by Nick Webb
Isaacson flashed a wry grin. “For a tidy profit, no doubt.”
“Is that wrong?” Volodin laughed. “It was your people that taught us capitalism centuries ago.”
“And then you taught it back to us.”
“And the circle of life continues.” Volodin gestured toward the living room, lined by plush, luxurious sofas and alcohol cabinets. “Can I offer you something?”
“Do you have to ask?”
Two secret service men stood near the doors while one left the room to stand outside. Volodin pulled a small bottle from a cabinet which Isaacson accepted gratefully. “So, no draft? How does your military manage?”
“We are a patriotic people, Eamon. We don’t need to be compelled to defend our freedoms like you people do. Young men are volunteering in droves.”
“Spurred, no doubt, by the incredibly low attrition rate your military suffers compared to ours. A consequence of sitting all the major battles out, I suppose,” Isaacson retorted.
Volodin smiled and sat on a sofa, swishing a drink. “So, why are you here, Eamon? What’s the problem?”
After a few swallows, Isaacson motioned to the men at the door. “Give us a moment, guys.”
When the security detail had left he stood back up. “Yuri, what the hell is going on? Why did you leave?”
“I told you. Malakhov recalled me.”
“Why? Right in the middle of the war? Doesn’t make sense. Are you still—” Isaacson paused, and glanced at the door, before lowering his voice. “Are you still targeting Avery?”
“Do you want us to?”
Isaacson glowered at him. “It’s wartime. Total war. Changes in leadership aren’t … prudent, during times like this.”
Yuri guffawed. “Ha! You’ve fallen under her sway, haven’t you? She’s charmed your balls right off with her chest-thumping, dick-waving show she’s putting on, playing at being a general when she belongs in the kitchen. My friend, are you getting soft on me?”
Isaacson rolled his eyes. “Please, Yuri, you sound like someone out of the twenty-first century. I wanted her dead so I could be president, not because she’s got a vagina.”
Yuri finished off his drink. “So why don’t you? Hmm?”
“Do what?”
“Kill her?”
“I told you.”
“Because of stability during wartime? Nonsense. The people need the best leader during wartime, not the most convenient one. They clearly need you, Eamon. Malakhov stands by his pledge of support for you. Even in all the commotion these days, I’m sure we can make something work.”
Isaacson drummed his fingers nervously on his cheek and paced the room. “No.”
Yuri snorted. “She has gotten to you. Taken you in with her act. What, did she say how much she needs you and how much she trusts you? Tell you how important you are? Did she promise to campaign for you next election? Or did she just promise you a good BJ for every thousand ships you christen?”
He would not give Volodin the satisfaction, but Isaacson grimaced inwardly at himself—it was all true. Well, mostly.
“Eamon, think. You’ve been planning her assassination for months. Surely you’ve been thinking about it for years, if I know you—you’re a man of action, a man of decision, someone who makes the hard choices, come what may. But think. Someone has just made an attempt on her life. A sloppy one, from what my sources say. Do you honestly think that she doesn’t suspect you?”
Isaacson hesitated. “Who knows what she thinks—she’s a loose cannon right now, ever since the war—”
“Exactly. A loose cannon. She’s acting on instinct right now. And remember, she’s a natural politician. She’s drawn you in just as she’s drawn in the billions of rubes that voted for her. If I were her, do you know what I would do?” He paused, then continued without waiting for his answer. “I’d bring you in close, get you in my confidences, make you comfortable, then,” he raised a hand and made a gun motion, firing it at Isaacson’s head. “Bam.”
“And why would she suspect me? I’ve only ever been polite and encouraging to her.”
“Why wouldn’t she? Who will take the presidency when she dies?”
“Me.”
“Exactly.”
Volodin was annoying him, so he changed the subject. “Will you tell me how to detect Swarm-influenced people?”
Yuri’s eyes narrowed at the question. He poured himself another drink. “Why? Do you suspect someone in your government or military?”
