Worse, Wateridge had been dragging his heels on reforming the Commonwealth’s electoral system. It made sense, really. The president had been voted in under the current system, and so it was in his interest to perpetuate it. It would have taken someone with the hard-and-fast principles of Bernard to do otherwise.
If he doesn’t change the system, the people will hold him accountable. Husher took solace in that. The coalition of veterans and citizens was still intact, their infrastructure still in place. If Wateridge faltered, they would rise up again. Husher was sure of it.
The president kept the formalities brief. Probably, he could see in Keyes’s eyes that the commander of the Providence was in no mood for pleasantries.
“Captain Keyes,” Wateridge said, “I’d like you to keep your ship in dry dock until repairs can be completed on your Flight Deck A. I’m no military expert, but I have access to quite a few of them, and they tell me it isn’t optimal to launch your Air Group while you’re missing one of the Providence’s primary flight decks. It slows the speed of launch, they tell me.”
Keyes made a grunt that sounded like agreement. “You’re right, Mr. President. Without Flight Deck A, we lack enough launch catapults for a simultaneous launch of the entire Air Group. Unfortunately, we can’t afford the months it would take to effect the repairs.”
That made Wateridge blink. “I didn’t quite mean it as a suggestion, Captain.”
But clearly, Keyes was determined to interpret it as one. “It’s far more important for the Providence to remain in action. Roving the darkgate network, probing the enemy for weak spots. Trying to isolate portions of its fleet to destroy them. It’s why I pushed for the mission to track down Darkstream. I wanted to run recon while ensuring the company discontinues its use of dark tech.”
“Yes. About that. If I recall correctly, your mission was to apprehend Darkstream’s employees. I couldn’t help but notice you returned without them. Unless you’re hiding two million people inside your ship’s brig.”
“I decided the logistics of escorting three hundred ships back to Sol were prohibitive. The effort would have delayed us for too long.”
“So…what assurance do we have that the company will cease its use of dark tech?”
“They gave their word.”
“Their word. You mean the word of a corporation that, until recently, jerked the wheel of our government in whatever direction it wished, heedless of the brick wall looming ahead?”
“Yes.”
“And you trust their word?”
“Tennyson Steele has been dealt with, and he was the source of most of the rot within Darkstream.”
“Dealt with?”
“That’s right.” Keyes turned the full force of his stare on Wateridge, and Husher thought he detected a slight shudder pass through the president.
“Very well, Captain. I understand you and Steele had something of a…a score to…” Wateridge cleared his throat. “At any rate. If you feel the Providence is best used on patrol, even missing one of its main flight decks, then I’ll trust your judgment. You’ve guided her this far, and I know you wouldn’t put her at such risk without good reason.”
“That’s not all,” Keyes said. “I think you should mobilize the rest of the fleet. We need to be on the offensive, not crowded together like sheep. As I said, we should be probing the enemy’s—”
“It’s not quite so simple,” Wateridge cut in. “There’s a lot of pressure coming from all sides to do exactly the opposite of what you’re advocating. The Wingers refuse to budge from Martian orbit while their beloved Fin recovers. Most of the UHF captains share my view that we are better off consolidating our forces here, to offer the most effective resistance to the Ixa. Hell, the Ardentists have even convinced half the Bastion Sector that throwing down our arms is the right thing to do. It sounds crazy, I know, but how else should we use our military except as directed by the people of the Commonwealth? Wasn’t letting our military do otherwise precisely the problem, during Hurst’s presidency and before?”
Keyes slowly shook his head. “Why don’t you put it to a vote? I’m sure a referendum would show that the public views fighting the Ixa as urgent and necessary.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, Captain. But I can’t offer you more than that.” Clearly, Wateridge intended to remain firm on this point. Not even Keyes’s bluff-faced stare could shift the policy of a galactic government, it seemed.
After a brief silence, the president spoke again, turning to Husher. “Your father’s trial is scheduled to take place in three days. I assume that’s why you’re here?”
Husher hesitated. “Yes. Although—”
“Since Warren Husher is technically still a member of the United Human Fleet, he will be tried by military tribunal. The trial will be broadcast via the micronet, which I realize is unusual, but given its public importance I consider it appropriate.”
“Are you okay with that?” Keyes asked Husher.
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t matter whether he’s okay with it,” Wateridge said.
“I asked him a question.” Keyes glared at Wateridge, who fell silent.
“The president’s right.” Husher sighed. “Justice must be served. So long as my father is given a fair trial, I can ask for nothing else.”
Chapter 7
A Conduit to Reality
Ochrim’s breath hitched as he transitioned through the natural wormhole, into the system where the Ixa had built up their might in secret since the First Galactic War. Unlike darkgates, naturally occurring wormholes were unstable, and they destroyed a small but significant percentage of the ships that passed through them.
Baxa had come up with a failsafe measure: specialized compartments in each ship, featuring reinforced casings that would protect occupants in the event that the rest of the ship was ripped apart.
