That was about it. He’d coordinate with the Agent in Charge as needed; he would be meeting with her upon arriving to Earth. Fromm’s troops were there mostly for show, but formulating plans to deal with possible eventualities couldn’t hurt. The last State Department security puke he’d worked with, Mario Rockwell, spoke highly of the AIC. Rockwell himself was going on the trip, but as a ‘distinguished guest,’ one of the hundred or so people personally invited by the Tah-Leen.
Fromm had the rest of the day off. He watched the loading remotely via his imp, careful not to joggle anyone’s elbows. You didn’t want to micromanage, and his NCOs all knew how to do their jobs.
Once the loading was finished, Fromm started heading back to his quarters. An icon indicating an imp-to-imp call started flashing with the caller’s name and picture. He recognized both immediately, even though it was someone he hadn’t spoken with in over a decade.
June Gillespie’s smiling face filled the upper left quadrant of his field of vision. Other than her original blonde hair being red now, she looked largely like she had at the end of their Obligatory Service and the celebratory party where he’d last seen her in person.
“Pete!”
His answering grin was slightly forced. They’d traded a few calls and emails a couple of times after that party, but they’d petered out to nothing by the time he’d left Annapolis with his butter bars. He’d figured he’d never hear from her again. And he suddenly realized he wasn’t particularly glad to hear from her now. She was part of a past he’d long left behind.
“Hey, Juney.”
“You don’t look very pleased to see me, Pete,” she said.
“Just a bit surprised is all.” She’d been the one who stopped answering his occasional emails. By now he only thought of her once in a blue moon.
“I just arrived to Musik System. Running errands for the State Department in preparation for the big trip. I’ll be catching a ride with your Marines and General Gage on the Brunhild on its way to Sol. Figured it would be nice to catch up.”
“I see,” he said while he ran a quick imp query. June was part of State Secretary Goftalu’s staff, listed as a tech consultant. She’d gotten four doctorates, three in assorted STEM fields, the other in Galactic History.
“You busy tonight? I’m at loose ends till tomorrow and could use some dinner.”
He thought about it for a few seconds. He was off duty until his meeting tomorrow. There wasn’t a good reason to turn her down.
“Sure, why not?”
* * *
“You’ve changed, Pete,” she said after they’d ordered.
Fromm shrugged, turning his gaze away from the gleaming blue-brown orb of New Parris and back to her. He’d never eaten at The Promenade before. The prices at the fancy restaurant were just as outrageous as he’d expected, but at least its location, a transparent dome on the side the docking station, meant the view was great. The USWMC’s home world wasn’t much to look at on the ground, but it looked pretty enough from orbit.
“You look the same,” he told her. “Other than the hair, just the way I saw you last time.”
“You haven’t been following me all these years? Well, that’s a waste of fifty thousand pictures on Facettergram. Heck, Brad is all but stalking me, has been ever since we decided to part ways after NIT.”
“What’s Brad up to these days?” Fromm asked absently. He could have checked on his former best friend himself, but the truth was he didn’t care enough to do so. Like June, Bradley Montgomery wasn’t part of his life anymore.
“He’s fine. On this third marriage and second career. Politician, believe it or not. Running for the State Senate, back in New Michigan. As a freaking Federalist, no less.” Her mouth twisted in distaste.
“Heh.” Last time he’d checked, the Federalists were little more than a fringe movement. Hardly a threat to the Eagle Party, which had ruled the country since the end of the State of Emergency. “Doesn’t sound like Brad.”
“He got bored with technology a couple of years after NIT. Can’t blame him; it’s not like we do much research anymore. Just copy and paste stuff other Starfarers have handed down to us, which they in turn got from older Starfarers, pretty much ad infinitum and ad nauseam.
“But enough about Brad. I barely recognized you, Pete, even after seeing you on my imp. You walk differently, carry yourself differently. Even the way your face is set isn’t the way I remember it.”
“Guess all my beauty sleep is paying off.”
“Funny guy.” She stared at him in silence for a moment. “So. Do you?”
“What?”
“Regret it.”
“No,” he replied without thinking. He knew what she was talking about: his decision to make a career of the Corps after their Obligatory Service term was over. It was just like June to continue a decade-old conversation as if no time had passed.
“And you’ve almost gotten killed how many times?”
“Scratch ‘almost.’ I was clinically dead for fifteen minutes at Jasper-Five,” he said, the glib words belying the sickening reality.
“Jesus.”
“I made my choice. Let’s leave it at that.”
Something in his tone or his expression made her shudder. “Okay. Sorry.”
“So how did you end up working for the State Department?” Fromm asked her, changing the subject.
He shouldn’t be here. Even her calling him Pete grated on his nerves. He mostly thought of himself by his last name. Captain Fromm was his identity. Only Heather and a couple close friends called him Peter, and nobody had called him Pete since Ob-Serv.
“It’s sort of my way of giving back, I guess,” she said. “I’m really a temp. Loaner from Boeing, just taking a decade off, basically, starting last year. When the Secretary or her chief of staff can’t find something on Woogle or doesn’t feel like doing a search herself, I get to explain things to her. And I really wanted to take a look at Xanadu, so I volunteered for this mission. Do you realize how old they are? Most Starfarer civilizations last for one to ten thousand years at most before they either go extinct or become one of the Elder Races. The Tah-Leen have been around over twenty times that long. Two hundred millennia. I can’t even imagine what that’s like.”
