by Chad Huskins
Rook smiles. “What, that you’ve been losing on purpose? Since you started working on the Turks.”
“Was I that obvious?”
“No. But a pattern started to emerge.” He shrugs. “You’re not as dumb or robotic as you like to let on, Bishop. Makes me wonder what other secrets you’re hiding.”
“If it makes you wonder, then the deception play has done its job.” He makes a human shrug. “Also, you did well hiding the fact that you figured me out. A very good game of deception.”
“I learned from the best.”
Then, Bishop’s crocodile grin widens.
Rook starts to ask him if that’s really his best rendition of a human smile, when an alarm goes off. Rook spins in his seat and brings up the holo-display. There’s no mistaking the readings. Spacetime is being warped about twenty million miles out in space, on the western side of Kali. The size of the hole being tunneled through the slipstream is enormous. Fleet-sized.
He turns to look at his partner. “This is it,” he says. “Battle o’ Thermopylae.”
11
When the four luminals exit the Bleed, the Supreme Conductor immediately orders probes sent out, along with four squadrons of skirmishers from each ship. The flagship takes the slightest of leads, and he orders that each ship maintain a sizable distance between them as they approach the rogue planet.
The datafeed tells him everything, and as the probes and the skirmishers get nearer the planet, that datafeed becomes more intense. The information is causing him to bring up old files, passed down from other Conductors to him. The giant twin spheres on every side of the planet, its atmospheric composition, its tectonic shifts, the detection of massive troglofaunal life beneath the surface, it is all the memory-stuff of past Conductors. This is where one of the last groups of Ianeth met their end.
The knowledge fills him with pride, and the holographic recordings of those battles are superimposed over the rest of the data, and he experiences all of them in a few seconds, imbibing all pertinent information. It has been so long since the Cerebs have had need to come here, the file on this patch of space has been buried so deep that if it were a physical file it wouldn’t just be dusty, it would be crumbling to pieces.
“Tachyonic distortion has bled away a hundred percent, sir,” reports one Observer.
“Good,” says the Conductor. “Any sign of our missing survey team?”
“There are signs of energy signatures a great distance away from here, sir—the planet has been hurtling through space, but there is an energy well along the trajectory it came from that indicates there might have been a battle here involving particle weapons.”
“Send four squadrons along that trajectory to retrace the planet’s path, see if they find debris.”
“Space stations scan empty, sir,” reports another Observer-Manager team. “No scans report biological signs inside them…” There’s a hiccup in the datafeed. A nanosecond goes by, but for a Conductor, that is an eternity of expectation. “…there is an energy signature, however. Very strong. Mass drivers on each of the space stations have been active in the last few weeks.”
“Are you certain?”
“Double-checking data now, sir.” Another agonizing few nanoseconds. “Confirmed, sir. Mass drivers are cooled now, but energy dispersal indicates they were last active several standard days ago.”
“We’ve got confirmation of Phantom-quality ionic trail dispersal, sir,” reports another team. A full second this time! “Ninety percent ice striations on the fragments along the frozen trail, and gamma levels match those near Four Point. It’s confirmed, sir. Data matches that of the Phantom’s Sidewinder.”
All at once, the Phantom File is paramount in his mind. It calls itself up, and is scrolling to the most pertinent areas. Everything changes. Those spherical space stations are now taken with new perspective, analyzed, scrutinized, and the very space around them is now untrusted, its unyielding darkness almost personified with brutality and illogic that can only be ascribed to a human element.
It’s almost damaging to the Supreme Conductor’s pride that the Elders would find it so imperative to filter this through to him. It places an importance on humans—specifically, this human—that he feels is unjustified. The Phantom got lucky. That is all. He is so certain.
Still, he has a job to do, and orders to follow. The Conductor sends out a burst of commands. The Phantom File informs his decision. “Contact all Conductors, have each of them send four squadrons to each of the stations. Have them perform more intensified scans. If they find nothing, have them enter and perform internal analysis.” There are twelve of those massive spheres, and it will take untold days to search every nook and cranny.
