by Nick Webb
The machine also monitored the level of tranquilizer in her system, and he saw that it was getting low. He waited, waited, waited for the beeping that would commence once the sedative wore off completely. Glancing up, he saw that the nurses on duty were busy with other patients, but for the most part sickbay was empty.
His finger was poised and ready. The monitor beeped. With a quick tap of his finger—a trigger impulse learned from dozens of life-or-death battles with the Swarm—he switched off the sound. He looked up again. The nurses hadn’t noticed the abortive beep.
Fishtail started to stir. Soon, her eyes fluttered, and she looked at him.
The smirk returned. The cold, dead, glassy eyes. Shit. They really had her.
“Ballsy, how nice of you to watch over me.” Her tone was mocking. “I’ve seen you watching me. Almost every single day.” Her voice lowered in register to a dark, mock-sultry tone. “Are you in love with me?”
He ignored her taunt. “We’re going to destroy you, you know. You may as well give up now.”
She rolled her eyes. “Please. You’re weak. Disjointed. Scattered. One leader undermining the other, one nation scheming against the next. You lack focus. You have no purpose. For humans, it is every man for himself, at the expense of everyone else.”
“You’re wrong. We help each other. We lift each other up. If you knew Fishtail at all, you’d know that.”
Her cold eyes drilled into him. “Help each other? Lift each other? You don’t fool me, fly-boy. You help your own tribe. That’s it. Humanity is tribal. Always has been, and left to its own primitive devices, it always will be. That’s where we come in. We will elevate you. You can join the family, become our friends, and take your rightful place in the Concordat.”
He leaned over the top of the enclosure. “We don’t want a place in your Concordat. And you’re wrong. We’re not just tribal. We’ve come far from those days. We’re—”
“Ballsy,” she interrupted with a scoff, “humanity hasn’t changed in a hundred thousand years. You’re just a handful of spear-shaking jingoistic tribes that fight for that coveted spot on top of your tiny, insignificant hill. Believe me, we know. We’ve been watching. The Russians are trying to destroy you. You’re trying to destroy the Russians. The Caliphate wants both governments destroyed, but they don’t dare say it since your last war with them nearly destroyed them. And even in your own government, the factions squabble and fight, scheming to kill each other, obtain power over the other, each fighting for his own little group of like-minded and small-minded sycophants. The shrillest, most profane leaders win, and the reasonable, quiet voices are squashed. We are not like that, Ballsy. You’ll see. It’ll be better with us. In the Concordat, you’ll know harmony. Unity. Peace and prosperity.”
It was hard to argue with her. Mainly because she was right—he hated the political class. Even more, he hated the oligarchic plutocrat class that pretended to be above the political fray. Pretending to be outsiders when in fact they were the most deeply inculcated of all of them, protecting their money and their status. But the Swarm’s solution was unthinkable. Forced freedom was no freedom.
“Look, Fishtail, let’s change the subject.”
“Yes, let’s,” she replied with another smirk.
“You remember that hair-raising maneuver you pulled? Against that Swarm turret? Spiraling in against who knows how many gees, knocking it out, and then flying through the fireball?”
“What of it?”
He tried to smile, genuinely. Maybe he could reach her, connect with her, if he could just punch through the Swarm cloud. Maybe reach her with real emotion. “Child’s play. You should see the shit I’m doing now. Unbelievable shit. They even changed my name from Ballsy to Oh-my-godsey.” He threw in a wink for good measure. Something, anything to reach her.
But her face remained stoney.
“Look, Fishtail … I—well, I did what you wanted. I took the ring to your parents. I played with Zack-Zack. Gave him a toy. Hugged him. I just wanted you to know that he’s ok. And that he misses you. Terribly.”
Her eyes changed. They widened. A brief, choking noise came from her throat, as if she was struggling to say something, but couldn’t bring herself to say it. And, at the corner of her eye, he could swear he saw water building up. Not enough to form a tear.
