was there some threshold below which they had no chance of hearing his thoughts? And how far did it extend? Could the Swarm, dozens of lightyears away, hear him? So many questions.
Questions that could wait.
“Wake her, Doc.”
The
doctor protested. “But Captain, that could be dangerous. Coma is a natural mechanism for the body to repair itself. Presumably for these people as well. You can’t just wake someone up and expect them to be ok.”
“Do it anyway. I need to talk to her.”
Reluctantly, the doctor pressed a meta-syringe up to Krull’s neck. “What if it kills her, Tim?” said Proctor.
“It’s a chance we’ll have to take. We need what she knows.”
“Can’t you just talk to the Children?”
He shook his head. “No, it’s not quite the same. When she’s unconscious, they are more disorganized. Like thousands of discordant voices. When she’s awake, they were more like a choir. She gives them focus and order. They don’t always agree on everything, just like most children, but not having her there makes it difficult to communicate.”
Krull stirred. Granger heard her in his mind. He reached out to her through the Ligature. “Krull, I’m here. I need to know what you know.”
She opened her eyes. “And why should I trust you?” Her voice was weak, barely above a whisper. “Your people have demonstrated their inability to be trusted,” she said, weakly. “It’s not just the Russians. You might think you’re special, that you’re different, but you’re all the same. You all lust for power and control.”
“No,” said Granger. “It’s not true. All I want is to save my people.”
“It’s what all of you say. It’s what your president says. It’s what Malakhov says. It’s what every tyrant says.”
Granger looked up at Proctor. Strange, wasn’t it, that she mentioned the Russian president. “Do you know Malakhov?”
She slowly nodded. Her face had turned from a light cream-blue to a more greenish shade. From her mind it was clear that she felt terrible. Her chorus of Children hadn’t calmed, and in fact, seemed to be getting more discordant and agitated. “I was the one to make the deal with him. Over ten of your years ago. It was under Valarisi control, of course, but I still remember it.”
“The Khorsky incident,” he muttered, to which she nodded. “And? What did he want?”
“He claimed he wanted to join us, of course. But we knew better. He wanted only to destroy us, but to do so on his terms, as part of some grand plan for Russian hegemony. He told us he had new, terrifying weapons that we could use to subjugate humanity quickly, without the need for a long, protracted war. We agreed, and helped him set up the production facilities over Penumbra Three. Construction took nearly a decade.”
“And what did he want in return?”
“To survive, of course. He sold out humanity for his own survival. We agreed to leave his people—the Russians—alone, in exchange for the rest of humanity. That, and ... he wanted his own personal freedom.”
Freedom? “Explain.”
“I didn’t understand at the time, since I was thrall to the Valarisi. I had no conception of even what he was asking for, or why he would ask for it, but of course it makes sense to me now. You see, Captain, he wanted to join the Swarm, but without being ... made a friend. Most of his top commanders and generals and politicians were made friends. But not Malakhov. He stayed outside the family. His mind, and his alone, was silent to us.”
Granger and Proctor exchanged significant looks. So, out of all the Russian political and military structure, Malakhov stayed truly independent. The Russians were under Swarm influence at a tactical level, but not a strategic level. Malakhov was still in control.
“But he was wrong,” she continued, coughing, then wincing. “We knew exactly what he was doing. You see, when we absorbed the Adanasi—the Russians—when we brought them into the family, we absorbed all their knowledge, their expertise, their skills. The Adanasi—and your people are no exception Granger—are experts at deception. At double dealings. At artifice and subterfuge and lies. And in the moment that the Valarisi absorbed the Adanasi, we understood them, and came up with our own subterfuge. We recognized what Malakhov was aiming to do, so we turned the tables on him.”
“And what was that?” Granger asked urgently. She looked terrible, and worried that she’d pass out again soon.
“Malakhov planned the destruction of the Valarisi, using the new weapons he gave us. The singularities come in pairs. What comes in one side, goes out the other. We deployed the weapons on the carriers, but the other sides were all kept above Penumbra Three, near the production facility. Malakov claimed they needed to be there to maintain their stability, but we saw through that lie. His real goal was to collect all that matter, all that debris, enough mass to form a small moon. And then he would hurl it down to the surface.”
“The surface?”
“Of the planet. Over which the production facility orbited.”
“Why? What’s on the planet?”
