The Immortal Game (Rook's Song)

by Chad Huskins

  Within a split second, all of this internal strife is over with, and he is reassuming command and maneuvering both ships, reading the data coming in from the Conductor of the secondary ship, coordinating their movements as ever, minimizing risk. The secondary ship’s solenoid guns still work, and magnetically repel debris from the space surrounding them while the flagship continues its assault on the other stations. The Supreme Conductor selects the choicest moments to fire. After several minutes, he manages to create a gap between two of the stations, one big enough for both ships to pass through—

  It’s him!

  A new string of data races into him, and forces the return of the Phantom File, with alarms going off inside all seven brains, permeating every ounce of his augmentations. There is a faint signature…something approaching…the data isn’t yet confirming it but the Phantom File confirms it for him. Seekers tell the tale. Signs of a plasma-stealth operations, and evidence of a unique ion trail.

  Yes. It’s him. It feels like a defeat just admitting it.

  The space they are fighting in is so large—hundreds of miles across in every direction—and it is so cluttered by superheated slag and energy flares and skirmishers and seekers, that it’s difficult at first to pin the data signature down. Then, the Supreme Conductor goes into a new tier of indignation when he realizes the Sidewinder is just a few miles ahead of the secondary ship, sneaking in between the gap created between two halves of the same space station and blasting away any skirmishers sent its way, almost carelessly. It has come coasting into the debris field. It is upside down relative to the luminal. Scans show quantum foam excitement surrounding the large swell on its back, and graviton excitement: The reverse-gravity field projector. Ianeth design! The size shows that it cannot project a large reverse-field from this far away, though.

  “Sir, we cannot fire on the Sidewinder because the secondary ship is in our way,” says one Observer, telling him something he already knows.

  “It is by design.” The Phantom File tells him that, and the knowledge trickles down to every Observer-Manager team. Still, the Supreme Conductor has his own will. “Nevertheless, tell the secondary ship’s Conductor to cue up all station turrets, and have all skirmishers in the vicinity surround it. I see that the Sidewinder’s shields are almost entirely gone. Three hits should completely annihilate it.”

  “Yes, s—”

  “This is Sidewinder x42, call sign ‘Rook.’ I repeat, this is your Phantom,” says a voice bleeding in through the datafeed. The transmission is being picked up by seekers. “If anybody is listening in there, I hope you speak English, ’cause you’re going to want to hear what I have to say. I can see you’re cuing up the turrets along the outside o’ yer luminal out here. By now I’m sure you’re aware how I did what I did down on the planet—an Ianeth reverse-field generator—and by now you’ll also see that it can’t reach your flagship from this distance, not with the secondary ship in my way.”

  The datafeed supplies the bridge with a live 3D image of the very tip of the chevron-shaped luminal in front of the Supreme Conductor’s ship, and at that tip, say half a mile off, is the Sidewinder, its nose and mounted generator aimed right at it.

  “I cannot destroy the flagship from here, but if you fire on me it will take five or six shots to destroy my ship.”

  Three shots, the Conductor estimates. No more.

  “In that time, I can emit a reverse-field to encapsulate most of this ship in front of me. You know what havoc I can wreak when that happens. Maybe I can’t sling you all the way back to the planet’s surface from here, but there’s a strong possibility I might destabilize your drive core. Also, the space here is covered up with skirmishers, most of them in hover mode—thank you for sending them over to me, by the way, it makes it all the more likely that as they get caught in the reverse-field, they’ll slam into the luminal ship.”

  A pause.

  As the Supreme Conductor absorbs the feed, the Phantom File is urging him on. New programming insists that if he has the opportunity to take the Phantom alive, he must do it. Also, it requires that if he gets the chance to make contact with the Phantom himself, then he must do so.

  But it doesn’t tell me what to say. The Supreme Conductor beckons a Manager to open a channel, and speaks: “You are an insect. You come from insects. You will die like an insect.”

