by Nick Webb
“Shelby,” he said, “so good to see you again. I wish the circumstances were better.”
“As do I,” she replied, standing up to give him a hug.
“We need to be brief,” he said. “We don't have much time.”
“Time?” said Proctor. “What's going on?” She sat down, uneasily. Tigre pulled a chair away from the wall and sat down.
“It's IDF Intel,” he said leaning an elbow onto the table. “They've been running regular sensor sweeps in the system, outside the purview of CENTCOM San Martin.”
“That's … odd,” said Proctor. “Isn't the local office of IDF Intel supposed to report directly to you?”
“It should.” Tigre ran a hand over his thin white hair. “It's disturbing to say the least.”
Lieutenant Whitehorse raised a finger. “I’m sure IDF is on high alert in every system due to the recent Dolmasi incursion.”
Tigre nodded. “Yes, it is, but I've never lost control over the day-to-day operations of Intel activities within my command area,” he said. “CENTCOM San Martin covers half a dozen star systems. It seems like Oppenheimer is consolidating operational authority across all military divisions.”
Proctor shrugged. “We did that thirty years ago during the war,” she said. “It allowed us, or rather, allowed the top brass at the time, to consolidate and coordinate intelligence-gathering activities with the war fighting efforts.”
“Yes,” said Tigre. “But the funny thing is, CENTCOM Bolivar has no such restrictions. Only CENTCOM San Martin, CENTCOM Britannia, CENTCOM Veracruz, and CENTCOM Indira have lost direct control over their local branch of IDF Intel. It's almost as if—”
Proctor finished his sentence for him. “As if any Central Command, or any other IDF command center not affiliated with Shovik-Orion is being stripped of all operational authority, no?”
Tigre looked glum. “Yes, yes—that is my concern. Which means that the Central Command on Earth is not only tolerating Mullins, but supporting him. Endorsing him. They either subscribe to his views, or they're being held hostage by Shovik-Orion’s lucrative defense contracts. Or rather, what would happen to our ships and combat systems if Shovik-Orion decided to bail on UE all at once.”
Proctor shook her head slowly, rubbing her temples to resist the looming headache. “I can't believe we're even talking about this in the middle of another alien invasion. It's the same bullshit political drama that played out last time this all happened thirty years ago. Let's just hope that this time we can expose the traitors before the real enemy strikes too hard, too deep.”
“Real enemy?” Admiral Tigre, scratching at the sides of his mustache. “The real enemy is always the one you trusted the most. The one that can hurt you the most. Let's face it, Shelby, if Mullins is working against us, if he's working against IDF, and working against Earth, he is the real enemy, not the Dolmasi. Not even the Swarm.”
The conference room, already quiet, turned morgue-level quiet at the mention of their old enemy. Proctor calmly folded her hands in front of her on the table.
“You … don't suppose the Swarm is back, do you?” said Lieutenant Whitehorse. “I mean, if admirals are acting strangely, issuing rogue orders you guys don't understand … what I mean to say is, if the left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing, isn't that kind of how things were during the Second Swarm War? Everyone suspecting everyone else of treachery? Since the Swarm was able to infect people with their virus and control them? No one knew who was Swarm-corrupted and working for the enemy and who was still themselves. Hell, the entire Russian high command was corrupted at one point.”
Proctor wanted it not to be true, and so far the evidence had pointed elsewhere. The recent attack of the Golgothic ship and now the new offensive by the Dolmasi bore no relation to how things played out during the Second Swarm War. This was odd. This was different. This was something new. Yet it was still something able to make humanity fight each other. That was the hallmark of an effective … no, a brilliant enemy. One who could divide its foes, make them fight amongst themselves, and then move in for the kill when everyone is distracted, pointing fingers and guns at each other.
"I highly doubt this is the Swarm,” said Admiral Tigre. “But I'm hoping, Shelby, that with the Defiance, you'll be able to get to the bottom of everything.”