“Captain, it’s obvious. When the Adanasi were absorbed, the Valarisi gained their penchant for subterfuge. And one of the first lessons of politics is that you keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”
“Are you saying...?”
“That Penumbra Three is the Valarisi’s homeworld?” She coughed again. Blood tinged her lips. “Of course, that knowledge was kept from me, even for all the time I served the Valarisi. But isn’t the answer obvious?”
“And Malakhov was going to bombard the surface of Penumbra Three with all the debris sucked up by the singularities that he’s been collecting for the past four months?”
Proctor nodded. “It’s a pretty effective way to eradicate the Swarm matter. It can most likely seep into the crust of whatever planet it’s on, so you’d have to be thorough. A moon-sized mass hitting the planet would not only destroy all life, it would heat up and liquify the crust down to the mantle. There would be no way any Swarm matter would survive.”
“Yes,” said Krull. Her voice was faint. “But the Valarisi won’t let that happen. In fact, the pieces are already in place. All that mass, instead of striking Penumbra Three and destroying it, will all be intercepted by another singularity. One outside of Malakhov’s control.”
Granger felt his blood run cold. “And where is that singularity’s pair?”
“Over Earth, of course.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Sickbay, ISS Victory
Interstellar Space, 2.3 Lightyears From Sirius
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” asked Granger.
“We didn’t know if we could trust you. And that hesitation on our part was vindicated,” she said, wincing in pain. “But you are different, Granger. Maybe you can actually do something about it.”
She brought her hands to her head and closed her eyes, almost seeming to pass out for a moment. The doctor scanned her head again. “She’s hemorrhaging. I can’t stop this brain bleed.”
“And you won’t, Doctor,” she managed to say. “My body long ago lost the ability to heal itself. Such is the price of dependance on the gifts of the Valarisi.”
Proctor edged closer. “What do you mean?”
“With the touch of the Valarisi comes control, but also healing. It has been in my blood for a very long time, healing me, unnaturally extending my life, such that my body has lost all natural ability to heal itself. Over time, one becomes entirely dependent on it.”
“How long have you been under their influence?” Granger edged closer. Krull looked pale. He worried she was on her last leg. Judging from the frantic chorus of the Children, they were worried about it too. Terrified, was a more appropriate word.
“I was one of the first. At the very beginning. As I spend more time outside their influence, my memory is coming back. Slowly. But I was there. Over ten thousand years ago when the Valarisi first exerted their dominance over us.”
Ten thousand years ago?
“I thought you said you were seven hundred and fifty?”
A weak smile. “I told you, we’ve learned much from the Adanasi. I lied. I did not trust you. I did not know you.” She coughed again. “It was the very first cycle of the Valarisi. I was a young matriarch
, sent by our Bonded Council of Seven to settle a new planet. We had been there a few years, building a small city and taming the environment. But we did not know that the Valarisi’s cycle was soon to begin anew. One hundred and fifty of your years. Like clockwork, as you say. And we were in the wrong place, at the wrong time.”
“Where were you?”
“Penumbra Three. The very first cycle. For us, at least. But the Skiohra were the first race to fall.”
Penumbra Three. It was right there in our grasp, and the Russians scared us off. Unbelievable.
She continued. “We were aware of the Valarisi. They were kind, but enigmatic. As a liquid-based life form it was nearly impossible to communicate with them. But we knew they were there. We knew they were intelligent. But then came the quickening. The moment when the Valarisi were truly born. When the others came, we were powerless to stop them.”
“Others? What others?”
“You know them as the Swarm, Captain.”
“The Valarisi?”
“No. The others control the Valarisi.”
Granger was confused. “Are you saying that the Swarm and the Valarisi are two separate races? Two different things?”
“Of course. The Valarisi are a beautiful, harmonious culture. Luminous beings of liquid and light. The Swarm corrupted them. Absorbed them. Just like they did to us. To the Dolmasi. To the Findiri and the Quiassi. And finally, the Adanasi. Seven peoples. One family.”
“Then who are the Swarm?” Granger nearly shouted.
“We do not know. They are other. They came from beyond. We do not understand it. They are meta-space beings, Captain Granger. Beyond that, I know nothing, only that, through the Valarisi, they were able to dominate me. Control my thoughts and make me do ... unthinkable things.”
