by Nick Webb
He brought up the external video feed, hoping against hope that the stranger hadn’t sent him to the middle of deep space. That would have put a huge damper on his plans for his dream house.
The image snapped into place. It was Earth.
Earth.
“What the hell? I asked that bastard if we were going to Earth, and he said farther. Dipshit.”
Oh well. Earth was as good a place as any. He could unload the cargo, land at New Valhalla Station, grab a bite to eat, screw a hooker, down a few bottles, and get a good night’s sleep before getting the Angry Betty back to Britannia. And then … cash.
“Time to get to work,” he said to himself.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Orbit over Earth
Interstellar One
It was a secret he never told anyone. After all, he was the president of United Earth. Over a hundred billion people looked up to him as their fearless leader. Even the ones who didn’t vote for him tended to tacitly admit that he was a decent, strong guy. The alpha dog. The head honcho. The unflappable pitbull who never gave up and had balls the size of dinner plates.
But … he hated interstellar travel. Flying in atmosphere? No problem. Even orbital flight was fine. President Quimby could easily look out the window and see the Earth turn slowly below. Or Britannia, or whatever planet he was orbiting. As long as he was orbiting something, he was ok.
But right now, he was not in orbit. Instead, he was en route to Bolivar. The planetary corporate headquarters of Shovik-Orion, and the home base of that traitor, Admiral Mullins, who Quimby still had to play nice with. But before he could get there, he had to surf across an endless ocean of nothingness. Emptiness. A void. An abyss. And it unnerved the hell out of him.
But damned if he was going to let anyone know. “How many more q-jumps left, Kalvin?”
His body man murmured something into the tiny microphone fixed to his lapel, and then replied, “Just ten, sir.”
Dammit. He peered out the window again of Interstellar One, an aging craft at nearly thirty years old. It was first put into service under the legendary President Avery, after the old one was destroyed by saboteurs among her own staff. That made it ancient, seeing as the old woman herself was nearing one hundred and in a retirement home somewhere warm and tropical.
Oppenheimer promised him the new Interstellar One was almost ready. It was equipped with the new ultra-classified t-jump drive that would cut his travel time down to just one or two jumps per trip. That would be glorious. But for now, it was the usual hundred or two hundred plodding q-jumps, a quarter of a lightyear at a time. Plowing their way through the cold, empty deep. He shuddered, and turned away from the window.
Several hours later, and after the welcome distraction of a game of cards with Kalvin Quinkert, Mick Bird, and a few aides, they arrived. Bolivar. The center of all his recent problems—at least, the problems that didn’t involve genocidal aliens. Those they could handle. They'd had a halfway-decent track record of fending off aliens over the past hundred years. It usually took a few billion people dying to get there, but hey, they got there. Twice.
But rogue admirals in charge of multi-world corporations nearly as powerful as United Earth itself? This was an emergency that could potentially dwarf any Swarm or Russian or Chinese or Caliphate or pirate slaver threat. When the danger came from within, the risk was always highest.
Fortunately, United Earth had elected President Frederick fucking Quimby the Third. He was uniquely suited to negotiating and dealing with assholes, being one himself.
“Is my shuttle ready?”
Kalvin nodded. “Yes, sir. They’re waiting for you.”
With a heavy sigh, Quimby stood up from the table, regarding with pleasure the pile of chips in front of him. “I’m sorry to bleed you all dry and then run, gentlemen, but I’ve got work to do. Tyrants to manage, civilizations to save. Yada yada.” The other men chuckled obligingly. Quinkert and Bird stood, still chuckling, and followed him out to the hallway and down to the shuttle bay, secret service leading the way and following behind. Dammit, can’t they give me some breathing room even on my own ship?
The klaxons went off even as the shuttle bay doors opened. At the first sound of the alarms, the closest two agents grabbed him by the arms and pushed him into the small office of the shuttle bay chief and closed the door.
“What the hell is going on?”