But he’d reached her. He was sure of it.
In a moment, it was gone. The haughty face returned. “Ballsy, Ballsy, Ballsy. You’ve been a dear. A huge help, in fact. Where is the Warrior right now? On time for its appointment? I hope you don’t run into any surprises while you’re there.”
Shit. He’d made a huge mistake, he realized now. Once awake, the Swarm not only could speak through her, but apparently they could track her. At least, that was the impression she was giving. He jabbed the monitor with his finger, and the beeping rang out, indicating the low sedative levels in her blood.
The closest nurse looked up, swore, and rushed over, punching buttons and controllers to get the next dose of tranquilizer queued up.
“See you soon, Ballsy,” she said as her eyes fluttered shut.
Chapter 29
Presidential Command Center, Frigate One
High Orbit, Britannia
“The plan is called Operation Ground War. After tomorrow, the Swarm will have learned that you don’t mess with the marines,” said President Avery. “This has gone on too long, gentlemen. It is time we take the initiative. We tried it, two months ago. Granger did a commendable job with that attempt. But even then, we were reacting. We thought we were taking the initiative, taking the fight to the enemy, but for all our efforts, they expected us. It is time we do something completely unexpected. Something so ballsy and dramatic, that it will change the course of the war, and deliver us a steaming pile of dead Swarm shit that we can flush away and get on with our lives.”
She waved a hand toward General Norton and leaned back in her seat. He stood up and approached the front of the conference room, and on the table in front of him, a three dimensional holographic display of the Skiohra’s super dreadnought bloomed from a single point in the air.
“Our target. Tomorrow, Captain Granger has a rendezvous scheduled with the Skiohra vessel.” He turned to address Granger. “You will keep your appointment. You will play along, and squeeze as much intel out of them as you can. Stall for as much time as possible. Your tactical crew will begin intensive scanning of their vessel. The Skiohra will expect this, of course, as we expect they will do to you. When you have a lock on their position and drift vector, you will relay their precise coordinates and velocity to my fleet, point one lightyears away.” He turned to a trim gray-haired man behind him. “Colonel Barnard?”
Barnard stepped in to replace Norton and waved the holographic display forward. It zoomed in on a section of the vast ship, and a tiny holographic image of a troop transport shimmered into place. A chart of data, troop numbers, and transport capabilities appeared next to it.
“Standing by in the boarding fleet will be roughly five thousand troop transports, each carrying one hundred and ninety-five marines. Five hundred thousand soldiers total, including logistics, engineers, and support crew. Analysis of the scans taken by the ISS Warrior during the last encounter have revealed that the Skiohra ship contains, at most, two hundred thousand life individual life readings. And it’s most likely that a large portion of them are not soldiers, but crew members necessary to keep a ship that large functioning. If all goes well with the docking, we should outnumber them over two to one.”
“That’s a big if,” said Granger, and the plan was already sending off alarm bells in his mind. Attack, when they didn’t even know the Skiohra’s true intentions?
“Your scans revealed that our docking ports are compatible with theirs, with minor adjustments.” At a raised eyebrow from Granger, Colonel Barnard elaborated. “We will magnetically lock as best we can, then blow through their hatch doors with projectile-based explosive charges. When the door is breached
, we’ll throw out a cylindrical umbilical, made out of a special flexible composite material that will be shepherded by a cluster of miniature bots. The umbilical will expand, and the bots will automatically find the small crevices and notches where air continues to escape, and seal them, with double fail-safes if—”
“Get to the good part, Colonel,” said Avery. “The part where we steal a big-ass ship and point it down the throat every Swarm fleet we detect.”
“Ah—yes, ma’am. Took the words right out of my mouth. As the marines progress deck by deck, we’ll rapidly take over their command and control structure, occupy key sections of the ship, and neutralize any effective opposition.” The holographic display of the dreadnought expanded again, and thousands of bright red points erupted all along the edge of its hull spreading inward like an infection. “We anticipate that, with moderate losses, we can be in control of the entire ship within eight hours.”
