The Terminal War: A Carson Mach Space Opera

by A. C. Hadfield

  Mach looked over his shoulder back down the street toward the cliff. A few darker spots on its surface indicated that there might be some tunneling there somewhere. He noted it as something they would check out once they’d confirmed the heat source and found Afron. They scurried quickly toward the clanging gate and slipped beyond it into a courtyard. A series of statues on fluted marble columns stood before them in a long row. The carved stone objects resembled myriad different species—or at least variations of a single a species.

  “What do you make of these, Beringer?” Mach asked.

  “Ungodly,” he whispered as he inspected the forms one by one, slowly proceeding down the narrow walkway created by the statues. “Look at these things… their forms… truly alien.”

  “We’ve got ourselves a real freak show here,” Adira said. “I’ve never seen anything like these before. They’re like some nightmare creation of some lunatic’s mind.”

  Mach inspected the first few, craning his neck to look up at them as they in turn peered down at him. For a fleeting moment he thought he saw life in their stone eyes, but when he blinked and took a breath, he realized it was just his imagination.

  The creature he was looking at had three stumpy legs. Fat and bulging, the tripod form held up a bloated torso with no arms. On a flat neck, an almond-shaped head was cocked to one side, eyes situated on the far sides. A thin slit for a mouth rose up at the edges as though it were planning some nefarious plan.

  The next one wasn’t much prettier. A biped this time, long and lithe with grotesque, flaccid breasts that hung below its waist like billiard balls in socks. The stone was carved in such a way as to give it a kind of scaly texture. The face was an almost comical rendering of a human mixed with the lizard-like horans. Small tusks protruded up from the thick bottom lip.

  “This place gives me the creeps,” Mach said as he continued to follow Beringer and Adira down the uncanny causeway that led to a long, narrow building with a domed roof. The front of it was oval in shape, columns holding up a heavy stone lintel, the shadows were dense in the space, obscuring the door, giving it the feel of an open mausoleum.

  “Are you seeing all this, Kortas?” Mach asked. He stopped in front of the columned oval frontage, leaving the processions of nightmares behind him. Knowing they were there made the hairs on his neck tingle as though he expected them to animate suddenly and attack him.

  Stranger things had happened. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the damned things were still sitting atop their columns—they were, much to his relief.

  Kortas’ voice broke through the static in a rare moment of clarity.

  “I’m seeing this,” the vestan said, his words light with a sense of disbelief to them. “I can’t quite believe it, but I’m seeing it. Listen, Carson Mach, I must apologize to you for the way I’ve acted since you arrived. It’s clear to me now that I, and the other Guardians, have grossly misunderstood the situation here.”

  Mach glared at Adira. Her lips were pressed ready to unleash a sarcastic retort.

  “Apology accepted, Kortas,” Mach said. “Let’s just work together to figure out what’s going on, shall we?”

  “That’s gracious of you, Carson Mach. Thank you. I need to let you know that what you’re seeing there appears to us to be one of the ancient savior temples. We thought they were long gone, destroyed when the system’s sun weakened and the planet froze. Only the Garden of Remembrance remained free of the permafrost incursion.”

  “Makes me wonder what else is on this rock that you don’t know about,” Mach said. “Why didn’t the Saviors communicate with you about this place? Surely they must have known it was still here.”

  Silence. Kortas’ breath caught, and the lack of words dragged out into a tense moment. Mach realized the implications of what he had just said: it meant that the Saviors, the very creators of the vestan species, had lied to their twenty Guardians. Their mind-link wasn’t an open and honest exchange. The Saviors were only communicating what they wanted the Guardians to know—and nothing more. What did these Saviors do that was so bad that they had to withhold that information from their very creation?

  “Please enter the temple,” Kortas replied, ignoring Mach’s question. Mach let it go, partly out of sympathy for the Guardian, and partly out of a desire to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  “What are we expected to find in there?” Adira said. “Is this part of our mission to find Afron, or something else entirely?”

