by Jamie Sawyer
“Just let us go, Cooper.”
That needled him, just a little. “I am no longer Clade Cooper. I left that name behind me when I shed my humanity.”
“Sure. You’re not human anymore: you’re less than that.”
“I’m much more,” he muttered.
Without warning, Warlord pulled back his hood. Revealed a face that was crippled by scarring, a mask of keloid tissue and hypertrophic damage. The injuries were almost ritualistic in their precision. As though his face had literally been taken apart and stitched back together. Just as Dr. Locke had described: a man rebuilt, with Sci-Div treating his flesh like building blocks. Only his eyes were original. They blazed with the intensity of dying suns, fighting against inevitable entropy.
I’d seen part of that face before, on Daktar. It seemed almost deliberate that his upper features could pass as normal, that only when he chose to reveal it would the horror become visible.
“What happened to you, Cooper?” I found myself asking. I couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out.
“I’ve tasted the Deep, Jenkins,” Warlord said. “I was part of their damned Collective. That came with a cost: it destroyed my body. What the Alliance found on Barain-11? It was a husk, nothing more. I was gone. And for the longest time, after the Army recovered me, I wished that I was dead. But your Science Division, with their thirst for knowledge, rebuilt me. They made me what I am. They created something better.”
“You … you’re a monster.”
Warlord smiled. The scars around his mouth almost resembled lips, but not quite. “And you are nothing. Your squad is nothing. How easy it was to turn one of your number, to use him against you. Disciple Riggs still lives.”
The mention of Riggs’ name hardened my resolve. I regained some of my composure.
“Send him a message from me,” I said. “Tell him that next time I see him, I’m going to kill him.”
“Like we killed Lazarus?”
“You can’t kill what can’t die,” I said resolutely. Zero looked at me approvingly.
“We destroyed Darkwater,” Warlord continued. “And we dashed his ship to Thane. He, and the Watch, are nothing. Dominion comes.”
Unless we can stop it, I thought. We had the star-data to find the Aeon. Warlord didn’t know that, not yet.
Captain Lestrade’s bald head was dotted with perspiration. Throughout the conversation, we had continued at maximum velocity. The Firebird was arcing cross-system, heading towards the invisible Q-jump point, while the Iron Knight and her fleet were heading in-system towards Kronstadt. Our trajectories would pass, but fleetingly …
“This system, and these stars, belong to us,” Warlord said. “This is Black Spiral territory. We bring the Krell here, to show you their true face.”
“I think we get the message.”
I looked over at Zero now. She had settled into the navigation console and was counting down the distance to the jump point. We were almost there …
“I’m sure that you do,” said Warlord. “But just in case, this should make my point.”
And then it appeared. A single bogey on the Firebird’s scanner, moving fast. Almost on us.
“Stealth missile inbound,” Zero said.
Warlord, and the Black Spiral, had been stealing equipment from research stations. I remembered now that Harris had told me as much, during our meeting aboard the Paladin Rouge.
“Shields,” I ordered. “Now!”
The missile appeared on the tactical display, so close that it was detectable no matter what stealth package it ran. This had been how the Spiral had taken down the Retribution, with experimental military-grade tech.
Warlord smiled again. “Goodbye, Lieutenant.”
“Closing on jump point!” Captain Lestrade hollered.
“Fuck you, Warlord,” Novak said, slamming a fist into the console in front of him. “I do not die like this. I do not die without knowing face of woman who kill my family!”
There was no answer from Warlord. The connection terminated in a flurry of static and feedback, ionic interference caused by the incoming warhead.
“Jump now!” I ordered. “Do it!”
“In three … two …”
“Go! Go!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
HAVE FAITH
“Does that hurt?”
“Of course it hurts. Everything hurts.”
I sat up, and got an instant head rush. Had to pause for a moment to recover my senses. Nice long breaths, in and out. In and out. Calm. Thunder still rolled around my head, either the aftereffects of medication or I was shaking off a helluva hangover.