“Yeah, I read the briefings. They used to be a big deal until something happened.”
“Something big. They went from ruling hundreds of worlds to being confined to a single system.”
“Any idea why?”
June shook her head. “Their downfall happened during a dark age of sorts, around eighty thousand years ago. Just about every major civilization was destroyed, and lots of technological know-how was lost. Ditto with historical records. The known galaxy still hasn’t fully recovered from that period.”
This talk about ancient civilizations reminded Fromm of their bull sessions during Ob-Serv, when he’d hang out with Brad and June and talk about just that sort of Big Question.
“So what does that make the Imperium, the Puppies and the Wyrms?” he asked, referring to the three most advanced Starfarer cultures.
“They’re most successful primitive barbarians of the lot, I suppose,” June said. “From what historians have been able to piece together, whatever happened was worse than the Fall of Rome. Thousands of star systems went from flying starships to swinging swords. A few minor client species equipped with obsolete cast-offs had to start over.”
“And the Tah-Leen just squatted on their one system and did nothing while all of that was going. Doesn’t sound right.”
“Hard to tell. It could be a cultural thing. A vow of non-interference, maybe. Now that they’ve invited us to their sanctum sanctorum, we could find out the truth. If we can learn something from them, it could be worth the trip even if we don’t get them to lift the embargo.”
“It doesn’t sound like the Snowflakes are big on sharing, though.”
She snorted. “Oh, you’re a mean man. Just be careful not to use that slur when you are
around the Snowflakes. Don’t want to make them mad.”
Fromm grinned. Heather had come up with the ‘Special Snowflakes’ nickname, and it apparently had quickly spread among the entire delegation after she used it in an email. Everybody was under strict orders not to use it in any official capacity, of course.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be very diplomatic. I took a class and everything.”
“From what I heard, the Marines’ version of diplomacy is to say ‘Nice doggy’ until the snipers find the range.”
“Something like that,” he admitted.
Her expression became more serious. “This is going to be a tricky situation, Peter. One mistake and everything could be ruined. I hope all your officers know that.”
“Don’t worry. We’re not drooling imbeciles. Most of us even know how to use a knife and fork. We’ll behave.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s all right,” he said, his good humor evaporating.
She put her hand over his. “I really didn’t mean any offense.”
“No big deal. It’s been a long day.”
“It really is good to see you again, Pete,” she told him, and squeezed his hand. “What do you say we have a few drinks after dinner, and maybe go somewhere a little more private?”
He pulled away. “I’m seeing somebody, June. And you’re married.”
“I’m not that married. Tom and I have an understanding. Drunk and off-planet don’t count.”
“Doesn’t work that way for me.”
“Who are you seeing, anyway?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not,” she admitted.
The rest of dinner was filled with awkward silences. She offered to pick up the tab. He counteroffered to do the same, and after some arguing they agreed to split the bill.
They shook hands and went their separate ways. Fromm returned to his quarters, feeling obscurely disappointed. With June. With civilians in general. And, for some reason, with himself.
New Washington, Earth, 166 AFC
The Directorate of Operations’ Technology and Support Division ran a small and exclusive clinic for its agents. As far as the world knew, the unassuming little building by the outskirts of New Washington, D.N. belonged to a private medical practice specializing in cybernetic implants. The facility did perform assorted imp-related procedures, but not the kind available to civilians or even the military.
Special or not, the trip there was as pleasant as any doctor visit.
This particular doctor looked like he could use some medical care himself, Heather decided as she shook hands with him. Unhealthily thin, with a pale complexion and a generally sickly appearance, the unnamed physician (his public profile was blocked) looked like he had a foot in the grave. Given how few diseases couldn’t be cured by Starfarer technology, his problems were almost certainly from lifestyle choices. If Heather had to guess, the doctor’s issues stemmed from heavy use of controlled substances. Better and better.
“This treatment is experimental and involves some risks,” he said without bothering with small talk. “If you consent to undergo the procedure, you will have to attest you were made aware of this. I have some forms for you to fill.”
“Well, I’ll be happy to make an informed decision. As soon as I am briefed about the treatment.”
“That is going to take some effort on both our parts,” the pale man said with something Heather thought might be a smile, although it looked more like a corpse’s grimace.
A regular Doctor Death, she thought.
“From your profile, I can see you haven’t done graduate-level work in quantum gravity field theory. Or advanced hyper-spatial dynamics.”
“Afraid not.”
Doctor Death sighed. “I’m afraid I’ll have to use highly-inaccurate layman’s terms to explain what I’m doing. The correct, detailed version would require at least a couple of doctorates to appreciate. The mathematics alone are beyond most people.”
“The crib notes are fine, Doctor. Capabilities and possible side effects will do just fine. I don’t know exactly how a particle beam pistol works, either, but I can use it.”