One of the agents shook his head. “Unknown, sir. This is just protocol. We get you into a vacuum-safe, defendable room when any shipboard emergency alarms sound. Then we reassess and get you to a more secure location.”
Quimby waved his arms. “It’s fucking Interstellar One! What kind of threat do you think is on my own ship?”
Before they could answer, the comm crackled to life in the small office. “Sir, this is the bridge. We’re being painted by targeting lasers from an unknown source. We’re q-jumping out of here as soon as the calls are finished.”
“What do you mean, an unknown source? Can’t you just track the path of the targeting laser?” Quimby wanted to pat himself on the back for his technical knowledge. He’d made it a point to study up on weapons technology and tactics in the evenings after the election when everyone thought he was sleeping.
“Usually, sir, yes. But these lasers appear to be coming from … nothing. From empty space.”
For the barest moment, his fear of the dead void of space surged within him, before his rational brain reasserted itself. “Set up a broadcast. Tell them President Quimby is here to speak with Admiral Mullins. Tell them I’m—”
“Sir, update … we’re receiving an encoded hail for you. It’s coming straight from the source of those targeting lasers, which, by the way, have shut off.”
Interesting.
“Doesn’t matter. We’re still getting him out of here,” said the lead secret service agent over the line. “The threat is still active. We’ll send an advance ship next time and try to sort things out before—”
“Hang on, Mr. Carter, I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to listen to this message first before we decide anything.”
“But sir—” began Carter.
“No ‘buts.’ I’m the president. We do what I want. Go win your own election if you disagree. Patch that message through, Captain.”
It was a video signal, and the viewscreen in the small office flickered to life. And on the screen appeared his adversary. Admiral Mullins. Smiling. “President Quimby. I’m truly honored that you would pay me a visit here. I’m sorry for the targeting lasers. Automatic response by my tactical folks. I’ve instructed them to stand down. They’re a little jumpy given the new alien threat.”
Quimby forced a presidential, authoritative expression onto his face and boomed out, “Where are you transmitting from, Mullins? It looks like you’re coming from empty space.”
“From my ship. In fact, I’d love to have you aboard and show you around, seeing how you are the commander in chief, after all. This is technically your ship.” Mullins smiled, but it was a smile eerily devoid of any real warmth. There was a sharpness behind those eyes, and Quimby knew the man was talking out of his ass. Mullins didn’t consider Quimby his commander any more than a whore considers the john her faithful husband.
Agent Carter, out of view of the camera, was waving at him, shaking his head no, making it quite clear what the secret service detail thought about him going over to Mullins’s ship. Which effectively made his decision for him.
“Admiral Mullins, I’d be delighted to meet you aboard your ship. Besides, I think an inspection tour is warranted, seeing how we’re spending a shitload on the military budget.”
Mullins smiled even more broadly. Quimby had calibrated his words carefully, and mentioning the bloated military budget—the majority of which went to Shovik-Orion—would signal that he knew what power dynamics were at play here, but that he didn’t fear the other man enough to refuse the invitation. He had balls, after all. Gotta demonstrate to the upstart
admiral that his presidential balls were bigger. Boulders. Damn Rocky Mountains. In the alpha dog world, there were alphas, and betas. And he would be damned if someone else was going to out-alpha him.
“Excellent, Mr. President. I await your arrival. And I look forward to discussing the new strategic situation of the alien threat. I have some intelligence you should probably see.”
Quimby raised an eyebrow. “You have intel? I thought IDF Intel was the only—”
“Yes, IDF Intel is the main intelligence gathering organization within IDF, but we have a branch here on Bolivar that I have direct stewardship over. Plus, I’m privy to a few other details and have put the pieces together to form a picture that … is rather unsettling.” He seemed to glance around Quimby’s office. “Are you alone?”
“Just my body man and secret service.” Quimby glanced to his side and with a little nudge of his chin he told them both to leave. “They’re gone now.”
