The Ghost Fleet

by Trevor Wyatt

  I hope this because a lot of the grassroots supporters of Pro-Ascension are all present as this is a Pro-Ascension rally. But with our staged protest, maybe we can tilt the scales and have all these Pro-Ascension people cross-carpet to the Origin Movement. If we can achieve that, we have won, I have no doubt. We’ll next be talking about a referendum and so on.

  The man on the stage is a high ranking member of the military caste. His name is Noble Marshal Yanik. This is the first time he’s going to be publicly speaking in support of the Ascension Ceremony.

  “There are fewer rights in any civilization that are more fundamental than the right of life, love, and self-determination,” the soldier starts. “From the Terrans to the Nakra to the Drupadi. Even the blood-thirsty Tyreesians. These species all understand that every people should have the right to decide their fate. But I ask you this: what choices would you afford when you are extinct?”

  The crowd goes wild with cheers and chants that are unprecedentedly high.

  “I agree with our Anti-Ascension brothers and sisters that we cannot be that species that choses to hang on to illegal, unconstitutional practices founded on baseless fears that restrict our freedom of choice. In fact, I can boldly say that we refuse to be that species that subjects its citizenry to ancient and cruel procedures that subjugate their fundamental Sonali rights. BUT, the Ascension Ceremony is NOT one of those laws! It is not!”

  The soldier pumps his fist into the air. The crowd goes wild again. I feel an urge to grab my ears, but I resist it. I also feel an urge to shut down the crowd. Dr. Dannish had told me not to earlier. I am supposed to remain passive if I am standing with the leaders of the Origin Movement—it is supposed to be some sort of symbol of our resolve. I hold myself in.

  The next time the soldier speaks, he raises his voice in an impassioned shout, while fisting the air at the end of each sentence: “We refuse to be bullied by these so-called freedom of choice Sonali that want to destroy our civilization! We refuse to sit by and watch as a bunch of uncut, untrained children lead us off the map of the galaxy. We must stand for the traditional values that made our society great. That made our race reach for the stars!”

  The Pro-Ascensionists are cheering wildly as I shake my head in sorrow.

  “We who are Sonali must do our duty as Sonali! We who wish to raise the glory of our race must do our part for the good of our fellow Sonali! We refuse to allow our rights to be taken away from us by foreign, alien pollutants that fuel this Origin movement. And we very well refuse…”

  Abrupt silence.

  I hear a sharp gurgle sound like someone is choking from a liquid. Then a scream in the crowd. Utter silence, which is almost beautiful. Shock pierces through my heart as I see the terror in the eyes of those in the front. I swivel on my heels to look at the stage. Lying on the floor is a now dead Noble Marshal Yanik, an incendiary projectile hole right through his head.

  Then, pandemonium lets loose.

  No-One

  The Terran Embassy in Sonali Prime occupies a large parcel of land on the Leadership Estate. It’s a massive, featureless block of a building, standing next to the Senate Building of the Sonali Combine. It was erected the year the truce was signed between the Sonali and Terrans in a bid to prevent further conflict and ensure continued dialogue.

  Despite of its lackluster outlook, the five story tall building is surrounded by lush greenery and an expansive car space. There is a small space port behind the building, which is reserved for Embassy staff.

  The Embassy is guarded by Armada Marines and staffed with the usual complement of officers, a lot of which are spies. I am to serve as the Station Chief here on Sonali Prime—this being the first day that I am setting foot in the Embassy.

  Being the Station Chief of the Sonali Prime Embassy is one of the premium posts an agent can ever want. But I’m not just an agent. I miss flying around the galaxy fomenting trouble for our enemies. I miss the rush of adrenaline. The passion. The terror. I miss living on the edge, not knowing what was to come.

  I miss all that action. Now, I’m stuck to sit behind a desk and report on the Sonali cultural shift and boring identity crises. Armada Intelligence has turned me into a fucking reporter. What’s worse is I even have to report to the Ambassador, Esteban Asis.