“Sounds like fun,” said Admiral Zingano. “What’s the catch?”
General Norton stepped forward again. “No catch. Using standard ship-based combat models, we calculate the risk of failure at twelve percent, which the president has deemed to be an acceptable level.”
“Bullshit,” said Granger.
Everyone turned to him. Avery’s eyebrows rose high up on her forehead.
“My apologies, Madam President, my comment was not directed at you, rather to the modelers.”
General Norton took a threatening step toward him, and looked like he was about to call for the marines at the door to escort him to the brig, but Avery waved him off. “Explain, Captain.”
“First of all, we’ve never met a Skiohra in person. We don’t know their capabilities, their strength, their speed, their ability to fight—everything about them is unknown, except for the fact that they’re bipedal and can probably carry a gun.”
Norton raised a hand. “Our modelers have taken every uncertainty into account. Even with all that not completely understood, due to our numbers and adaptability we calculate that one standard deviation of risk still gives us a seventy-five—”
“And furthermore,” interrupted Granger, “you’re forgetting one thing. We still have no idea if the Skiorha are truly liberated from the Swarm or not. If not, we’ve got a problem on our hands, don’t we? Two hundred thousand highly trained warriors, all communicating with a hive mind that we can’t disrupt or take down. It doesn’t matter if you block their comm links—they’ll still be able to coordinate the defense of their ship. And that’s assuming we can even dock. For all we know, the Skiohra are playing us, and as soon as our transports show up, fifty Swarm carriers q-jump in and vaporize a tenth of our ground army in one fell swoop.”
“Captain Granger, you will show some respect—”
“And, last, but certainly not least, there’s the issue of the communication even if they are liberated from the Swarm. We’ve recently learned, after a little trial and error, that it is in fact possible for an individual to tap into the Swarm communication network, even after they’ve been liberated. We don’t understand it, but we know this as fact.”
“And how do we know that, Granger? Did you contact your Swarm buddies and tell them to meet you at York?” General Norton was back on his feet now, pointing angrily at him.
To everyone’s surprise, Granger nodded. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
Silence.
“To clarify, this was not until after they left. After the destruction of York. But when I got there, I summoned them back. And they came. I also, unwittingly, summoned the Dolmasi. And they came, too, saving our asses in the process, and giving me vital intel on the Skiohra in the process.”
Norton turned to President Avery. “Ma’am, it’s clear what we’re dealing with. I’ve warned you about him time and again. We can’t continue on with this security threat in our midst, I mean, for god’s sake, he just admitted to communicating sensitive fleet movements to the Swarm!”
Avery eyed him suspiciously. “Captain? Anything else you’d like to say? I’ve half a mind to quarantine you for the duration of the war, until we either win, or the Swarm come in and break you out of prison and carry you home as a conquering hero.”
“One more thing, Madam President. After the incident at Winchester Shipyards, you yourself authorized Commander Proctor to conduct blood tests on all senior level defense officials and officers. Obviously, she has only scratched the surface, but she’s managed to test a number of them. Upwards of thirty captains, admirals, generals—the like. I’m afraid she has some disturbing news.”
All eyes turned toward Commander Proctor. “It’s preliminary, of course—”
Avery snorted. “Out with it.”
“They tested positive for one particular form of the Swarm virus.”
It took Avery a moment to put together what she said. “When you say they….”
“I mean, they. All of them. Every captain I test. Every admiral. I tested the late Rear Admiral Littlefield’s blood too. Same thing. All of them carry the backdoor virus. And all of them, potentially, could be used against us like Littlefield.”
Interlude
The cold, bright lights glared overhead. He tried to focus on them, but fell asleep.