Mullins started slowly, as if there were a huge burden he were offloading from his shoulders. “Mr. President, I have reason to suspect that the Swarm threat never truly left us. I think they are not only still here, but have agents in place at the highest levels of our government.”
“Oh? You think I’m a Swarm agent?” Quimby leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands behind his head. “Or just my veep, like thirty years ago with Vice President Isaacson getting hoodwinked by the Swarm-controlled Russian Ambassador?”
“Oh no, not you or anyone on your staff.”
“Then who?”
“Who else in the government or IDF is desperately trying to make contact with the other two Swarm controlled races that we haven’t yet encountered? Under the guise of handling a preemptive threat? Who else seems bent on starting a war with the Dolmasi and Skiohra? Who else in the highest levels of the military had extensive contact with the main players from the last Swarm war, and therefore was most open to infection by the Swarm virus?”
Oh shit. Quimby’s gut churned at the thought.
“You’re not suggesting…?”
“I am. You know it’s true.”
The enormity of the accusation rested heavy between them. Quimby muttered, shook his head, and stood up. “Oppenheimer under control of the Swarm? It can’t be. All my military advisors swear that the Swarm is dead. Gone. Forever.”
Mullins smiled and tapped his nose. “Let’s talk. In person.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Orbit over San Martin
ISS Independence
Captain’s Ready Room
Proctor massaged her arm above the bullet’s entry point—where a bandage now soaked up the residual bleeding. The nurse had managed to patch her up, give her a few antiseptics and pain meds, but that’s all Proctor had time for. She had fish to fry. Plots to uncover. Civilizations to save. Yada yada, she thought. Where had she heard that before? She shook her head, and was met with a wave of vertigo. Damn, those pills the nurse had given her sure packed a punch.
“Thank God you’re all right, Shelby,” said Admiral Tigre, his cheek paunches stretching as his face contorted in concern. The large viewscreens on the bridge tended to magnify every blemish, and she cringed to think of how her haggard old-lady face looked on Tigre’s screen.
Dammit, she’d just survived a kidnapping-turned-assassination attempt. What the hell was she doing worrying about her face? Focus, Shelby.
“This is twice now, Miguelito. Let’s hope the third time’s not the charm,” she said.
“IDF Intel did this to you? I just can’t believe that Oppenheimer would have signed off on something like this. It’s just not like him at all.”
“War brings out the best and the worst in people, Miguel. And if someone thinks they’re acting in the interest of humanity’s survival, then there’s no limit to what they’re capable of. When you think you’re on the good side, you’re capable of unthinkable evil.” She leaned forward in her ready room chair, eyeing Captain Volz who sat off to the side.
They both knew what people in wartime were capable of. Granger had been capable of sacrificing himself—twice—to save civilization. And he’d been very capable of sacrificing others too. He hurled IDF ships into the Swarm carriers like they were bricks rather than vehicles carrying thousands of people. The Bricklayer—that was the epithet nickname he’d earned for his ghoulish but necessary tactics. On the other hand, UE’s vice president at the time, Isaacson, had been quite capable of betraying them all for a few good hookers and some blow.
Miguel stroked his chin. “So you think Oppenheimer was behind it? I can’t think of any other way IDF Intel could be involved….”
“I’m not so sure. You’re right: this isn’t like Christian at all. I just talked to him, and I’ve been in regular contact with him since this all started a few weeks ago. Since Sangre. Christian Oppenheimer might be an ass-clenched opportunist, but he’s no traitor. I think. But I agree, he must be involved one way or another—how else could all these pieces be pulled together? And as for the mastermind behind the whole op? It’s got to be Mullins. Who else could it be?”
Tigre smirked. “President slash Admiral Mullins. What a piece of work. Who knew? Who could have guessed old Teddy would want his own little personal empire. He’s pulled off a veritable coup, that one. Quimby and Oppenheimer don’t dare fire him—they can’t risk IDF’s Shovik-Orion military contracts. And so here we have a rogue IDF admiral in charge of his own planet, with considerable influence on half a dozen others. Including San Martin. It’s crazy.”
