by Nick Webb
“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.”
“Your side? You and Avery and the United Earth government and senate? No. I’m not on that side. But I’m on humanity’s side. I’m humanity’s best friend.”
Isaacson stopped midstride. “I’ve heard that language before. The Swarm wants to make friends of us all. You’re one of them, aren’t you? You’ve been infected. I’m talking to the Swarm right now.”
Malakhov laughed.
And laughed.
“Eamon, my man, I’m the one of the few people you’ve talked to in the last few days that is not infected by the Swarm.”
Isaacson’s jaw hung upen. “Yuri?”
“Swarm,” confirmed Malakhov.
“My secret service detail?”
“Swarm. Though in their case they’ve been infected with the backdoor version.” He pointed up to an electronic device on the ceiling, and another one above the door frame. “Meta-space detection grid. No Swarm communication happens anywhere on this station without my knowing about it. I read your security detail’s Swarm control the moment they stepped on the station. Not day-to-day control, but should it be necessary, the backdoor can be … potent. As you no doubt discovered with the incident at Wellington station.”
The implications ran through Isaacson’s mind as he connected the dots. “So … the assassination attempt. In Moscow, with the car—”
“Obviously set up by your own men. Not consciously, of course. But it’s true. And the incident with the two fighters over North America on your return trip the next day—also due to your men. Same with Avery’s detail, though at least she had the sense to turn most of her security over to the military. And not all of the secret service is compromised. But enough. Believe me, the Swarm wants nothing more than to decapitate both governments.”
Isaacson squinted suspiciously at the other man. “How do you know all this? How can I believe you?”
“The main reason is because it makes sense, and you trust your gut,” said Malakhov, as he strode confidently over to a table with a large opaque enclosure resting on top. “You’re a politician, Eamon. A good one. And very bright. You have a good sense for these kinds of things, and you know I’m telling the truth.” The enclosure had a few electronic controls on it, and Malakhov pressed a few of the buttons, presenting his finger for an identity scan. “But another reason is this.”
One half of the enclosure turned transparent, almost as clear as glass. Resting underneath it was a naked man. He looked to be awake, but his stare was constant and glassy as if he were in a daze. Metal rods and electrodes stuck out of his head, and out of his half-open mouth trailed an oxygen tube.
“Who is he?”
Malakhov saluted toward the prone man behind the enclosure, to Isaacson’s surprise. “He’s a patriot. Warrant Officer Igor Pavlenko. He gave his life to the motherland … though,” Malakhov glanced up at Isaacson with a grave look on his face, “he did not know it at the time. Thought he was volunteering for a special mission. He wasn’t aware that mission would be to lie here for ten years.”
Isaacson, seeing the forest of electrodes, tubes, and rods protruding from the skull, started to understand, putting the pieces together. “This is his mission?” He wasn’t sure whether to feel horror or awe. He supposed he felt both. “He’s your Swarm experiment. See how the Swarm matter affects the body. You learned how to control it from him.”
Malakhov shook his head. “No. Not quite. By the time he volunteered for this mission, I already knew roughly how the Swarm communicated and controlled. No, Warrant Officer Pavlenko’s mission was not to be an experiment, but to be a backdoor into the Swarm itself. He’s fully infected. Fully under Swarm control. But I’ve had him heavily sedated, and tied in electronically directly to his brain stem, the temporary lobe, and the hippocampus. Through those areas I not only have him immobilized and disabled, but I can decode what he hears through his Swarm link, and how his brain interprets those signals.”
“You’re spying on the Swarm? Why do they let you do this?” Isaacson was completely befuddled. He knew that Malakhov was either playing him—but why?—or feeding him false information that he would take back to Avery, or … maybe, just maybe … he was telling the truth. A politician?
And one at war, no less, giving the truth to his enemy?
“I can see the doubt in your eyes, Mr. Isaacson. You don’t trust me, and I understand that. What I tell you is true, and I’ll tell you why it is true. I make no secret of my aspirations for my culture, my people. I tell you this freely. I do not wish the west to fall, but I want to come out of this war on top and the west humbled and willing to finally accept friendship with my people, not as superiors, but as equals. And so I tell you the truth because, though lies can be potent tools, the truth is the most powerful weapon of all.”