Proctor wished that were the case. She wished the answer to their problems were as simple as taking command of the new ship. Granted, the Defiance’s new technology was impressive. But technology was next to useless if you were lost in the fog of war, flailing at shadows and held at the mercy of unseen enemies.
But during the inspection of the Defiance, and during the most recent battle, especially during the aborted kidnapping attempt, she had come to the conclusion that it was time to take the offensive position. The best kind of defense she knew. “Okay, here's the plan. We're going to attempt communication with the Dolmasi.”
Every head in the conference room turned towards her. Every eye widened. Proctor held out a hand towards Lieutenant Qwerty and continued, “Mr. Qwerty here is our secret weapon for this particular battle. If we could just communicate with the Dolmasi, and through them unravel the conspiracy, that would empower us—enable us—to get our own house in order so we can finally face the external threat undivided.”
“You heard that moon in the Jakarta sector disappeared, right? Tal Rishi?” Admiral Tigre, his expression already grave, looked almost scared. Or, at least, he'd look scared if Proctor didn't know any better. She knew Miguelito was made of solid tungsten, despite his tendency to wear his emotions on his sleeve.
She nodded. “Yes, I did.”
“Just imagine, Shelby. The power to make a world disappear. An entire world. Or, worse yet, the power to move it. What if whatever we are dealing with has the power to make that moon reappear right in the orbital path of New Jakarta itself? Or, worse, what if they have the power to transport that moon lightyears away, and put it in the path of Earth? Or Britannia? If our enemy has that power….”
"We are pretty much screwed," said Lieutenant Zivic, who had been uncharacteristically quiet until then. The other four pilots were down in their ready room, presumably playing cards and bantering. She was sure he’d be there too if she hadn’t requested his presence in the meeting.
“Words right out of my mouth,” said Proctor.
“Ma'am," began Fiona Liu, “there's also the issue of the possibility that Mullins has a stealth ship of his own. It all adds up—that meta-space signal at Mao Prime that came out of nowhere, pointed straight at us. That was probably him, and he was almost certainly pulling the trigger on that botched kidnap op.”
“That certainly is a possibility,” said Tigre, nodding. “And I can equip you with some specs, some data, that might help you detect him when he is running silent—or if he is running silent—but I'm afraid that if you're flying one of these stealth ships, and you don't want to be seen, no one is going to see you.”
The implications of that were terrifying, almost as terrifying as the aliens’ allegedly ability to move entire planets. Or at least make them disappear. Proctor wondered if perhaps the two technologies were related: what if the disappearance of Bolivar's moon was not a coincidence, but rather the next stage in Admiral Mullins’s schemes. But what his endgame would be in such a scenario she couldn't fathom.
Tigre was watching her. “I know what you're thinking, Shelby, but at least there is some good news—the two technologies couldn't be more different. The stealth technology is actually quite basic at the fundamental level. Sure, we've got some special EM-absorbing coatings, radar-absorbing coatings, that kind of stuff. But the workhorse of the stealth system has more of a … theatrical bent, if you catch my meaning.”
Proctor chewed on this information of this for several moments before Rayna Scott broke her silence. “Oh, my God. You're just putting on a light show, a trick, to fool their sensors, aren’t you?” she said.
Tigre held up his hands. “You ca
ught us. The game’s up.”
Proctor couldn't suppress the look of horror that she knew was spreading over her face. She wasn't sure whether she should feel horrified or gleeful. On one hand, essentially relying on a magic trick to keep her safe was foolhardy indeed. On the other hand, it might help them detect Admiral Mullins when, and if, he decided to come after her himself. “You can't be serious,” she said.
“It's actually quite sophisticated software,” he said with a grin and Proctor swore she saw a wink in there too. “The hull, in addition to being painted with the special EM-absorbing coating, has also essentially been converted into a computer monitor. Or rather, a highly-sophisticated holographic computer monitor. It automatically detects the location of the sensors and cameras that are attempting to track it, performs a little computational wizardry, and makes the hull look like the appropriate star field from the point of view of the observer. Mimics the spectral output of each individual star it’s supposed to be impersonating. It's actually quite impressive.”