I was in a cot, with clean white sheets. In a room with white walls. Yeah, there was a lot of white in here. Everything was new, shiny. Clinically clean. I didn’t recognise the location, but instinctively knew that I wasn’t aboard the Firebird. A monitor and scanning apparatus sat beside me, chiming softly, graphics showing my bio-rhythms.
I pulled back the bedsheets, did a bodycheck. Both arms, both legs, all my own. Other than the usual collection of bruises, scrapes and healed bullet-holes, there was nothing new. I probed my injured ribs and found that they felt a little better. That was good; it made breathing more comfortable. I wore Army-regulation underwear, freshly laundered. Memory came back to me in waves. This was not what I’d been wearing when we’d jumped—or not?—from the Mu-98 system. What had happened to the Firebird?
More importantly, what had happened to the Jackals?
“Hello?” I called.
There was no immediate answer. I unplugged the various cables attaching me to medical monitors, both intravenous feeds and data-cables to my ports. There were little stabs of pain as I removed each. The air was cold against my skin. Colder still was the deck beneath my feet as I got out of the cot. Gravity felt just slightly off, a tell-tale that I was in an artificial-G envelope. That sold it for me: I guessed that I was on some sort of starship. A hospital ship, or a vessel with a big medical wing, would make sense. But whose ship? That was the real question.
The chamber’s hatch chimed, and I froze expectantly, aware of how vulnerable I was. If we had been captured by hostiles, I had no weapon, no cover.
There was a military officer at the door. He paused at the room’s threshold, as though he didn’t want to enter without an invite.
“You’re awake then? That’s good. You’ve been out for a while.”
I made a quick assessment of the officer: American accent, Core Worlder. Wearing khaki uniform, an Alliance insignia on his chest. A halo of grey hair around an otherwise bald head, and a stern face. Older than me by a couple of decades, he had the badge of a full bird colonel on his shoulder.
“You’re Military Intelligence,” I suggested. “Right?”
He smiled. “I don’t think that matters right now.”
“Where am I?”
“You’re aboard the UAS Saratoga.”
“Where’s my squad? Did they make it?”
The guy pulled a tight grin. “You want answers. I understand that.”
“Damn straight I want answers.”
“Help her, Captain,” the officer said.
Another figure lurked at the hatch now, behind the anonymous Mili-Intel man. It was a simulant, in full combat-armour, towering over both of us. My heart plummeted as I saw who it was.
“Yes, sir,” said Captain Ving, with all the vitriol of an angry teenager. He thrust a folded pair of shipboard Army fatigues in my direction, held the uniform in armoured hands.
“They’ve got you running laundry duty now, Ving?” I said. I couldn’t help myself. “Glad to see that you made it out of Thane.”
“Wish I could say the same about you,” Ving muttered. Then, to the officer: “I told you she would be trouble. We should’ve left her where we found her, sir.”
“Quiet, Captain Ving,” said the officer. “She’s going to be essential to the war effort. Please, Lieutenant, get dressed. The others are waiting for you.”
/> “You mean the Jackals?”
The officer looked vaguely amused. “Get dressed.”
I did as ordered, and realised how weird it felt putting on the Alliance Army uniform. Captain Ving and the Mili-Intel officer escorted me across the Saratoga.
They took up posts at the back of the chamber: out of view, making it clear that they would play no part in what was to follow. I got the feeling that Ving was here as security, to make sure I wasn’t going to do anything stupid. Well, they didn’t need to worry about that, but I could understand the reasons. They weren’t the only security in here, either. A man and a woman in dark suits joined us. Their broad sim-like physiques and dark glasses undeniably screamed Special Security Service. They watched me carefully but offered no introduction.
I found myself in a long, rectangular conference room, with a smart-table that stretched the whole length. A view-port open to space filled one wall, and a familiar figure stood there, watching the stars drift by.
General Enrique Draven. Head of the military effort in the Former Quarantine Zone. My commanding officer.