But that’s what the Phantom File says to do. We must adhere. We live to obey Our Betters, and they are Our Betters for a reason—
Suddenly, the datafeed comes alive with a new ocean of information.
“Sir, we have a confirmed sighting of a vessel coming from over the planet’s far side,” reports one Observer. “Scans show its hull is made of compristeel.”
“Biological signs?”
“Scanning.” A full second. “Yes, sir, it’s confirmed.” Various waves of energy are sent out, penetrating the incoming ship’s hull, and based on the echoes it sends back, and the interference it receives, human tissues are detected. “Signs are scant, but human-type physiology is detected. And…sir! Music!”
The Conductor will not make the mistake of the last Conductor by listening to it—that would only accelerate his fall to his madness—but he does request an analysis of the music, to confirm that it is, in fact, human.
It’s confirmed. It’s The Spencer Davis Group, song title “Gimme Some Lovin.”
The Conductor brings up the holographic displays and walks among them, stepping around the dark planet with skies choked by black clouds, and now he focuses his eyes on the dot, almost impossible to see in the immense darkness. The dot is highlighted, outlined, and all of the data from its trajectory and speed is fed into him. “He’s coming right at us.” No one needs to respond. It is obvious what is happening. Here it is, the end of the Phantom, exactly what all of them expected to find at the end of their chase. The Phantom’s ship shows low on fuel, and has suffered damage, probably from the Event Anomaly at the asteroid field.
He’s on a suicide mission. He’s going to collide with us. At least, that’s his plan. Such analysis stands logic on its head, but it also corroborates what is known about the Phantom’s erratic behavior, and foolish human sacrificial tendencies in general.
The Sidewinder is moving fast, borrowing more speed from orbital slingshotting than its own thrusters. Now, though, it is breaking orbit and plunging into its last act. And from here, the Supreme Conductor takes in the moment. As the skirmisher squadrons receive instructions and coordinates to engage the enemy, he cannot help but view this as one of the most pathetic displays he’s ever witnessed. It’s bad enough all of the races they have encountered in their journeys are woefully underprepared, because they never even thought that alien incursion was realistically something to prepare for, but to be among the last of such a pitiable race…
Better to die in madness, with Your Betters disassembling you and learning how to make future generations better, as will happen to me. To fight against the inevitable defeat such as this, one would think they would have more self-respect, a better sense of how to die with dignity.
“Sir, skirmisher squadron has closed distance and locked on. Orders?”
Without hesitation. “Engage and capture, if possible. If not, engage and destroy.”
“Yes, sir.” The orders are filtered down, sent across space, passed on to each squadron member.
We follow those orders, and follow the squadron as they receive them and close in on the Sidewinder that comes rushing at them. They target the ship, close in around it, and cue up particle-beam weapons. Two seconds pass. When they fire, there is no cheering, no yelling as they cripple the
last human. The particle beams smash into the Sidewinder’s back side, taking out the last of the thrusters.
The music continues as the skirmishers encircle the ship, now dead in space.
“Well my temperature’s risin’ and my feet left the floor,
Crazy people rockin’ cause they want to go more,
Let me in baby I don’t know what you got,
But ya better take it easy, this place is hot!”
It continues playing as tactical operators descend from the skirmishers, alight on the surface of the ship, and beginning cutting through the hull.
“And I’m so glad we made it!
So glad we made it!
You gotta…gimme some lovin’!
Gimme gimme some lo—”
The explosion is immense, and it’s exactly what the Phantom File warned of. A final, stupid sacrifice. The Phantom will not be taken hostage, he would rather die and take out as many Cerebs as he can. As though it makes any sort of difference. Ridiculous. The Sidewinder disintegrates in a quiet blue-white plume, an unceremonious end to an unceremonious battle.