Commander Scott was nodding her head approvingly, looking back and forth as if performing the computations herself, and even looked both Proctor and Tigre in the eye she was so excited. “That's not just sophisticated, that's bloody brilliant. Not even multi-phase, multi-source, multi-spectral analysis could ferret out the signal if it were done properly with a small enough lag-time. Hell, even if you ran multiplexed inverse Fourier transformed….”
“There she goes again,” said Ensign Babu. Rayna flashed him a mock glare—the two had actually taken to each other quite well in the short time Babu had been aboard the Independence.
“So,” said Proctor, “we are undetectable. We're running silent. We've got, as I see it, three missions. Number one, figure out how to communicate with the Dolmasi and end their attacks. Number two, gather intel from the Dolmasi, and any other source we can, to figure out who the hell is behind this conspiracy to kidnap me, or to kill me—I’m not yet convinced it was Mullins. And, even more importantly, figure out what their goal is. What their endgame is. And number three, the usual.” She glanced around the table, meeting them all in the eye one by one. “Save civilization. Again.”
Ensign Babu raised an eyebrow. “I used to watch an old show when I was a teenager, and it reminds me of you, Admiral.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, every week the heroine beat some new danger—monsters, vampires, demons. And when she died, on her tombstone they inscribed: She saved the world. A lot.” He allowed that to sink in for a moment before he dryly held up a finger, then raised an eyebrow, and added, “For the record, I don't think you're going to die on this mission, Admiral.”
Proctor was speechless. And after a moment she decided that it was quite funny and laughed, which gave tacit permission for everyone else to laugh. And, in reality, it was a little funny. Granger was sure he was going to die on any number of occasions when he saved civilization back in the day, and seemed to pull through every single time.
Except for that final time. And his tombstone would forever be the event horizon of a black hole.
Unless….
Shelby, they’re coming.
Dammit Tim, what were you trying to tell me?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Orbit over Bolivar
ISS Vanguard
It took his secret service chief far longer than he would have liked to coordinate with security on the ISS Vanguard, Mullins’s ship, but after another hour President Quimby finally took the short shuttle ride over and met Mullins in the shuttle bay.
“So exactly how long have we had stealth, and why the hell wasn’t I told about it yet?” Quimby extended a hand to the admiral, who met him in the bay, alone. He interpreted that move as the other man trying to send the signal that he considered himself such an alpha dog that he didn’t even need sycophants and aides hanging on his every word and ready to answer his beck and call.
Either that or he didn’t want anyone listening in.
“Just a few months, actually. I’ve only had the Vanguard since August, and to my knowledge she’s only one of two prototypes. Still working out some kinks before Shovik-Orion’s Bolivaran shipyard goes into full production.” His grip was firm. Not too tight, and lingering just long enough to let Quimby know that he wasn’t afraid of him. Good. He could work with that. There were other motivations than fear, and the president was a man who would use whatever tool he needed to get his way. And by the end, he’d make the admiral fear him all the same.
“Assuming Shovik-Orion still has funding in the next budget.” Quimby said. “Believe me, my friend, you don’t have a bigger ally than myself in the budget process coming up with congress, and I’ve got a fair amount of political capital to spend. But as you know, politics is nasty business. Some days I’d rather be making actual sausage than the shitfest we have to do in New York.”
Mullins’s eyes narrowed at the mention of money. Good. That was his one weakness. Even as he made a big show of throwing his weight around and letting his balls hang out, his real nut-sack was in the wallet, and if Quimby threatened to kick it, even subliminally, Mullins would bend.
“I’m surprised that congress would even hesitate funding our contracts given how central we are to nearly every military system. And given the fact that we’re currently in a three-front war.” The admiral smiled. “But let’s save the budget negotiations for another day, as riveting as they are. Even though my detractors tell you otherwise, my loyalties lie first with IDF, and the survival and prosperity of United Earth. Come, Mr. President, we have much to discuss.”