“Possibly. You said that some of those soldiers that went aboard the Swarm ships came out changed. Smarter. Faster. Better. Is that the only way to tell if someone’s been compromised?”
Volodin swished his drink. “There are many ways. I will not tell you all of them. For classified reasons,” he added, noticing Isaacson’s eye-roll. “But I will tell you this. Ever wonder how the Swarm communicate with each other? I’m sure you’ve noticed during all the pitched battles over the past few months that your fleets never detect any transmissions between Swarm ships. It’s like they coordinate their attacks perfectly, all from prior plans they worked out before the battle.”
Isaacson nodded. “I have heard the admirals discuss the matter.”
“But it’s nonsense. Of course they communicate with each other. You witnessed me talking to them, remember? They’re not wordy folk, but they do talk. And their coordination amongst themselves is … effective, wouldn’t you say? How many ships have you lost the past two months? How many people?”
Isaacson shrugged. “Too many. Five hundred ships? Maybe more.”
“And the Cadiz System. And almost a dozen other worlds. A shame. Truly a great human tragedy.”
Isaacson nodded again, hoping the other man would get to the point.
“Think about it. If we talk to them using meta-space signals, it might make sense that they talk to each other with meta-space signals, correct?”
“Right,” said Isaacson, leading him on.
“And if they talk to each other using meta-space signals, you’d think they would have figured out a way to talk to those they control with meta-space signals.”
But back in the Omaha command center, he’d scanned the entire room for meta-space signals. Not one of the stations registered even so much as a blip.
Unless….
“Are you saying that they’ve figured out a way to transmit and receive meta-space signals with—” he fumbled for words—he was no scientist or technologist, “—with bodies?
Yuri raised an eyebrow. “Now that would be something, wouldn’t it? Being able to talk to each other without electronics, without devices, without antennae. Just you, and me … and our thoughts.”
“So you’ve detected this among those men that came back from the Swarm carrier?”
“Oh,” Volodin began, standing up and putting the bottle back into the cabinet. “Hard to tell what was going on in the military back then. I was just a junior member of the diplomatic corps at the time.”
So he was going to play coy. Fine. But at least Isaacson learned what he came for.
He was absolutely sure Volodin was not involved in the recent attempt on Avery’s life. The ambassador was not a humble man—the fact of his involvement would have been flaunted for Isaacson like a badge of honor.
“I need to get back to Washington.” Isaacson stood up. “It’s been a pleasure, Yuri, as always. Do keep in touch.”
Volodin nodded, and after more small talk, he led Isaacson out where his security detail was waiting for him. They shook hands, and Volodin slipped back into the building as Isaacson allowed the guards to lead him back to their vehicle on the street.
He almost ducked into the car when he heard Volodin call out to him, waving something from the doorway. Grumbling about walking more than he needed to, Isaacson motioned to the guards to get in the car as he went back to the office.
The ambassador held a new bottle of the vodka they’d been drinking. “For tonight. I do know how you love your R
ussian beverages after your Russian girls.”
Isaacson smiled. “Thank you, Yuri. How very thoughtful.”
He turned to walk back to the street, examining the bottle. Caspian Black Label—Russia’s finest. He suspected most of it would be gone before he left in the morning. Maybe Conner might want the rest.
Moments later, he was thrown backward. The ground car exploded in a massive fireball as he flew through the air, landing on the grass behind him.
Chapter 21
The Waypoint, Near Sirius
Main Conference Room, Interstellar One
Interstellar One was in a state of somber pandemonium. Aides, department chiefs, interns, all grim-faced and arguing, still not quite believing what had happened, scurried in shock. Zingano and Granger both arrived in the shuttle bay at the same time and followed Sparks and some advisors into a conference room.