  “It’s all related,” Kortas said. “I need to know what’s inside. That will enable us to…” He trailed off, sadness in his words.

  “Go on,” Mach said. “We need to understand if we’re to help you.”

  Another moment of silence filled the dead air, then came taut, pregnant words. “It’ll enable us to confront the Saviors.”

  The words landed like a nuke.

  There it was, plain and simple: the force behind the vestans’ existence was not one of benevolence, but of secrecy and clandestine motivations. That the Guardians would feel the need to confront their dead-but-not-dead progenitors told him nothing here was as it seemed, not even to those tasked with guarding it. Their whole existence was a lie.

  “I hear you,” Mach said. “We’re going in.”

  Adira and Beringer raised their rifles. Mach took point and edged into the gloom. Before they got through the oval porch of columns and into the shadows, something above on the lintel shifted.

  Adira and Beringer raised their rifles. Mach took point and edged into the gloom. Before they got through the oval porch of columns and into the shadows, something above on the lintel shifted.

  A body came hurtling down at them.

  Mach jerked out of the way, stumbling backward, grabbing Adira’s arm and pulling her out of the way. He toppled into Beringer behind him, who was too slow to move. They hit the deck in a heap as the body thudded against the ice-covered flagstones with a dry crack of bones.

  “What the hell?” Adira said, pulling herself out of the pile of bodies.

  Mach scrambled to his knees and raised his rifle toward the lintel. A shadow shifted and was gone. His heart raced and he turned his attention to the body in front of him: the thing was desiccated, naked, its skin pulled tight around bones that had snapped as if they were hollow, dry twigs. The face was pulled into a scene of horror, the lips pulled back over dried gums, teeth snapped and crooked. It had no eyes, just dark, dry sockets.

  A voice crackled over the comms, the static returning. “Afron,” Kortas said, “it’s… Afron.”

  Mach stood up, edging closer. The poor guardian’s skull had been neatly cut, the dome of his head removed, the brain cavity completely empty.

  “My God,” Beringer said. “My God—”

  His words were cut off with a strangled sound. Mach spun to see Beringer being dragged out of the courtyard toward the west edge, through a gap in the wall he hadn’t noticed before.

  “Beringer!” Mach yelled, getting no response. He and Adira set off in pursuit. The dark, shadowy figure had its arm around Beringer’s neck. They disappeared once they got beyond the boundary wall made of densely packed irregular boulders.

  “Heh…” Beringer said over the comms before the connection was cut.

  Chapter 13

  Babcock led Tulula to the guts of the ship and entered his lab. Squid Three followed and rested in its bowl-shaped docking station, giving the little AI droid faster access to the servers and machines spread around a semicircular workbench.

  Motion sensors quietly clicked and the room filled with bright light.

  An array of tools, wires, and shiny red electronic boards spread around a square table to the left. Tulula gazed at them. “That looks like horan tech?”

  “It’s Squid Three’s project. We’re trying to decipher the latest encryption keys. No luck so far.”

  “Hopefully we’ll have more finding this, what did you call it? … A mole?”

  “It’s human espionage
jargon for a spy. No need to think too hard about our language quirks.”

  “I think I understand. It’s like when Mach calls somebody a dickhead?”

  Babcock paused for a moment and thought about correcting her, but decided against it. Salus Common was constantly evolving with the deeper integration between fidians, humans and now vestans. Nobody could say with clarity what was right or wrong linguistically anymore.

  “Let’s get down to business,” Babcock said. “This might take a while.”

  He activated a holo-keyboard, transferred the comms logs to its terminal, and gestured Tulula to sit.

  She shuffled in front of him and peered at data streams running across the screen. “Where do you want me to start?”

  “With the message payloads. If anything stands out, like an odd word or a pattern of corruption, drill down on it. I’ll search the transmission data.”

  “There’s thousands of them.”

  “That’s the nature of the beast, I’m afraid. I’ll grab us some strong coffee.”