The general wore full uniform, even a service cap, with his greying hair escaping from beneath. The old man’s shoulders rose and fell as he took long breaths, but he otherwise stood still, his back to me.
I had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. This situation was painfully similar to the dressing down I’d received from General Draven, following the debacle at Daktar Outpost. That briefing session had resulted in our mission into the Gyre, and had started this whole chain of events. Now, as I stood here, things had come full circle. I was back before General Draven and about to face the consequences of my actions …
But things had changed. I found a new strength. No regrets, no remorse. I’d done what needed to be done, whether Command agreed with me or not.
So, I stepped up to the desk and snapped a salute.
“Lieutenant Keira Jenkins, reporting, sir,” I said.
General Draven paused for just a second, then turned to me. His heavy grey moustache twitched, and his jaw danced, but his eyes were more sad than angry. It wasn’t an expression I’d expected, and it instantly disarmed me.
“At ease, trooper,” he replied. “Sit, if you will.”
“I’ll stand, if it’s all the same.”
“Of course.” Draven kept his hands locked behind his back, chest puffed up. Much like Kwan, Draven had a respectable ribbon of medals and accolades on his chest. You don’t get to be head of Sim Ops without picking up a few shinies along the way …
“May I ask the status of my squad, sir?” I asked. If I was going to be strung up by Draven, I at least wanted to know what had happened to my team.
“We’ll get there, Lieutenant. We should talk before we discuss Jenkins’ Jackals.”
I stood straight. “Yes, sir.”
“We’re still working on the intelligence download from your ports,” General Draven said. He looked at me through his bushy eyebrows. “That will take some time, but preliminary analysis suggests that you’ve had quite the adventure.”
“That … that’s a diplomatic way of putting it, sir,” I said. This wasn’t the response I was expecting, not at all. “We … we didn’t report in.”
Draven nodded. “That was a major breach of protocol, but understandable, in the circumstances. I note that you claim to have met Lazarus.”
“That’s right, sir. He was working with an agency called the Watch.”
Was that a smile on Draven’s lips? “Interesting.”
I swallowed. “You know about the farm, about Darkwater?”
“We know about the farm. We know that the facility was compromised by at least one Black Spiral agent. For your information, she was the only casualty. The rest of the station’s staff was recovered by a Navy patrol.”
“That’s good,” I said. I genuinely meant it: we hadn’t intended to kill or hurt anyone. Not permanently, anyway.
Ving grunted behind me. He’d been wronged, and whatever Command’s position on our actions, I knew that he wouldn’t let it go.
“Everything you know,” Draven said, “we know.”
“So I’ve been hypno-debriefed?” I asked. I reached for the data-port at the nape of my neck. That would explain the headache.
“Of course. You’ve proven to be a highly valuable source of intelligence. You—and your squad—were primary observers to what happened at Kronstadt.”
Tri-D projections appeared on the surface of the smart-desk, holos of the Mu-98 star system, of Kronstadt and her moons. All gone now, stripped bare by the Krell. Spiralling black constructions—shapes that reminded me of the Shard Reapers on Darkwater—seemed to pollute space. As though the Krell was replicating the Harbinger virus on some massive, galactic scale.
General Draven saw where I was looking. “To date, we haven’t been able to identify what those things are, but it appears that the infected Krell are building something. Science Division tells me that it’s composed of organic, and inorganic, materials. The same pattern has been observed in all Harbinger-infected star systems. Those images are being recorded by remote probe, the very last Alliance assets in the Mu-98 system.”
“What happened to the Firebird, sir?”
“We recovered your ship from Indra. It appears that you jumped Mu-98 just as the system went down.” Draven paused, thought on that for a half-second. “It’s amazing, really. The damage your ship suffered was … well, it should’ve sent the energy core critical.”
“How did you find us?”