“What the hell is going on?” Zingano yelled. “Where’s the secret service? Are your security protocols really this shoddy? Where’s the chief of staff? Where’s General Norton? He’s her military advisor. Doesn’t he personally handle fleet protection for the president? Where’s—”
Sparks held up a hand and cut him off. “Admiral, please. We’re trying to figure out what went wrong. Could be as simple as an engine overload, for all we know. Right now we have to worry about continuity of government. We need to send a meta-space signal back to Earth and get Vice President Isaacson to a secure location before word leaks out. We can’t have this happen again.”
“Isaacson? That dipshit?” Zingano tossed his hands up. “Unbelievable.”
The door opened again and General Norton ran into the room, along with three armed men. “I’ve got her secret service detail.”
Zingano pointed at one of them, an older man that looked like their commander. “What the hell happened? Why was she on that ship, and how did they know she was there?”
“And who is they?” Granger added.
The secret service agent shook his head. He was obviously troubled, his face red. His fist looked bloody. He’d apparently had the same reaction to Avery’s death as Zingano. “That’s standard protocol these days. She’s never to travel on Interstellar One. We’ve got three body doubles for that. One’s on Earth, the other’s on Verso.”
Zingano shot him a look. “Verso?”
“The other escort ship. The one that didn’t explode—that one was Recto.” He sighed. “The third double is here on Interstellar One.”
Silence. The enormity of the situation began to weigh on them all. They’d need to make an announcement. Isaacson would need to be sworn in, and then read in to all the top-secret programs, some of which Granger didn’t even know about, he supposed. The Earth, and dozens of other United Earth worlds, would be shocked. Demoralized. If the Swarm could not only invade with fleets, but infiltrate this deeply into Earth’s elected government with impunity, what hope could they have of winning?
There was shouting out in the corridor. Shit. What now?
Granger couldn’t believe his eyes. The door opened. President Avery stepped through, flanked by her chief of staff and another secret service agent. She held a small, glittering handbag, a mug of coffee, and a fierce frown.
She strode straight up to Congresswoman Sparks. The other woman’s mouth still hung open. “Madam President! You’re … you’re alive.”
Avery smiled and handed her coffee to the chief of staff. “Yes. And you’re not.” In one fluid, swift motion she reached into her handbag and pulled out a sidearm, pointed it straight at Sparks’s forehead, and fired.
Chapter 22
Moscow, Russia
Yuri Volodin’s Office, Diplomatic Complex
Isaacson felt himself being dragged across grass, then pavement. Looking around he saw people running and screaming, but he couldn’t hear them. His head felt like it was underwater and his ears stuffed with gauze.
He looked up. Volodin was pulling him toward his offices, his large face red from the effort. Soon, first responder vehicles swarmed the street, lights flashing, sirens blaring—he supposed. He could just barely hear them, as if from a distance.
Someone was calling his name. He looked back at Volodin, who was yelling in his ear. The ambassador pointed to Isaacson’s legs, then made a rising motion.
Isaacson nodded, and let the other man pull him to his feet. He immediately felt light headed, and leaned into Volodin for support. The two hobbled to the front door of the office and stepped inside, Isaacson falling onto one of the sofas.
Volodin bolted back out the door and Isaacson closed his eyes. Moments later he opened them to find the ambassador standing overhead with a few paramedics. They examined him, scanned his head with a device and read his vitals, feeling his limbs and torso for wounds.
“He’s fine, Ambassador,” said one of the men. “Just in shock, and his hearing is slightly damaged. But both will pass.”
Isaacson nodded. Good—he could hear again. “Who?”
“No idea, Eamon. Intelligence services are already here, combing for evidence,” he said, pausing, “I’m afraid your men did not survive.”
Isaacson waved the comment aside. “I almost didn’t survive, Yuri!”
Volodin nodded to the paramedics and signaled for them to go. When they were alone Volodin sat on the sofa next to him. “Eamon, this is a troubling development.”
Isaacson scowled. “You think?”
“Someone just tried to kill you. And this was a far more sophisticated attack than the one on Avery last week. You only survived by chance.”
Isaacson closed his eyes and rubbed his head, running through his ancient first aid training. What do you do for shock victims? Blankets? Feet? Something about feet. He propped his feet up on the sofa. “The question is, who would have the audacity to do this? And so publicly?”