  Babcock left Tulula and Squid Three analyzing and headed to the mess.

  Searching the logs for a hidden signal played to his strengths. He was a happier man solving a riddle in his lab, rather than playing the role of uncomfortable captain. Although he knew the crew would all respond without question.

  Lassea, Tulula, Sanchez, and Nigel were pleased about Tralis’ new orders when Babcock relayed them. The consensus, as suspected, was they were glad to be away from Steros, even though it meant a dangerous scouting trip.

  Babcock left Sanchez in control of the bridge, Nigel on the lasers while Lassea retraced their route back to the remains of Orbital Hibock. From there, they would follow in the direction of the passing Axis grand fleet in the hope that it hadn’t L-jumped.

  The fusion drive wound up with a smooth roar. Babcock felt a brief moment of weightlessness, and the coffee cups clinked together on the mess table. Lassea had engaged the L-jump, so they had at least four hours to spend on the logs. He returned to the lab and placed a cup by Tulula.

  “Found anything interesting?” he said.

  “Just the usual checks with the operation center and intrafleet movement commands.”

  Babcock fired up his screen. Transport layers enveloped and delivered the message payload. The first place he planned the check was the reserve buffer between the two. During the Century War, engineering crews on destroyers used it as an informal comms link. He highlighted two thousand messages, dragged them into his processing folder and ran a filtering tool he’d produced several years ago.

  Ten buffers had information inside them. Butterflies of excitement fluttered in Babcock’s stomach for a brief moment until he reminded himself that nothing was ever this easy. He decrypted the data and read the text.

  Morgan had been using the buffer to communicate with fleet commanders, mostly his old friends from the war. It was probably his way of circumventing the Admiralty and hearing firsthand information. Most messages discussed enemy sightings and Axis movements; Tralis had sent one about the mole and Babcock’s investigation.

  The president and his commanders used CWDF net addresses of previously destroyed ships. Babcock wanted to know how Mach was getting on. He trusted his old friend to successfully carry out his secret mission, but the crew deserved an update. He decided to use the address of the Nimrod, a decommissioned destroyer that both him and Morgan served on and typed a message to send in a buffer.

  Dear Mr. President,

  During my investigation into the information leak, I came across your communications. Your secret is safe with me if you provide an update on Mach in the next twenty-four hours.

  Best regards,

  Kingsley Babcock

  Babcock tapped the transmit image on the holo-keypad. He smiled to himself, imagining Morgan’s face when he opened the message. The shortness of the gruff old dog’s fuse made Mach look like a saint in comparison.

  “Found something?” Tulula asked.

  “Nothing that helps us find the mole, but perhaps an improvement in communication flow with our dear president.”

  Tulula let out a wet croak. “He’s not my president.”

  “Officially he’s not mine, but he’s a good ally and has access to the Commonwealth treasury.”

  “Is that all humans are interested in?”

  “Not always.”

  It was easy to forget the differing motivations of Intrepid’s crew. Mach always said his missions were purely down to money, but Babcock knew honorable intentions were a part of his makeup, despite the rogue captain’s claims. Sanchez had escaped prison on Summanus, and although his debt was settled, he stayed on as part of the crew because he loved adventure. Lassea had a free spirit, and Mach put her to far better use than the Fleet ever could.

  Tulula was a different story. Babcock was never quite sure what drove her. They’d rescued her from the Black Swan’s orbital and since then, she’d integrated into the crew without complaint. He wondered if she had any dreams or aspirations beyond hired missions. Perhaps it was her love of Sanchez that kept her on the Intrepid.

  “What are you thinking?” Tulula asked.

  Babcock felt his cheeks warm. He avoided asking personal questions. People or alien management wasn’t his forte. “Oh, err… nothing. Better get back to work.”

  He turned back to his screen, peered at the data, and wondered where to look next. The mole posed a significant threat to the Commonwealth, which in turn meant the stability of the galaxy. The Salus Sphere firmly under horan influence would spell oppression and possibly the destruction of humanity.