  A pause. Then, the Phantom continues. “If you don’t fire on me, I’ll sit right here, happy as you please. If you do fire on me, though, I’ll shoot this reverse-field beam straight through this luminal and probably kill us all.” A pause. Then, “Your move.”

  Everyone in the bridge looks at him. Well, they don’t actually look at him, but the Conductor can feel their consciousness, can read their feedback, and knows that all focus is on him. The Phantom File returns, and requires him to make a move…a tactical move that he feels is unbecoming a Conductor, or any of his species, for that matter.

  Meanwhile, just outside, the battle stations are still moving—limping might be a better word—but one of them, Turk 7, is still moving along strong with all of its mass drivers working at near full capacity.

  Farther beyond Turk 7, a hundred miles ahead, and just a mile off of the secondary luminal’s bow, there is the Sidewinder. Coasting through this dangerous minefield as safely as we please, we have the illusion that we are just watchers on the wind, that we have no stake in this whatsoever. It isn’t until we’re back inside the cockpit that we realize just how much we have invested in this one man, our final player in this game, the last representative of us.

  Mind taut. Hands gripping. Eyes darting from one screen to the other. A quick adjustment of their yaw, and a slight increase in speed to keep up with the secondary luminal. All around, what’s left of the once mighty Turks loom around the ship like disapproving parents, shattered but still loyal, still willing to see if the child can see its way out of this.

  “You’re sure this will work?” says Bishop, monitoring multiple targets on his screen. He fires, but he’s only destroying a large piece of debris coming their way.

  “It’s just a feeling,” Rook responds, never taking his eyes off of the luminal’s bow. “Sometimes that’s all you’re left with. But we did figure that they’ve probably been trying to take me alive, right? This gives them a chance, a convenient excuse to accept my offer to ceasefire, giving the rest o’ the Turks some time to reposition. This ship here can’t move or else it exposes the flagship to the attack, and if it starts firing on us, we destroy each other.”

  Bishop glances at him. “A pin.”

  Rook tsks. “Just good old-fashioned mutually assured destruction. But, yeah, that’s the idea.” He activates starboardside thrusters, moving to the left. After a few seconds, the city-sized luminal changes its yaw to stay in front of him, protecting the flagship as it attempts to retreat through the debris field. Rook smiles, takes his eyes off the swarms of skirmishers gathered in his viewport to take a quick look at his display. “See if you can move Turk Twelve to Sector…let’s see…Sector Twenty-two, along these coords. Try to use Turk Ten to cover.”

  “Affirmative, friend.”

  “That’ll cut off their right flank. Turk Seven’s not lookin’ so good…see if you can shore him up with what’s left of Turk Three. If that works out, it successfully cuts off their left flank.”

  “But that leaves a major gap between them and Kali.”

  “Then all that’s left is for them to retreat towards the planet.”

  “You think they’ll take the out?” inquires Bishop, making the necessary moves.

  “I think it’s important for us to see if they’re willing to take it. If they’re not, then that tells us something.”

  “Like what?”

  Rook snorts. “It tells us we’ll get one last chance at destroying this luminal in front of us, and after that, they’ll probably annihilate us before the graviton gun is recharged or our shields are repaired enough to survive another attack.”

  T
o this, the alien responds simply, “We’re ready to die, then.”

  “It was always a long shot, anyway,” he says. And, for the first time in a long, long time, he feels absolutely no regrets. The war has been long, and he has been serving in it far past his natural tour of duty. Considering all of that, he knows he’s done the best he could do. Hell, it’s the best anybody could do, he reminds himself. No need for false modesty here. However, he is completely aware that the only reason he came this far is, strangely enough, because he was only one man. His solitude and singleness has defied the Cereb scope and definition of what war can be. It’s confounded them at every step. They thought he was the last, and it was that uncertainty that’s been their undoing. They didn’t count on Badger, or Bishop. Now they’re probably confused about who was in that other Sidewinder.

  “They’re moving a little strangely,” Bishop comments.