Volodin shot him a look. “Do you really have to ask? There’s only one person both capable and willing to do this.”
It couldn’t be. Why would she do it now? Here? Why not just stab him in the back in her mid-Atlantic bunker? “I don’t know, Yuri.” He opened his eyes and tried to stand up. “But I’m going to find out. I’m heading back to Washington. Right now.”
The room spun around him, picking up speed; he fell back onto the sofa holding his head.
Chapter 23
The Waypoint, Near Sirius
Weight Room, ISS Warrior
Ballsy grunted against the weights. He pushed the bar away, then let it fall down to his chest, stopping just short of his pectoral muscles. The IDF fleet training program emphasized core and leg strength over arms and shoulders given their frequent use in space flight, but his ego emphasized all of it.
“One more, Ballsy, give me one more,” said Lieutenant Yamato. Spacechamp, Volz mentally reminded himself. It was just simpler to think of them in terms of their callsign—helped dull the pain when they died if any actual names were tucked safely away.
He yelled out, pushing against the bar until it reached the top, and she pulled the weights away and onto the supports.
They swapped positions after adjusting the weights for Spacechamp.
“How’s Dogtown?” she asked.
Ballsy shook his head. “They’re in quarantine. All of them—Dogtown, Clownface, and Hotshot. But they’re fine. Dogtown broke his ankle, old bastard. But Clownface and Hotshot just got bruised up. And of course the Swarm shit all over them.”
She pressed the bar up a few times. “And that Hanrahan—lucky bastard. Managed to not get a fleck on him. Jumped away at the last second. Pretty spry for an old soldier.”
Ballsy nodded. Colonel Hanrahan was something of a Constitution—and now a Warrior—institution. He was like old Commander Haws, but sober, gruffer, fitter, and of course, more alive. And the old soldier held court off-duty down at New Afterburner’s—the reincarnation of the old make-shift bar they’d had on the Old Bird—where he drank ice water instead of alcohol, regaling the crew members who sat nearby with old st
ories from the last Swarm war. He hadn’t even been born yet, of course, but he talked about it like he was there, and made up for the lack of direct experience with creative vulgarity.
“How long will they be in quarantine?”
He shook his head. “Until Doc Wyatt is sure the Swarm matter didn’t get into them somehow. I suppose they think contact with the stuff can infect you or kill you or something. Probably aren’t sure if it can spread, hence the quarantine. They’re just being careful.”
“Can’t be too careful these days,” she said, pushing the bar up a final time and resting it against the supports. She stood up. “What about you, Ballsy? You ok?”
He glowered at her. “And why wouldn’t I be?”
She shrugged, and led the way to the squat bench. “I dunno. You’ve just seemed really distracted the past few weeks.”
“It’s war, Spacechamp. We signed up for it, but we never imagined it would actually happen.” He bent over to lift the bar onto his shoulders. “Besides. I’m not distracted. Just … I worry about you guys, is all.”
“What, me and Fodder and Pew Pew? Aw, you old softie.”
“I mean it. You’re my squad. The longest I’ve ever had a squad together in two and a half months. Before you guys came along I was losing squadmates at least once or twice per week. I hate to say it, but I’m getting a little attached to you all, ya’ know?”
She steadied him as he bent forward to set the bar back down. “I’m touched.” They switched places. “Dogtown was on your squad before, right?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened? Why’d Pierce split you up?”
He didn’t want to tell her the truth. That Dogtown reminded him of her. Hell, he’d lost nearly half a dozen squadmates since then.
But none of them had disappeared into a singularity. He hadn’t been the one to deliver the news to all those families. Just to hers.
And none of them had a kid that would insist on sending him drawings. Drawings of fighters, or of his mom and dad. Little scrawled messages that were only gibberish but what the grandparents translated to say things like, “thank you,” or, “I’m going to be a pilot too,” or, “when can you see Zack Zack?”