Then he was at the window. Just moments earlier, he knew he’d been laying down, staring at the light fixture above him, hearing the presence behind him. Someone stood there, just out of sight. Now, at the window, he couldn’t take his eyes off the planet.
The planet—oh, the planet. It was beautiful. It was a deep green, dappled with lakes and clouds and it called to him—
No, wait. It was not green and full of lakes. It was a deep blue, bolder than water but not icy like the swirling clouds of Neptune. This was deeper and warmer and bluer, and alive.
The presence behind him had returned. It opened the door, then shut it firmly.
He didn’t turn around, there was no need. The presence would speak, eventually. All he cared about was that planet. And beyond the planet….
Chapter 30
Captain's Quarter's, ISS Warrior
High Orbit, Britannia
Granger awoke with a start. He’d spent over an hour tossing and turning, worrying about Operation Ground War, and when he’d finally fallen asleep, the usual dream returned—what he was sure was the actual memory of being held by the Russians and Swarm four months ago.
His sheets were wet with sweat, but he’d kicked the blanket off and he was shivering. A glance at the clock told him he’d gotten three hours, and with a sigh he rolled over and heaved himself to his feet. Three hours was considered good sleep these days. A cold shower helped wake him up, and he was glad he finished quickly because as he finished dressing the door chimed.
“Come in,” he grumbled.
The door slid open, and outside he could see the two marines standing guard, flanking Shelby Proctor, who poked her head in. “You dressed?”
“Barely. Come in.” He waved her through and pulled up a chair.
“Sorry, no time to chit chat,” she said, refusing the chair. “I just wanted to let you know … well, I’ve got good news and bad news.”
“Hit me,” he said, applying shaving cream to his stubble. In the mirror, under the harsh light of the vanity, his eyes looked bruised, but that was just the deep shadows cast by his fatigue.
“The bad news—I’m sorry, Tim. I’ve tried everything I can think of and ran through test after test with my team, but we just can’t seem to block the meta-space signal like the Swarm can. I’m sure we’ll figure it out, but not yet.”
He grumbled. That was bad news. Especially in light of her findings yesterday with the blood tests. With most of the admiralty and ship captains infected with the backdoor virus, he didn’t know who he could trust. Zingano was clean, fortunately, but he couldn’t very well quarantine every single one of his infected admirals and captains. The fleet would fall apart.
“Please tell me the good news makes up for it.”
“It
might. I had a few team members do some tests, and they’ve collaborated with their counterparts at IDF Science, and we might have a pharmacological solution. A temporary one, at least.”
“Pharmacological? You’re going to drug them all?” He ran the razor across his cheek, revealing clean, wrinkled skin underneath the stubble. Time to do something about those wrinkles, too. Aw, hell, who am I kidding?
“I am. It turns out that one of the many things the backdoor virus does when triggered is increase the levels of oxytocin and serotonin in the brain. Those influence our feelings of love, friendship, and similar bonding emotions, making it easier for the virus to do the rest of its work—influencing the host to do certain acts. But if we simply block those chemicals, suppress them, then the virus can’t work as well as it usually does.”
“So basically, make us all assholes. Great. You’ve tested this?” His face was clear, and he moved to his neck, drawing the razor carefully across his adam’s apple.
“On a lieutenant at IDF Science that we discovered was infected. I first hit him with a meta-space signal that I suspect mimics a Swarm signal and he showed elevated levels of oxytocin and serotonin. Then, after I injected him with the suppressant, and hit him again with the signal, the levels stayed the same.”
“Will it work?”
“No way to tell without an actual Swarm signal telling someone infected with the backdoor virus to go do something. At the very least, when the signal comes, the drug may give that person pause—may give them some moments of clarity where they realize what they’re doing, and may even delay action long enough for someone else to see them and realize what’s going on.”
He finished up, and wiped his face clean. “Sounds risky, but I guess it’s all we’ve got. Besides,” he sat down and pulled his boots on, “risk is our calling card.”