  “How do you mean?” he says, continuing to adjust to the enemy’s yaw.

  “Look at their speed. They’ve slowed down twice, ostensibly because debris was coming right at them, but they could’ve easily deflected debris that size with their solenoid guns.”

  Rook looks down at his scanners, sees that he’s right. “Maybe they’re just trying to save on power.”

  “Possibly.” The Ianeth sounds unconvinced.

  In his viewport, more skirmishers slowly glide into view. Meanwhile, Turks 10 and 12 complete their journeys, but Turks 7 and 3 aren’t looking so hot. The flagship lashes out at both of them with one hard blast apiece. Both of their shields were already down, and now the same lasers that burned away the atmospheres of countless worlds melts and explodes the top hemisphere of Turk 7. Turk 3 fares a little better, but almost all its mass drivers are offline in a single blast.

  “That’s okay,” he informs Bishop. “The debris still blocks them off.”

  “Both luminals are activating solenoid guns. Both are concentrating on removing the debris from the flagship’s path.” He looks at Rook. “They’re not satisfied with a retreat to the planet. They don’t want a wall to their backs.”

  “They want maneuverability.” He sighs, nods. “Okay, so, they don’t want the retreat—”

  “Hold on.” Bishop waves his hand at a holo-display, zooms in on the flagship, which appears to be cutting through the debris field and is angling towards the planet, but is changing its pitch. “Look here. I sent Turk One up from underneath, ramming through the debris field left by Eight. They’re responding to it, backing away so as not to get rammed.”

  Rook smiles. “Good thinking, pal! Okay…okay, so, they’re backing away towards the planet. Let’s see how long this holds—”

  “We’ve got massive debris incoming fast!”

  “Are deflector shields working?”

  “Checking.” A few seconds. “Shields insufficient to deflect an impactor this size. Need to adjust our plane. Suggest roll to port, fifty degrees should let it pass underne—”

  “Copy!” Rook does it, and two seconds later he sees she sharp edge of an apartment building-size piece of debris as it passes partially in front of the viewport, another portion of it passing beneath them. “Jesus, if they don’t get a move on, we’ll all be pulverized.”

  “That…might actually be their point.”

  Rook looks over his shoulder. “Come again?”

  “That piece of debris, it was rather convenient. That is, it was on a collision course with them, yet they did not activate their solenoid guns to deflect it, yet they moved anyway. A moment ago I told you they were moving suspiciously.”

  Rook looks back out the viewport. “What’re you sayin’? That they moved in a way that if we followed them at our current speed we’d be right on course to get hit?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. That’s too…too deceptive. If they’re gonna kill something, they go right for it. That’s how Cerebs work. They don’t value deception.”

  Bishop looks at him. “They also never wanted to take you prisoner before. You’ve changed them, perhaps more thoroughly than we know.”

  “One defeat in an asteroid field can’t undo thousands of years of evolution and computer programming.”

  “Maybe not to any other creatures,” the alien counters, sending signals to the remaining Turks to keep funneling the two luminals towards the planet. “But to a race that learns from every single mistake? As deeply embedded in their psychology as it may be, the Cerebs have proven they evolve quickly.”

  Bishop doesn’t yet know both how right and how wrong he is. We may travel across the wide gap of space, past the secondary luminal, and slip amongst those on the bridge of the flagship. We do indeed find the Supreme Conductor “evolving,” but we also see how hard it can be. He’s fighting it. He’s fighting all the recommendations that the Phantom File is sending his way, all the little corrections, even as he follows them. He’s extrapolating from the data from the Event Anomaly, he’s seeing where the flaw might’ve been. The Conductor doesn’t know it, but he’s coming into alignment with Rook’s thoughts.

  He’s alone, and that is his strength. He made his weakness into a strength, and our great numbers…he made it into a weakness? A conclusion not even the Elders had, for it comes from a combination of the Phantom File and the current data, forcing an educational and even blasphemous extrapolation.