“Very well. First, you will be getting an upgrade to your standard communication implants. Improved range, reduced power usage, and some new software developed by our Hrauwah and Wyrashat allies. You will be able to bypass security blocks far more easily with these improvements.”
“Nifty. How about the experimental, risky stuff?”
“Yes. That procedure involves a new implant and a nanite treatment that will alter portions of your neocortex. Your brain, in other words.”
“Alter my brain. Whatever for?”
“Basically, you will be able to control, produce and channel tachyon particles,” the living ghoul said; the rictus-smile on his face disappeared as he got down to business. “Or rather, tachyon waves; most of the applications we’ve discovered rely on their wave-like characteristics.”
“Wait. Tachyons? Faster-than-light particles? I thought they didn’t exist.”
“Unified Field Theory has largely discarded the concept, yes. However, new evidence suggests that those particles do occur in nature. They carry no charge and have ‘imaginary’ mass. As it happens, the medium through which they propagate is what popular culture refers to as warp space.” He sneered, or maybe grinned; either way, his thin lips peeled back to reveal his nasty-looking chompers once again. “I could go on for hours about just how obscenely wrong the term ‘warp space’ really is.”
“Please don’t.”
“Of course. In any case, recent discoveries – actual new findings, not to be found anywhere in extant galactic scientific literature – have come to light. These particles travel through warp space. Even more astonishing, they are apparently associated with consciousness itself. The mind. This was uncovered in the course of the recently declassified program that developed our new hyperspace-capable pilots.”
“The warp fighter project.”
“Correct. We have several competing hypotheses, but testing them will take time. What we found is that after prolonged exposure to so-called warp space, human subjects developed a number of extrasensory perception and communication abilities. What fantasists would call telepathy, precognition, clairvoyance. They appear to transcend relativistic limitations, and we think they rely on the tachyon as their force and information carrier. Initial experiments have been rather exciting.” His expression grew somber. “And also somewhat disturbing. This new implant is one of the first applications to come from our initial findings.”
Most of the details of the Langley Project were still ‘black,’ but the rumor mill was already busy at work spreading all kinds of tall tales. Fighter pilots were weird. In the months since they’d joined Sixth Fleet, they’d become infamous for their eccentricity.
Eccentricity, of course, being a nice euphemism for insanity. Must be all those tachyons going through their brains.
Heather realized she’d missed something Doctor Death had said. “Sorry. Mind wandered off.”
“I understand. Believe me, ever since those initial findings were shared with select members of the scientific community, there’s been a great deal of befuddlement and shock.”
“Yes. Befuddled about covers it. Also concerned.”
“As I was saying, the subsystem we’ve designed relies on these tachyon particles, or rather alleged tachyons. Stimulating certain areas of the brain helps you generate what we are calling t-waves. You can use them to communicate with other similarly-equipped individuals without being detected by normal graviton technologies. It’s an undetectable way to send messages, in other words. Furthermore, you can interface with information technology systems while avoiding detection.”
The technobabble was beginning to give her a headache.
“Could we cut to the chase?” she said. “Basically, you want to change my brain to be able to use this magic energy that travels through warp space.”
&n
bsp; “Very basically, yes.”
“And I take it the side effects are similar to what can happen to people in warp space.”
“Again, yes, broadly speaking. Only personnel with a Warp Rating of Two or higher can safely undergo the procedure.”
“And what are the side effects?”
“Very similar to what you would experience while in faster-than-light transit, except while in the physical realm. Hallucinations and very vivid dreams are the primary symptoms. There have been a handful of cases that presented adverse physical reactions.”
‘Adverse physical reactions’ during warp travel included heart attacks, aneurysms, and full autonomic system shutdowns.
I’d have to be crazy to let them do this to me, she thought. And I almost certainly will be crazy afterwards.
“In addition to the nano-surgical procedure, a strict chemical regimen is needed,” the doctor went on. “Enough doses for six months of operations will be added to your medical implants, to be dispensed regularly. While using them, you should avoid mind-altering substances, hard liquor and fully-immersive VR, as those have a chance of exacerbating the symptoms.”
Ordinarily, Heather would have simply thanked the ghoul for his time and declined the honor. Life as a field agent was dangerous enough without adding a mental version of Russian Roulette to the mix.
Problem was, this wasn’t an ordinary situation. She’d gone through the full briefing materials on the Tah-Leen. There was a good chance the diplomatic mission would be a one-way trip. The upside was high enough that risking the Secretary of State’s life and the other twelve hundred souls involved was seen as a worthwhile gamble.
Things were desperate enough to warrant just about every gamble.
Funny how most people in the US thought the war was as good as won. The propaganda machine back home had taken the victories at Parthenon and Hades and milked them for all they were worth. Having the Vipers drop out of the fight had been a major coup, there was no denying that, but they were the smallest member of the former Tripartite Galactic Alliance, and the largest partner was still concentrating its forces before launching a likely decisive attack. The Imperium’s dithering had been welcome, but unless the it lasted until the new fleets of carrier vessels were built, the situation was going to go from bad to hopeless. Especially since the Lampreys and Imperials would soon come up with countermeasures against the warp fighters that had defeated their former allies.
Advance to Contact (Warp Marine Corps Book 3) Page 6