“I ordered a relief force,” General Draven said. “But by the time reinforcements arrived, there was nothing to relieve. The task force dropped back to Indra and picked up your transponder. Personally, I’m surprised that you even made Q-space in what was left of that ship. The Mu-98 system is gone.” He sighed, disappointed. “It was the last operational Shard Gate. Thankfully, your ship’s mainframe survived. We’ve been able to recover the data-core.”
So they knew everything. What with a hypno-debrief, and the Firebird’s data-core, there was nothing left to hide. I decided to front up to this.
“I want you to know, sir,” I said, “that whatever the Jackals have done has been on my orders.”
Once again, Draven’s reaction was disarming. His expression was amused rather than hostile.
“You’ve done something that no one else could, Lieutenant.”
“So … so I’m not in any trouble?”
“No, Lieutenant Jenkins. You’re not.”
“Why?”
“You have some friends in very high places. Or, at least, your squad does.”
General Draven’s eyes shifted to the other end of the room. A figure emerged from the corner of the conference room and came to stand beside me. The smell of strong, expensive cologne wafted up my nose, a pheromonal scent that spoke of wealth and power and everything in between.
Senator Lopez, Secretary of Defence for the whole damned Alliance, stood just a few feet from me. He was tall, slender. Sharply handsome, with a chiselled chin, perfect cheekbones, and bright, almost exhilarating eyes. He wore a dark business suit complete with a Proximan spider-silk tie and polished Italian-leather shoes, an ensemble that probably cost as much as the ship in which we were travelling. Well, I guess that explained the Security Service agents. They were Senator Lopez’s bodyguards.
“I’d like to thank you, personally,” he said, “for bringing my daughter back to me.” He held a hand in my direction.
I shook his hand, which I know wasn’t appropriate, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do. The whole meeting had taken on an air of unreality.
“Welcome back into the fold, Lieutenant Keira Jenkins,” he said in his broad, warm voice: a voice that had reassured billions that everything’s going to be just fine. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“And … and you, sir,” I said. Here was the man who had wanted to shut down Sim Ops, was going to be responsible for navigating the coming war
, and was Gabriella Lopez’s father … There was much I wanted to say to him, but right there, right then, I simply couldn’t find the words.
Senator Lopez had no such compunction. He strode around the smart-desk, a hand shifting over its surface to call up new data. The security agents tracked his movements like automated guns.
“Thanks to you, and your squad,” he said, “we have everything we need to fight this war.”
Images of other star systems, all polluted by the same black, twisting constructions, sprang from the table. Shambling war-fleets composed of bio-ships and arks, but also other, more familiar shapes. Human vessels—more angular, instantly distinct from the contoured outlines of the Krell vessels—sailed with the infected.
I drew my own conclusion. “Warlord is leading the Harbinger fleets.”
Senator Lopez nodded. “That’s right.”
“This has been his plan from the start,” General Draven added. “To infect the fleets and turn the Krell on themselves. All out of some misguided sense of revenge.”
“On a grand scale indeed,” the Senator said, his eyes reflecting the light cast by the holo. “The Maelstrom will burn.”
“But those constructions,” I said, focusing now on the spiralling masses that developed in the infected systems, “they don’t look Krell. They … they look like …” I didn’t want to complete the sentence, but I couldn’t stop myself. “They look like Shard technology.”
The Senator turned to Draven and gave a smile. “You told me that she was good, General, but not this good.” Now back to me: “You’ve only witnessed the Shard a few times, as I understand it?”
I nodded. “That’s correct, sir.”
“Science Division believes that these constructions are a by-product of the Harbinger virus,” Senator Lopez explained. As Secretary of Defence, the constraints of military intelligence classification obviously weren’t for him. I expected the Mili-Intel officer to step in at any moment and silence the conversation, but that didn’t happen. Instead, Senator Lopez continued: “The Harbinger virus is a Shard construct.”
I realised something. Back on Darkwater, I’d suspected it. Elena’s summary of the virus, of what it was capable of, and how it infected—usurped—the Krell’s sentience … It made a terrible kind of sense. Dr. Locke’s intelligence had merely confirmed it for me.