  These new thoughts, mere continuations of what the Elders constructed from the Event Anomaly’s data, are fighting their way through his seven-tiered brain, exacerbating an already strained and fragile mind. It’s doing something unnatural to him. The madness, which ought to take several decades at the least, is being accelerated.

  I am not built for this. The logical conclusion asserts itself. It will take another Supreme Conductor, one constructed specifically to combat the Phantom and his methods.

  In an instant, he reluctantly adds this conclusion to the Phantom File, expanding upon it before he sends out a burst signal back to Four Point, where it will be rerouted back to the Elders.

  Exactly 2.32 seconds later, it occurs to him that, since he’s just sent the information away, it’s almost as if he’s planning…for the possibility…Of failure? Is it possible that I’m thinking these things? Does it make me inferior? Am I truly obsolete so soon?

  The Supreme Conductor never gets to answer these questions, because, as the two luminals back up towards the rogue planet at dozens of miles per second, the datafeed informs him of something else. The planet is flawed. There is something not right about it. Quick scans and 3D visuals show the world breaking apart, but old records show this was inevitable under the right conditions.

  But it isn’t the fact that the planet is coming apart that concerns the Observer-Manager teams all around him. No, what concerns all of them, besides the Ianeth defense stations and the debris field and the Phantom and the Sidewinder’s powerful new weapon, is the size of the lava streams. The data isn’t conducive with a separation of mantle and tectonic plates—there is an incredible amount of magma being sent into the thermosphere, almost exiting orbit completely before gravity flattens it out at the top and brings it all raining back down. Great geysers of molten-hot magma churn into the skies, twisting and turning, pushing through the dark clouds.

  That shouldn’t happen, he considers, running through the nuances of seismic waves, tectonomagnetism, and an analysis of the earthquake’s hypocenter. Not even with a planet splitting in half, that shouldn’t happen. It would require far too much energy from the center than what a rogue planet this size has.

  “Sir! We’re getting supermassive life readings from deep beneath the surface!” informs one Observer.

  The Conductor goes over the data, imbibes it, becomes it, and realizes there is indeed something far below the surface, something large and moving. The last scans of this planet were hundreds of years ago, and while there were detections of troglofaunal life far below, even large ones, none of them indicated something this colossal. With the whole upper layers of the planet hemorrhaging, something is
being squeezed out. And it’s nothing beautiful. More like pus from an infection that has festered too long, finally released. There’s only one thing it can be.

  Another Observer hastily adds, “Readings show it’s quickly rising, sir.” A split second later, “Seeker scans confirm. It’s one of Theirs, sir.”

  Theirs.

  A day of wonders, and no doubt about it. Not only has it seen the death and resurrection of the Phantom in less than an hour, it has seen the destruction of a Cereb fleet, the second defeat of the Everlasting Empire, and the emergence of a relic belonging to the Old Ones. A passive society, they were more concerned with discovery than war. Having mastered organic technologies and infused their culture with its worship, they had become the antithesis of the Cerebrals, as opposite as opposites come. Rather than weeding out their outmoded emotions, they heightened them, particularly the ones supporting empathy. Whereas all other cultures sought to surround themselves with technology, the Old Ones only used it sparsely, and feared it getting out of hand. They primarily used technology to advance their understanding of biology. The only energies they revered were those that pulsed from life. They cared little for steel batteries, energy was derived from the BTUs from their own body heat, or from supermassive animals they engineered over millions of years, and almost every propulsion system they devised came from jetting natural gases from highly pressurized organic sacks they attached to their bodies. Only a drive to gain admittance into the Bleed forced them into ships made of alloys, but even then the interior looked more like a garden set in the throat of a giant creature.

  A nanosecond’s worth of surveying the planet, its exosphere now only a hundred miles or so away and closing fast. The Conductor has retreated them far enough out of the debris field, and now only one Ianeth station remains in their way. A few blasts to it will cause more damage by debris, but it has to be done. “Concentrate all fire on that station.”

  “Yes, sir.”