How fitting. It’s where the Ianeth fled to meet their end, and it’s where the human race met its end. A portion of his Conductor-induced madness toys with the notion that there is some Greater Power behind this, a facet of fate that has guaranteed this poetic end.
“Five operatives killed, sir,” reports an Observer. “Four wounded.”
“The Phantom is dead. Tell the others to start collecting the wounded. Inform the medical bays to prepare to receive.”
“Yes, sir.”
The skirmishers are turning around and heading back to their respective scanning formations. The Phantom’s end is reported back to the fleet and its various Observer-Manager teams, and to the Conductors, of course. A final scan shows human remains in the rubble. When the news reaches the Supreme Conductor, he expects that he can start pulling his fleet back.
But something happens next that bothers him immensely. The Phantom File doesn’t go away. Indeed, it expands, and a plethora of new commands comes at him, revealing a portion of the File that he was not privy to until now. The File indicates that what was really wanted was the Phantom taken prisoner. He wasn’t. Now the File says the Elders will settle for the next best thing: a more thorough scan of the planet’s surface.
But why? he wants to scream. It makes no sense! There’s nothing to learn from such an unevolved simian…
“Follow ionic trails down to the planet,” he says begrudgingly. “Locate any and all bunkers the Phantom might have inhabited. Start with most likely scenario, that he scanned the planet and found former Ianeth installations.”
“Yes, sir.” A few seconds later, scans are finished. “Sir, scans show all former installations are completely destroyed save one. It’s the former staging ground in the mountainside where the last Ianeth scientists made their stand.”
“The Elders wish to know more about the Phantom and his tactics.” Only the stars know why, he thinks privately, fighting hard to keep those thoughts from leaking back into the datafeed. “Assign one luminal to break through the atmosphere, and have them send down landing parties to enter the old caves and perform scans on foot.”
“Yes, sir.”
We now leave the Supreme Conductor on the luminal’s bridge, and we escape back out into the void, passing through the gases left by the Sidewinder’s end, through the pilot’s remains, and then on to the two giant spheres hovering above Kali’s western hemisphere.
Hundreds of skirmishers now fill the space, and are descending, breaking through Kali’s atmosphere and headed down to the surface. As per the Conductor’s orders, one luminal ship now follows those skirmishers, and is dispersing thousands of seekers, each one streaking across the sky and diving for the surface. A dozen or so fly past Thor’s Anvil. Lightning and heavy static energies create contradicting data. A number of them experience so much atmospheric disturbance that they can’t communicate effectively. One or two even become lost.
A few of Rook’s and Bishop’s probes remain on the surface, and report what they see the seekers doing. Some of the seekers find these probes, and when they do, they immediately neutralize flight systems and collect them for later examination.
The signals from those probes are feeding back into a dark patch of space just like any other out here. The signals travel on channels with scrambled noise meant to reflect some of the interference Kali’s atmosphere provides normally—with some luck, the ultimate destination of that data won’t be picked up by either seekers or skirmishers. We know where it goes, though. We see the holo-display that organizes the data, and we see Rook’s gloved hand moving slowly over the panel below it.
“Looks like they bought it,” he says.
Beside him, Bishop looks at the weather screen. “Perhaps, but we don’t know that for sure.”
“I do. Look at this group here, moving to scoop up survivors from the derelict’s destruction.” Rook points to a radar screen. “They don’t bother with survivors until the mission is finished and all threats are neutralized. They know that I’m dead.” He checks for any signs that they’re being targeted. So far, so good. “Looks like they don’t yet recognize our connection to the probes down below.”
“Thor’s Anvil is giving us some assistance.”
“I’ve been counting on that, and hoping it and the other volcanos would keep erupting like they’ve been doing. At least Kali’s on our side today.”
“What do we do now?”