Proctor snapped her fingers at Ensign Babu, calling for a cup of coffee. He bowed ceremoniously in a mock imitation of a servant, and ducked out the door. “He’s quite the demagogue, too. He’s hijacking half the GPC. I bet Curiel is furious. He’s spent a decade building the GPC up into a legitimate opposition party, talking a good talk and using those movie-star looks of his for what he considers a noble cause, and now a blustery, reckless blowhard comes along, throws some money and starships around, and half of Curiel’s people start following him. Including, apparently, some of your people at CENTCOM San Martin, Miguel, and … some of mine.”
Her implication was clear. If the late Commander Yarbrough, her previous XO on the Independence, could be persuaded to mutiny, if that dead squad of IDF Intel operatives posing as marines were convinced to commit treason, then there could be others. She continued, “I just can’t believe there would be anyone else on the Independence capable of staging a mutiny.”
Both Tigre and Volz looked at her with the same expression, even though they couldn’t see each other. The expression was one of skeptical bemusement. “Shelby, that’s pretty wishful thinking there,” said Volz.
Tigre hadn’t known Volz was in the room. “Ballsy? Is that you?”
Volz stood up and came around the table, crouching down next to Proctor to fit into the camera’s field of view. “I agree, Miguel. We need to start being a little smarter about this. We can’t assume anyone around us is trustworthy. At least where the admiral’s safety is concerned.”
“Absolutely,” said Tigre, nodding. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”
“We need to get her out of the crosshairs, no matter who is doing the aiming.”
Proctor cleared her throat. “Gentlemen, I’m touched at the concern for my safety. But whatever you’re thinking, I’m not going to just go hide while civilization faces an existential threat, no matter which mutinous—”
“I’ve got just the thing, Shelby,” said Tigre, interrupting her. “Something that will let you stay on offense, yet out of reach of your enemies, whoever they are.”
She leaned back in her chair. “I’m listening.”
“A ship. I don’t want to say more over this channel, but you should consider it.”
“No. I’m not leaving the Independence—”
“Hear me out, Shelby. Once you see it, you’ll understand—”
“I said I’m not leaving the—”
It was Volz that interru
pted this time. “Shelby, we can’t risk it anymore. Either we rotate the entire crew off and replace them with people that you and I can personally vouch for—which, let’s face it, is just not feasible—or we get you into an environment where we can guarantee your safety.”
“But—”
“Shelby,” Volz said, his eyes pleading, “I don’t know if you realize it, but, you’re kind of a big deal. You’re irreplaceable. If we lose you, we lose this damn war before it ever really starts. The Dolmasi. Mullins. Oppenheimer—they’re all shooting at you. And, once we’re through with those distractions, there’s still that Golgothic ship you took out by the skin of your teeth, and who knows if there’s more of them.” He lowered his voice. “And don’t forget, Shelby, they’re coming,” he quoted. “Whoever they are, we’ve got to stall for a little time. Give you space to figure this out.”
She could tell they weren’t going to give up. She’d humor them. Take a look at whatever Miguel was proposing, then summarily turn him down, get back to the Independence, and triple her marine guard. Assuming she could trust that the rest of her marines were actual marines and not intel agents with questionable loyalties….
“Fine,” she said to Tigre before turning to Volz. “Ballsy, if you wanted your own ship, there were far easier ways of getting rid of me.”
He held his hands up. “Oh no you don’t. I’m coming with you.”
“Like hell. You’re staying here with the Independence. We need as many pieces on the board that we control as possible.” She turned back to the screen. “Ok, Miguel, where do we go?”
He nodded triumphantly. It was clear he thought he’d have to fight her far more than he did. You have no idea, she thought. “Take a shuttle. Bring an engineer you trust, a very small handful of crew, plus no more than six pilots and their fighters. They can escort you in.”
“Where?”
Tigre smiled. “Just a hundred kilometers off your port bow.”