Quimby’s secret service detail went ahead of them, led by Agent Carter, greeting their IDF counterparts on the ship and coordinating the details of the president’s stay with Kalvin Quinkert and Mick Bird. Quimby followed Mullins into the lift, then onto the bridge itself for a brief inspection tour, before they finally settled into the captain’s ready room.
Quimby dove right in. “So, talk to me. I just can’t believe that Oppenheimer could be controlled by the Swarm. He’s the leader of IDF. How could their influence have escaped our notice all this time, and how can you be so sure that they are not, in fact, all dead, just like the top brass swears they are? We haven’t seen hide nor hair of them in thirty years.”
Mullins brought over two cups of coffee. Both black, without cream or sugar, as if he expected them both to take it the same way—strong and unsoftened. And he was right. Black coffee was like blunt talk—in-your-face refreshing. “I assume you want it strong?” Quimby nodded. Another little detail he filed away—his adversary was perceptive, even in his dick-wagging. He wondered how much of it was bluster and show, meant to distract from what his true intentions were, and how much was true character.
Probably all show. True character was rare.
“Thank you.”
Mullins sat down across from him. “Of course Oppenheimer would claim the Swarm is dead. The worst enemy is the one you don’t think exists. And yet here we are in the midst of an invasion by an unknown alien race. The so-called Golgothics. They’ve only sent one ship, but when’s the next one showing up? And what are they doing to Ido? What did they do to El Amin? Where did Tal Rishi go? What are they doing to Titan, and half a dozen other moons across our space that are somehow, against all the laws of physics, growing in mass? Believe me, Mr. President, this is just the tip of the invasion, and if we don’t have firm, solid, unwavering leadership, we could fail.”
Was that a veiled threat? Of course it was. But, like the most skilled of diplomats, he’d couched it in terms of doubting Oppenheimer’s leadership, not Quimby’s, keeping the doubt of Quimby’s leadership implicit. Quimby replied in kind: “I’ve seen no indication he’s under any kind of alien influence.” He thought it prudent not to mention that Oppenheimer suspected Proctor of being under Swarm control, which would have implied that Oppenheimer didn’t, in fact, believe the Swarm was truly gone, as Mullins claimed he believed. But Quimby was willing to follow Mullins down thi
s rabbit hole, just to see where it would lead.
Mullins chuckled. “Nor would you. When the Swarm was controlling half the Russian high command back during the Second Swarm War, no one knew, except for Russian Confederation President Malakov himself, who managed to set things up such that he alone was left untouched by the Swarm. They’re good. Very good. You simply can’t tell someone is under Swarm influence just by talking to them.”
“So what’s your proof, Admiral? You do realize that over half the members of my senior military staff don’t trust you? Ever since your harebrained assumption of power on Bolivar and acceptance of the executive chair at Shovik-Orion, in direct violation of half a dozen conflict of interest laws and regulations, no one trusts you. In fact, they’re all scared shitless by you. Scared you’ll pull the plug on all our military systems if they speak out too firmly against your brazen conflicts of interest.”
The admiral waved his hand as if batting aside a pesky fly. “My proof is simple reason. Logic. Look at the pieces of the puzzle. Start at the beginning. Granger flies into the black hole with a shitload of President Avery’s anti-matter bombs, supposedly closing the Swarm’s link to our universe. Now stop right there. Stop … right … there. Good lord, have you thought about how idiotic that assumption is? From our perspective, he finally crossed the event horizon only a few weeks ago. And yet, somehow, the anti-matter closed the meta-space link thirty years ago? Clearly, there’s a breakdown in logic there. We wanted to win that war so badly that we believed what we wanted to believe. After ten billion dead, we were desperate to think that the war was over, and that we’d won.”
Quimby had to admit the man was right. The explanation of the Swarm’s defeat—the public explanation, at least—never sat well with him. It was too easy. Too convenient. “So you’re suggesting that Granger didn’t, in fact, close the Swarm’s link to our universe?”