  My air car taxi drops me off at the main entrance of the embassy and flies off. The embassy has its own atmosphere that makes it possible for Terrans to breath without a portable atmospheric regulator. It’s like a miniature city, with tiny streets and sections. This makes it such that the officers don’t need to leave the embassy too often. This also makes the Marines’ jobs easier but the spies’ jobs harder, because the people who often leave the embassy can be construed as spies.

  This is one reason for my cover as a xenoarchaeologist. No one would look twice if I left the embassy too often. Also, no one would think it weird that I had an apartment in the Residential Estate, since the Leadership Estate was so damn far from the Industrial Estate.

  All around the grounds are people moving about. There are also Marines stationed outside the embassy, who are geared to the teeth with weapons and a lighter version of the breathing apparatus on my face. I walk up to the door, which is like a hatch. You enter from one side, the hatch cycles the air, then you exit on the other side in an atmosphere much like earth’s.

  “I.D,” mutters the marine by the closest entrance to me. It is entrance IV, which is one of the nine entrances that are spread around the walls of the fortress like building.

  I pull out my credentials as a xenoarchaeologist. I don’t trust anyone here with my true identity, except if they are Armada Intelligence and know who I am or the Ambassador, who already knows who I am and what my mission here is.

  The marine cross checks my credentials against the database, using a small handheld device.

  “It says here you have an apartment in the Residential Estate,” the marine says.

  I nod.

  “So what are you doing here?” the marine asks. His eyes are featureless, his face devoid of emotions. I can’t read his expression.

  “The last time I checked, coming to my embassy isn’t a crime,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” says the marine, “it’s just that I don’t see that you have any appointment scheduled for today. I have to ask the purpose of your visit.”

  “I’m here to see the ambassador,” I say. “He’s expecting me.”

  “Not according to his itinerary,” the marine replies, looking down at his device and scanning the readout.

  “It says he has an intelligence briefing in about three minutes with the station chief,” the marine replies.

  I sigh and almost tell the fucking turd that I was the station chief. Instead, I flash that sweet, dainty smile that guys are so hopelessly used to falling for.

  “Why don’t you call the ambassador’s office,” I say sweetly. “I’m sure there’s been a mix up somewhere. But I’m supposed to brief the ambassador on my success.”

  The marine is uncertain for a moment. Then he taps his badge, which doubles as a comm unit, and says, “Sargent Wiley to base. Please confirm a special meeting with the ambassador…”

  After a slight pause, he says, “Ms. Rosaline the xenoarchaeologist.”

  There is a longer pause. After this the man nods and his hands comes off his comm unit.

  He stands away from the hatch which comes alive with a hum and blinking lights.

  “You’ve been cleared to enter,” he says. “There was a mix up, I guess. You are supposed to be meeting with the ambassador not the station chief.”

  Of course, you retard! I wanted to say. But somehow I know I can’t do that and still retain my cover, so I just shut my mouth.

  “Thank you, sir,” I say in my sweet, feminine voice; then I walk into the hatch. The air cycles for one minute, before the hatch opens up to a small lobby with a single female behind a desk.

  She looks up at me the moment I approach her.

  �
��Ms. Rosaline, your appointment with the ambassador starts in a few seconds,” she says. She points to the elevator to the right. I notice that this is the only exit out of the small, compartmentalized lobby.

  “Take that elevator to the last level,” she says, “the ambassador’s secretary is waiting to take you to the ambassador’s office for the meeting.”

  I don’t even reply. I walk straight to the elevator and ride it all the way to the fifth floor. I exit into a small, cool hallway.

  The secretary, Violet, is waiting for me in the hallway. When she sees me, she sighs.

  “You don’t have to wear that in here,” she says.