“Just sit tight. Let ’em think I’m dead for a while, let ’em sit with that knowledge. Turk Seven’s got us covered for now.” They are “parked” in a slow orbit a mile above the space station, half the viewport showing Turk 7’s curved surface, the other half showing the massive black ball of Kali above them.
Ten minutes pass in silence. Both of them stare at their screens. There is a gnawing uneasiness in the pit of Rook’s stomach; that eternal feeling that he’s forgotten something.
“You really think they bought it?” the alien finally asks.
“I think they have to buy it. Not only do they not fear being deceived, they think it’s hardly possible and they also happen to think I’m a, uh, how did you put it? A madman? Insane?” He smiles at Bishop. The Ianeth’s mouth spreads, forming an even more massive and disturbing smile. “Ya know, whatever happens here, I just want you to know that…that…” He chuckles. “Well, I’m glad I met you, buddy. Just wish it had been under better circumstances.”
The alien’s hands move rapidly over the controls. “Me, as well. On both counts.”
Rook’s eyes range across the displays. He looks at the luminal now disappearing through the sensor-frazzling clouds being pumped out of Thor’s Anvil, pushing through more than a thousand tons of sulfur dioxide. Then he looks at the other three luminals. One is out front, presumably the flagship? The other two take up a formation, which the principle of four programming predicts and shows him on his holo-display seconds before the maneuver’s completed. The formation axis of the two ships, and the formation axis of the skirmishers they’re still spewing, aligns to the flagship’s long axis.
Other skirmishers push hard for Kali’s surface, as do their hundreds of seeker offspring. Wordlessly, Bishop applies the principle of four and ten to both squadrons and seekers, and on Rook’s screen various predictions are made by the Sidewinder’s AI. The screens show various cones, the wide ends being the huge numbers of directions they might go in, and the narrow ends showing the most likely vectors. Almost every single prophesy the AI makes comes to pass. The Cerebrals are nothing if not precise. Terrifyingly so.
As the rest of the fleet approaches orbit over Kali, Bishop asks, “You don’t think they’ll detect us?”
“I imagine they’ll detect fresh ionic disturbance, but remember, they think they just killed me, so they’ll probably just think it’s leftover exhaust from my attempted suicide run.” At least, I hope so, he thinks, but doesn’t dare say. He
studies another holo-display, which shows that the Sidewinder’s sensor shroud is still holding strong and all systems are near optimum. Hang in there, old girl. He may not be a praying man, but he sure believes in sending good vibes to his ship. Hang in there, just stay with it. Don’t fail me and I won’t fail you.
The luminal ships that are lagging behind are now about a thousand miles above Kali’s surface, just above the exosphere and therefore on roughly the same plane as the Turks. A check of their angle and speed reveals that they do not intend on going down to the surface.
“Alright,” Rook says. “Show time.” He looks at Bishop.
The alien nods and sends the signal over to Turks 3 and 4, far below them at Kali’s south pole. We follow that signal to its destination, and witness the activation of the behemoths. Massive panels slide to the side as the mass drivers extend, and immediately start directing them up around Kali. The sixteen skirmishers flying around the space stations give them a wide berth, maneuvering to keep clear of the colossal mass drivers as they push up, up, up towards Turks 7 and 8.
That data is not missed by the Supreme Conductor, who reads the datafeed coming into him almost as fast as we can zip inside his mind. The ocean of data has this little ripple, and he notes the strange movements of the ancient space stations. They are on a course with the luminal fleet. We must have triggered some old proximity alert sensors, he thinks. To one Observer, he remarks, “Tell the squadrons to give those stations a more thorough scan.” It has not yet occurred to him that the Phantom could have left those stations on some sort of autopilot—humans had neither the technology nor the understanding of Ianeth hardware to control such things. However, the Phantom File informs him that he might be wrong about that, and that a thorough inspection is needed. Absurd. How could he even interact with the data screens when it requires seeing into other spectrums of light? But he does as he’s told.