  That couldn’t be allowed to happen.

  A cold metal object pushed into Babcock’s cheek. He rubbed his eyes and raised his head from the desk. Squid Three hovered above him and retracted one of its tentacles.

  “How long have I been asleep?” he asked.

  Tulula turned from her terminal. “Three hours. Squid Three sent a message to my screen saying we should leave you.”

  Babcock swallowed to moisten his parched throat. He would normally protest, but he hadn’t slept for thirty-six hours, and catching some rest during the L-jump made sense. “Have you found anything?”

  “Nothing yet, and I’m nearly through it.”

  Squid Three chirped and turned to a holographic screen next to the docking station. It displayed a block of unencrypted Axis data. Babcock rolled across on his chair for a closer look.

  The little AI droid had cracked the latest encryption key, without his help. It marked another milestone in Squid Three’s evolution, but more importantly, it would be faster to hack the grand fleet’s navigation systems if they found it.

  “Excellent work, sir,” he said.

  Squid Three beeped an acknowledgment.

  Babcock raised his smart-screen. “Lassea, how long ’til we’re out of L-jump?”

  “We already are,” she replied. “There’s a faint reading two hundred klicks away, heading in our direction. No rush, though. It’s coming in slow.”

  “I’ll be up shortly.” Babcock frowned and spun his chair to face Tulula. “Three hours you said?”

  “I’m still not good with your concept of time. All I know is we need you fresh if we come across the grand fleet.”

  “Continue here and keep me updated.”

  Babcock suppressed a yawn, rose from his chair, and headed for the bridge. He had configured the comms system to filter all buffers on the Commonwealth’s secure galactic broadcast frequencies, and forward any information to his smart-screen, but so far, he hadn’t received a reply from Morgan.

  The elevator hummed up its metallic tube and stopped at the top level. Babcock squinted against the brilliant white corridor and thought at some stage in the future it might be a good idea to get a pair of prosthetic eyes. He used to believe in the purity of the human form, but like many others in the Salus Sphere, age degradation had a way of changing minds.

  Babcock palmed the authentication pad outsi
de the bridge and its door smoothly punched to one side.

  Lassea sat at the holocontrols and peered up at a small image on the edge of the tracking screen. Sanchez relaxed back in his seat by the ion cannon console and offered a casual two-fingered salute when Babcock entered.

  “What have we got?” Babcock asked.

  “Don’t know yet,” Lassea replied. “No transmissions and not close enough to get a clear reading. It’s too small to be a destroyer.”

  “Plan a jump in case we need to make a quick exit.”

  Lassea smiled. “Already done.”

  Nigel had changed into one of the Intrepid’s dark blue engineering coveralls and busily tapped away on the laser configuration pad. Babcock moved across to the vestan gunner and looked over his thin shoulder. “Doing anything interesting?”

  “Carrying out calibration checks,” Nigel replied, blasting Babcock’s nostrils with his acrid breath. “It’s a standard preventative maintenance procedure.”

  Sanchez snorted. “We’ve got an official one here. He kept asking me for a uniform. I gave him a fusion monkey’s suit.”

  “What’s a fusion monkey?” Nigel asked. “Mr. Sanchez told me it was a gunner’s dress.”

  “Ignore Sanchez,” Babcock said and gave the big hunter a fake frown. “It’s crude slang from the Feronian docks.”

  “What if he needs my help?”

  “I’ll keep it simple for you. Don’t take anything he says seriously unless we’re under attack or launching one.”

  Sanchez grinned, raised his middle finger, and spun back to face his console. Babcock eased himself into the captain’s chair and surveyed the bridge’s screens.

  For the next ten minutes, the weak distant image grew stronger and closer. When it reached within fifty klicks, the energy reading split.

  Two small ships were approaching the Intrepid. They crossed each other’s paths in small sweeping arcs, maintaining their slow speed.

  “Horan scouts,” Babcock said. “I recognize their patrol pattern.”