  Violet and I have some history. We met at a party and hit it off. After a very brief relationship, we decided to remain friends. In fact, she has passed some interesting tidbits of information to me from time to time. We agents need well-placed friends, so I am careful to cultivate our friendship.

  “I know that.” It takes me a full minute to disable the breather and pull it off. My brown hair is let loose and falls to my shoulder.

  I take a deep pull of the fresh, cool air. I instantly feel relieved.

  Violet smiles, nods, and says, “Follow me.”

  The hallway at the topmost level forms the outermost part of the building. It is well decorated with framed pictures of past presidents of the Terran Union. The light here is soft and a little subdued to give everyone who comes in a safe and relaxed feeling.

  I know better. The real world is anything but safe and relaxing.

  We turn three corners and come to a small door. She leads me into a small reception and a larger double door.

  She motions to the door and says, “He’s waiting for you.”

  “Thanks,” I reply and walk into the ambassador’s office.

  The first thing I take note of is the size of the office. It’s impossibly large and spacious—although a lot of the space isn’t being used. The ambassador is sitting on a large desk all the way at the other side of the office. The ground is carpeted with a blue rug with a massive insignia of the Terran Union in the middle. The office is mildly lit up.

  “Ah, welcome to our little corner of the universe. Come closer, Ms. Grayson,” says the ambassador, calling me by my real name. “Or should I say Number One?”

  I walk the distance to his desk. I pass by tables with accolades in unabashed display to my sides.

  “Call me whatever you want to call me, Mr. Esteban Asis,” I say, “but I’m not here to fight or to make enemies.”

  “That’s not what your report says,” he says, scanning a folder with a few sheets of paper.

  I scoff. “Ambassador, believe me, if you ever got a hold of my real file, you wouldn’t live so long.”

  There was silence.

  I watch as fear bled into the man’s eyes, quickly followed by rage, and then reason.

  “You have a report for me?”

  I nod.

  “As you already know, I am here to basically learn all I can about the Origin Movement and the cultural strife that’s currently gaining attraction in Sonali Prime and to find out how we can take advantage of it.”

  The ambassador nods. “I was briefed on that. What have you been able to do so far?”

  “I’ve been able to insert myself into the population,” I say. “I’ve been able to establish contact with Gresh, who is one of the lead members of the Origin Movement. I am going to be working with him for the duration of this meeting. I hope to convert him to spy for us.”

  “That’s impossible,” the ambassador says. “No agent has ever successfully converted a responsible, high ranking alien, such as Gresh, to spy for the Terran Union.”

  I sneer at him. “I’m not just anybody, ambassador.”

  My wrist communication device goes off. I tap the device, and a message flashes across the tiny screen: speaker at the protest sniped.

  My blood runs cold.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say, “something has happened.” Just as I start to leave, the ambassador rises to his feet.

  “What happened?” he asks.

  “I have to go,” is all I tell him before I turn my back and head for the door.

  The ambassador slams his fists into his desk and says, “I am your commanding officer and the ambassador of the Terran Union here in Sonali Prime. I demand that you tell me what the fuck is happening!”

  He glares at me with enormous rage.

  Maybe he doesn’t realize that my last mission was to take down a coven of space pirates single-handedly. That one of them knocked my blaster out of my hand, and I had to take a bite out of his neck to bleed him out.

  A pompous ambassador huffing and puffing at me?

  I laugh at him and walk out.

  Fucking prick.

  No-One

  I make my way out of Ambassador Asis’ office, leaving him to rage for a while. Violet has undoubtedly heard some if not most of our exchange (what secretary doesn’t listen in, electronically if not in person?), but she says nothing as I breeze out of the office suite and into the hatch, though I do flip a wink at her. Asis is a pro; he’ll get over it. I immediately forget them both—I’ve got to get to that park before the rally boils over.

  Outside the hatch I saunter past the marine, not forgetting to roll my hips just a little. I’m sure he’ll know I’m taunting him, which amuses me.