Isaacson stood up straight from having stooped to peer at the glassy-eyed Russian soldier. “And, Mr. President? What is the truth? Why have you brought me here today?”
“Mr. Vice President, my aim is not to control the Swarm. Not to use them to cow and intimidate the west. My goal, for my entire career, has been to destroy them, once and for all.”
Chapter 38
Shuttle Bay, ISS Warrior
Interstellar Space, 2.4 Lightyears From Sirius
Granger dashed to the control station in the shuttle bay and brought up a tactical display on the main panel. Damn. Norton hadn’t just brought his boarding ships and a few escort cruisers, he’d brought an entire fleet. Admiral Zingano’s by the looks of it, as the Victory hovered in the background. The cruisers were already pounding certain points on the dreadnought, softening it up for the boarding parties.
“Dammit,” he muttered, and set up a commlink to the Victory. “Bill, what the hell is going on? I didn’t send a signal to attack!”
Zingano’s voice sounded out from the panel. “Sorry, Tim. General Norton has operational authority for the mission, by order of the president.”
“But Bill, the Skiohra are the real deal. They’re allies. I’m absolutely sure of it.”
A new voice blasted over the speaker, interrupting a response from Zingano. “That’s what they might want us to believe, Granger. And it might be what you want us to believe. But we’ve been monitoring meta-space transmissions from you for the past hour, and it’s clear you’re collaborating with them.”
Meta-space transmissions? He spun around to Krull. “Are you in contact with the Swarm? Don’t lie to me….”
Her eyes were closed. All she said was, “My Children. They are dying.” The deep blue eyes opened. “We are betrayed. Are you prepared for the full force and fury and the combined might of the Skiohra?” There was a new menace to her voice.
The four marines by the door readied their assault rifles. Granger held out a hand to restrain them. “Wait. Not until she poses a threat.” He regarded her—the depth and wisdom in her eyes was gone. Replaced by a deadly fury. “I can convince them to stop. But the meta-space communication—I need to know. Was it you? Are you still with the Swarm?”
When she didn’t immediately answer, he strode over to her and reached out to grasp her hand. “Tell me!” he said, gripping her hand tightly until his own skin turned white.
He gasped. A rush, a flood of emotion washed over him. He felt the pain at a billion deaths. Thousands more were dying by the second, and he felt every one of them. The image, the thought, the impression floated up before his eyes, though he saw nothing, but he knew it all the same. She was telling the truth. It was undeniable. He knew Swarm—he knew what the felt like, their heartless, almost mechanical will to dominate, and this was not it.
He jerked his hand away, and even after physical contact was broken he could still feel the terror of billions. “They’re dying.”
The rage in her eyes smoldered. “I know. Because I trusted you.”
He dashed back to the terminal and re-established the link to Zingano. “Bill, I’m telling you, this is madness. These people are our allies. They can help us win this goddamned war! Hold your fire!”
Zingano’s heavy sigh greeted him. “Tim, listen. We knew this was a possibility. But Avery decided that regardless, we would take their ship, and point it straight at the heart of the Swarm fleet—”
“But we don’t even know where that heart is! Dammit, Bill, can’t you see that? She’s wrong on this one.”
Norton’s voice interrupted again. “You’re too late, Granger. Save it. The Swarm just showed up. In force. Now let’s get this show on the road. Direct the Warrior to run interference against the Swarm fleet for our boarding ships. We’ve got one shot at this, Granger. Don’t blow it. And if you disobey orders, I’ve given Lieutenant Diaz authority to put a bullet in your head and command the Warrior himself.”
Granger glanced at the tactical display and saw a fleet of Swarm carriers converging on their position. At least fifty. Shit—they knew we were here. He turned to the marines. “Restrain her,” he said, reluctantly.
The four men bounded forward. Another group of marines burst out of the service room door nearby. As the first dove for Krull, she, somehow, caught him in midair, and despite being half his size flung him around into the second group of marines. Three more men tackled her. With a yell she elbowed one in the face, knocking him cold. Another she kicked with a free foot, sending him flying up into the faces of two more marines.
Her strength was incredible—Kharsa wasn’t exaggerating. In a way, she looked and sounded like a mother bear, cornered with her cubs, as she bellowed and shouted, struggling against the crowd of soldiers attempting to take her down. Two more went down, unconscious. A third flew across the room into a wall, blood trickling from his nose.