The bridge was one such compartment, and Ochrim knew it would protect him if Teth’s old ship, the Watchman, fell to the wormhole. Still, he liked the vessel, which his brother had given him. And if Ochrim was being honest, he remembered fondly the conversations they’d had aboard her. It was the closest he’d come to having a true connection with anyone in decades.
The Watchman took Ochrim through the wormhole without incident, bringing a sigh of relief to his lips. Then his gaze fell on what had come to be called Backup Station by the Ixa, and his breath caught again at the thought of the meeting that awaited him. For the first time in over two decades, he would speak to his father.
The facility that housed an iteration of his father, which circled the moon of a gas giant, didn’t resemble other orbital stations. It had prominent engines, for one, which pointed in every direction. Baxa had called that a measure for escaping invaders, should this system ever become compromised, and the Ixa agreed that losing Backup Station to the enemy was an unacceptable outcome.
Once Ochrim was aboard, a high priest escorted him through corridor after corridor. As they progressed through the station, Ochrim reflected on the curious fact that right now, his father surrounded him, his neural nets running through the bulkheads.
At least I know he isn’t watching me.
Baxa couldn’t access the outside world at all, except through the individual Ixa that entered his digital realm to speak with him. That was part of the deal he’d made with the Ixan military during the First Galactic War, just before Baxa had uploaded his mind and then committed suicide.
The humans thought Baxa dead, and they were right, in a very real sense. Baxa’s organic body had done away with itself shortly after he became a synthetic intelligence. The priesthood was responsible for the upkeep of that intelligence, and they communed with it regularly. Those interactions were monitored closely by the military.
After twenty minutes of walking and taking elevators, Ochrim and his priest companion reached the central chamber where those wishing to speak to Baxa went. The priest handed Ochrim the immersion helmet.
With a deep breath, he donned it.
A white void took Backup Station’s place. The immersion helmet created a perfect simulation of being inside Baxa’s realm, which made sense, since Baxa himself had had a hand in its design. By hijacking the brain’s nerve receptors, the helmet could provide an exact imitation of locomotion, without your body ever actually moving. It could convince your mouth it tasted steak, or your nose that it smelled feces. The helmet could simulate anything.
Baxa’s contributions to the immersion helmet, like all of his technological offerings, had been checked and rechecked by military experts before they were allowed to be implemented. Just as this conversation would be carefully reviewed.
If the military had the barest inkling that Ochrim was compromised by his conversation with the AI, they would detain him indefinitely, isolating him from the rest of the universe. Even given who he was.
Which is partly why this is so dangerous.
“Where would you like to be?” asked a voice that came from everywhere and nowhere. “I notice you did not specify a setting to the operators.”
“I decided I’d let you put us wherever you wished.”
“I could put you in hell, if I wanted. The operators would quickly end it, but the few seconds you did experience would leave a permanent, smoldering furrow in your memory.”
“I’m trusting you.” Though I’m not sure why.
A giant face appeared, looming over Ochrim, connected to nothing. It sneered.
Ochrim’s pulse quickened. Other than the size disparity, this was almost like looking into a mirror and seeing a younger, more handsome version of himself. He was sure Baxa was doing whatever he could to accentuate the effect, to remind Ochrim of their connection, but either way it was unsettling.
“I am Ardent,” Baxa said. “I want you to know that.”
Picking over the implications of the statement, Ochrim decided to leave it be, for now. Has he gone mad? Trapped down here…
“Do not interfere with the Prophecies, son,” Baxa said, giving the last word sarcastic emphasis. The massive, disembodied face lacked the whiteness of Ochrim’s skin wherever it stretched over his facial bone protrusions. “In fact, do not interfere with anything. Remain apart from everything. Even events that do not seem to stem from the Prophecies. I trust I’m simplifying things sufficiently for your organic brain.”
Still, Ochrim said nothing.
“If you interfere, you could jeopardize Ixan dominance, and I’ve already taught you what that means. I showed you the future to which our defeat would lead. Which is to say, there would be no future at all. If the humans are allowed to carry on with their frivolous existence, they will continue to harness dark energy. And they will rend the universe apart.”
“You claimed to be Ardent.”
“I claim nothing. I am a conduit to reality, Ochrim, a reality truer than you are capable of fathoming.”
“What did you mean by it? Ardent created the Ixa. Are you claiming—”
“I am reporting to you that I created our species. I am the cosmos’ stenographer.”
“Fascinating. Considering your organic body was born within the last century, I’m interested in getting more details about your involvement in the Ixan genesis story, which would have happened eons ago.”
“More recently than you think. I will inform you further about my divine project, but not now. It will be revealed to you later.”
“Why not now?”
Baxa stared at him, enormous eyes widening slightly, along with his smile. Red veins stretched across the whites of his eyes and began to pulse. The AI refused to say anything else.
“Get me out,” Ochrim said, but not to Baxa. A moment later, the immersion helmet was lifting from his head, and he was in Backup Station once more.
“Reflect often on what you have been told,” the priest advised, wearing a smile that, unsettlingly, resembled Baxa’s.
“Sure,” Ochrim said, even though he knew the priest’s words were mere ritual. He left the chamber without another word, heading straight for the Watchman.