  I affix my breather to my face and step out of the door. I’ve got to get to the Industrial Layout as quickly as I can to assess the situation. I’m quivering with tension, longing to break into a run, but I dare not.

  There’s a simple reason why: if I were suddenly to vanish in front of the cameras that I know are watching everyone who comes and goes from the Embassy, it would raise suspicions in certain circles about my true mission here. I can’t afford for that to happen.

  Once out of the building, I pick up my pace a little, but not more than what I would be doing if I were, say, late to another meeting. I know from doing my research that there is a small “dead” space on the side of this building where there is no camera. There’s also an emergency door there. To potential watchers, it will (I hope) look as though I changed my mind about something and ducked back inside that place.

  Thin, I know; but better than disappearing in front of the cameras.

  And disappear I do from normal senses—because now I can break into a run. My enhancements have given me the ability to far exceed normal human physical capabilities, which includes being able to move so quickly that I am a little more than a blur.

  The Industrial Estate, where the Layout is situated, is all the way on the other side of town. If I were to take a cab at this time of day, even an air cab, it would take at least ten minutes to get there. Triple that time for a surface vehicle, and make it nearly an hour if I were walking.

  But I am running at top speed—and less than a minute later I am skidding to a halt at the outskirts of the park, screened a topiary of quivering baneberry hedges trimmed into the shapes of cavorting elephants.

  I’m running only slightly faster than normal as I thread through the crowd, which is still reacting in panic to the assassination. Law enforcement officers are just beginning to impose order. Most of the onlookers, fearing more gunfire, are pouring out of the park. Some of them are shouting and gesturing at officers who, hoping no doubt for witnesses, are trying to prevent them from leaving. Others, who appear calmer, are apparently giving statements. Less than four standard minutes have passed since the shooting.

  I’ve slowed down from my superfast run, then I hear the whine of shield projectors: the cops have cloaked the park with an energy barrier. No one will get in or out now. I’m fortunate I got here when I did—moments later and I’d be stuck outside. Of course, these damn fools should have thrown up the barriers as soon as Yanik was shot. This delay will cost someone their head.

  I grind my teeth in frustration. There are plenty of Terrans who wouldn’t mind seeing other Sonali shot dead, no matter what their political a
ffiliation is. No doubt there was foot-dragging in getting that force screen powered on—someone with a political grudge is taking their time. Even so, there will be memos sent and a scapegoat will be found.

  The crowd calms down a little as they hear the projectors come on-line. A person moving at a normal walking pace can get through a protective field, but no projectiles or energy bolts can penetrate it. They know they’re safe from further assaults.

  That doesn’t make them any happier, I’m sure; because now their attention will turn to finding someone to blame. There are more Pro-Ascension people here than Origin Movement members, and the people are going to suspect, rightly or wrongly, that it was an Origin Movement sympathizer who shot Yanik.

  That’s why I’m here—to protect Gresh and all prominent representatives of the Origin Movement from any potential violence.

  I find him soon enough—he’s still by the stage, looking around angrily. There are some other Sonali with him: Origin Movement leaders. I recognize them from the photos and vids in their dossiers. The cops with them won’t let me get too close. They don’t know that I could bowl them aside as easily as if they were balloons, but I’m not about to do that right now.

  Gresh and his colleagues are furious. They’ve just seen a leader assassinated in front of their eyes—it doesn’t matter what side. It also doesn’t take a genius to know that the Origin Movement people are going to take serious heat for a man as widely known as Yanik having been killed at their gathering, whether he opposed them or not. The man was a war hero.

  Gresh’s eyes go wide at the sight of me. “I didn’t realize you would be here, Ms. Rosaline.”

  The other Sonali eye me with varying degrees of incomprehension or hostility. Ignoring their stares, I say, with a smile, “I had a little free time, so I decided I’d stop by the rally. I am interested in your culture, you know.”

  “Well, yes, but—”