Finally, they managed to get her arms behind her back and manacled together, using not one but two sets of heavy composite-steel handcuffs. Another pair clamped around her ankles. One last marine went down as she snapped her spine backward and whipped the back of her head into the chest of the man, tossing him back five meters, clutching his chest.
“Keep her there in the service room,” he said, pointing to the open door to the small room off the shuttle bay. “Twenty men are to guard her until I say otherwise.”
The soldiers saluted, and, satisfied she wouldn’t escape, rushed to the bridge.
Proctor was in his chair, directing the initial maneuvers. The battle was just spinning up. Zingano and his fleet had already taken out a few carriers, under the cover of the dreadnought, which was firing at Swarm targets seemingly at random—it seems their main attention was drawn inwards, as hundreds of marine transports had already docked. In short, it was one, giant mess.
But Granger was in the middle of it. And he had a duty to perform.
Save the fleet. Save the dreadnought.
Save humanity’s chances against the Swarm.
And, somehow, not participate in a genocide.
Chapter 39
X-25 Fighter Cockpit
Interstellar Space, 2.4 Lightyears From Sirius
Volz looped around a small group of Swarm fighters, firing at the ones he could manage to line up in his sights and leaving the stragglers to Pew Pew and Fodder who were backing him up. At the center of the cloud, flying slowly enough to encourage the cloud of bogeys to track her, but fast enough to just barely avoid getting hit by the overwhelming fire, Spacechamp zipped around like lightning, distracting the enemy while Volz and the two brothers took out her pursuers.
“Next time, you’re the bait, Ballsy,” she yelled through the headset. When the last of the fighters disappeared in a puff of debris and goo, she shot forward and leapt into the next horde of oncoming Swarm ships.
“Hey, Ballsy,” Fodder’s voice blared in his ear, “any word on when we get to dump our bricks? Getting tricky to maneuver with all this mass.”
He veered left to avoid a formation of bogeys that was flying to intercept them and looped around to take them out but they scattered before he could squeeze off a shot. “There haven’t been any singularities yet, so we hang onto them for now. Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance, Mr. Asterisk-one-big-unit.”
A quick glance out the window as he completed the loop gave him the layout of the battle. The IDF fleet had broken up into two attack groups, each takin
g on about twenty-five Swarm carriers, on opposite sides of the dreadnought. The Skiohra ship occasionally fired at the nearest Swarm ships, but for the most part seemed occupied with the thousands of IDF boarding vessels latched on to its hundred-kilometer-long hull—the invasion force led by Colonel Barnard would be slogging through, deck by deck. Though, strangely enough, the entire front section of the ship—at least five kilometers—was clear of IDF troop carriers.
The nose of his fighter ended up pointed toward the Warrior. It was taking a pounding from three Swarm carriers that had flanked it, skewering it with beam after deadly beam of antimatter ions. “Come on, team, let’s go take out some of those turrets, or else we won’t have a deck to land on when we get back.”
They zipped toward the nearest carrier, and, once again, Ballsy held his breath as Fodder and Pew Pew seemed to disappear into a cloud of Swarm fighters guarding one of the turrets. Every single time they did this he knew their luck would run out. There was no possible way they could keep coming out of these suicide runs alive.
But, once again, they both emerged from the other side, taking out the turret with a few well-aimed torpedoes.
Pew Pew laughed over the comm. “That was a close one, bro. Hey, Ballsy and Spacechamp, you gonna let that one stand? Bet you can’t do better.”
He heard Spacechamp mutter something under her breath, something about best god-damned pilot ever, and he remembered her pep talk to him in sickbay. She was right. He needed to stop pining. Get in the here-and-now and blast as many Swarm fighters to hell as he could.
“Suck it, Pew Pew, Watch this. Spacechamp? Let’s go. Turret at sixteen mark three.”
Fodder snorted over the comm. “We’ve got your back. But remember, don’t fly like my brother.”
“And remember,” came Pew Pew’s customary answer, “don’t fly like my brother.”
Ballsy smiled. This was their element. He and his Untouchable crew. They could handle this. He stared forward, almost with tunnel vision, even as he concentrated on all the bogeys flitting around in his peripherals. With Spacechamp right in front of him, softening them up, he danced around her, trusting Pew Pew and Fodder to pick off any strays coming in from the rear.