Chapter 8
Nanite Injection
Before the military jury retired for their final deliberations, Warren asked to deliver his closing argument himself, instead of his representative. He knew it wouldn’t help his case—in fact, it would likely hurt it—but right now he had an opportunity to speak to all of humanity, and he wouldn’t get it again.
Warren remembered everything. He remembered the deal he’d made with Baxa, and he remembered that he’d chosen this path. The day he made the deal, he’d had no idea who Sandy Bernard was, and afterward he only encountered her once. Other than to kill her.
He’d agreed to let Baxa install his mind with a directive to murder the senator, in exchange for the opportunity to say what he was about to say. The moment Bernard had died, his memories had been fully unlocked, just as the AI had promised they would.
He stood before the General Court-Martial, which took place in a chamber that was surprisingly small, given how many billions of people were watching in real-time.
“I killed Sandy Bernard,” he said, raising quite a few eyebrows among the Court-Martial’s attendees. His representative hadn’t put it anywhere near so bluntly. “There’s no denying it. The footage is clear, as is the testimony from multiple witnesses. The only question left to determine is whether the killing was premeditated, and I can tell you that it was.” That brought actual gasps from the attendees.
The longer he let that point sink in, the more his message would be diluted, and so he continued. “Killing her was a condition of my release from the Ixa, which I negotiated with Baxa himself. Yes, Baxa. He’s still alive. His body died at the end of the First Galactic War, but he lives on as a superintelligent AI. The Ixa are far more advanced than you know. I agreed to let him change things around inside my head, programming me to do what I did. In exchange, he agreed to let me tell you his true nature, as well as his whereabouts. And so, there’s no denying it: I intentionally killed Sandy Bernard. I did it for humanity.
“Baxa is the source of the Prophecies. He wrote them, and he ensures they are fulfilled. As such, destroying him is the only way we can win this war. He’s located in a system accessed through a naturally occurring wormhole, which is hidden within a dust cloud one light-hour outside the Lilac System—I’ve already given its coordinates to my attorney. The Tumbra in the system were compromised years ago, to keep the wormhole a secret.”
The prosecutor stood. “If Baxa’s truly still alive, why would he allow you to tell us this? How could Bernard’s death be so important that he’d risk it?”
“The time for questions has passed,” said the presiding judge, but Warren answered anyway.
“Apparently, Baxa considered Bernard’s death incredibly important. But he also considers the risk of allowing me to tell you this minimal.”
“Why?” the prosecutor asked.
“Because he thought it very unlikely you’d believe me.”
The jury retired, then, to decide the question of Warren’s guilt.
They returned in less than one hour.
“This tribunal has found Warren Husher to be guilty of treason and also of the premeditated murder of Senator Sandy Bernard,” the judge said. “Due to the severity of the defendant’s crimes, the tribunal will deliver a sentence that hasn’t been delivered by a United Human Fleet Court-Martial in over two hundred years. For murdering Senator Sandy Bernard and conspiring with the enemy, Warren Husher will be executed by lethal nanite injection.”
Chapter 9
Death in an Instant
Husher stood before the observation window, his chest a battlefield for warring emotions. Beside him stood Caine, and occasionally she glanced at him with an expression of concern. He mustered a smile for her, and the ghost of one flickered on her lips, too.
He didn’t know how he felt about the death penalty. Even so, he’d already committed himself to supporting whatever the Court-Martial decided. Putting Warren to death se
emed an extraordinary punishment, but then, he’d committed an extraordinarily awful crime.
Just a few short months ago, Husher had been coming to terms with his father’s return. More and more, Warren had seemed like a victim of circumstance rather than someone who actually meant his species harm. He’d spoken of advanced Ixan technology, used to generate video that made it appear he was betraying his species, whereas he claimed he’d been made an unwilling captive of the Ixa. Warren had even helped in the effort to recover the Providence, though he had faltered in the mission to Hades.
Then, Husher had seen him murder Sandy Bernard, who’d been one of humanity’s best reasons for hope. Everything Warren had done before—helping with the mission to get the Providence back, reconciling with his son, giving him guidance when he needed it most—that had all been maneuvering, to get himself in position for the assassination.
Keyes stood in the observation room as well, hands clasped behind his back, staring straight ahead. Since arriving, he’d barely interacted with Husher or Caine at all.
I wonder if he’s hurting as much as I am. Or was the captain as cold to this as he seemed to everything else, lately?
Warren’s claim that he was still on humanity’s side seemed as hollow as it had back on Spire. The tale about a superintelligent AI was interesting, and it even made a certain amount of sense. From where else could a text as prescient as the Prophecies have emerged? The only alternative seemed to be that the Ixan god, Ardent, was actually real, and he’d chosen the Ixa to elevate above all other species. Husher didn’t buy that.
But even though Warren’s story offered an interesting line of thought, there remained the fact that he’d committed the most treasonous act possible, in plain view. Anything he said would ring hollow, after such a crime.
Reckoning: The Ixan Prophecies Trilogy Book 3 Page 3
