Heather took a deep breath and had her imp contact Zhang’s.
“I’m glad you called,” the Marine pilot said as soon as she picked up. “We need to talk.”
So she was there. It did happen.
She should feel relief, but instead she almost had a panic attack. Having her dreams show her things that were true was more terrifying than the dreams themselves could ever hope to be.
* * *
“Heard one of the State Department remfies dropped dead,” Lieutenant Hansen said as Fromm entered the briefing room. The news hadn’t made it to the ship’s intranet, but you didn’t need imps to get bad news. Regular scuttlebutt seemed to move at the speed of light, if not faster.
“Just got briefed on that,” Fromm said. “Looks like the lady in question had a bad ticker, the kind of thing that still gets missed by standard genetic screenings. Plus it looks like she’d been scrimping on her rejuv treatments. Too busy, maybe, or she had better uses for her money. Civil servants don’t get free anti-agathics.”
“Not a good omen, taking casualties this early in the game.”
“Shit happens. As long as it’s not one of ours going off the reservation and stabbing somebody, it’s not our problem. I’m just going to have a good thought for Ms. Smith and her family, and carry on.”
First Sergeant Goldberg showed up in the middle of the exchange.
“Something weird happened to that lady,” he said. “Corpsmen who took her out said the only time they’ve seen anybody’s face looking like that is when they get a warp transit fatality. Looks like she was scared to death.”
“Heart attacks are supposed to be pretty scary,” Fromm said. “Whatever it was, though, it happened quickly enough that her med-alert didn’t go off until she was beyond help. Let’s try to keep the wild speculations down to a dull roar, all right?”
“Yes, sir,” Goldberg said. “Hell of a way to start a cruise, though,” he added, echoing Hansen’s words.
“I know. Let’s try not to add fuel to the fire, though.”
Spacers could be a superstitious lot, and Marines weren’t immune to the problem, either. That wasn’t the main reason Fromm was trying to stamp out the rumors, though. Heather had worked under the dead Chief of Staff, and the sudden passing had hit her hard. They’d chatted briefly via imp and she’d sounded distracted and upset. He had a feeling there was more to the story. The fact that Heather wasn’t telling him more meant he didn’t need to know. Which he was fine with; she didn’t expect him to share any military intelligence he had with her, either. But the suspicion that there was something to hide made him extra eager to shut down idle talk. Which might not be a good idea, he decided after thinking about it. Not knowing what was going on meant he was as likely to screw things up as to help. Best to act normally and ignore the whole thing.
“Moving on,” he said. “Let’s get those field problems worked out. We have two days before our next warp transit, so we’ll leave the troops alone until we arrive at Bethlehem System. We’ve got a week there, though, so I want to keep everyone occupied then.”
“That should work,” First Sergeant Goldberg said. He sounded like he’d rather have everyone busily cleaning their quarters during those two days instead.
And he was probably right.
* * *
“And this is why I never extend lines of credit,” Russell said. “Come on, Eggo. You said you could cover that bet. You fucking swore you could.”
Petty Officer (Third Class) Edgar ‘Eggo’ Muniz got even paler than usual. Russell and Gonzo had cornered the pasty-faced bubblehead prick near one of the big water supply tanks on the cruise ship, where the he’d been conducting a safety inspection. Luckily, Sergeant Fuller couldn’t keep them busy every damn second of the cruise, and they’d been able to get some time off just as Eggo happened to be in a remote place where they could approach him without witnesses. They had four hours until warp transit. Plenty of time to collect their debts or otherwise settle accounts.
“I’ve got your money, Russet,” Eggo said, looking a lot less confident than he had when he went all-in a couple of nights ago, thinking his flush could beat Russell’s. He’d been almost right. “Okay, I don’t have it yet, but I will. I swear, man.”
“You said you’d have it yesterday. But here we are. I had to go looking for you. A fund transfer takes but a second of your time. Instead, you were ducking my calls.”
“You don’t want to stiff Russet, brah,” Gonzo said. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. There was something about him that made most people realize he was nobody they wanted to fuck with. Neither was Russell, but Gonzo made it obvious enough that even a clueless bubblehead could work it out. “You really don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to, okay? I had something lined up for this morning, but then some chick woke up dead and ruined my schedule.”
“Yeah, we heard about that,” Russell said without a trace of sympathy. An unexpected death was a great excuse, but Russell wasn’t big on excuses; he’d used them too many times to believe them. “How, exactly, did someone croaking affect your bottom line? Don’t be afraid to use big words.”
“I had a deal set up to sell some stuff, but the guy with the cash is the medical officer, and he’s been busy conducting an autopsy on the deader they found. So I ain’t gotten paid yet.” His expression became hopeful. “Unless you don’t mind getting paid in kind instead of cash.”
“Depends on what you got.”
“This is good. See, when the Navy took over the Brunhild, some idiot left some stuff behind. High-grade bio-fabber feedstock. The kind of shit you use to make expensive food and booze. Two canisters’ worth. And the Level Four bio-fabbers to use them with. Fucking galley crew is using a Level Four food processor to turn out the usual tray-rats. Fucking waste, man. You can, like, make fresh sushi on an FP-4.”
“Go on.”
“Well, this buddy of mine was on watch when the galley was closed. It ain’t no regular ship galley, either, it’s a fucking five-star restaurant kitchen, one of seven. And he’s learning to be a fabber operator, and move up to Machinery Repairman. See what I’m getting at?”
“Cut to the chase, Eggo.”
“Awright. So we cooked up some booze. High-grade stuff. Fabber had the recipe, and my buddy’s got just enough brains to cook it. Vyrlian brandy, man. Hundred-eighty proof, plus it’s got them Vyrlian spices that send your endorphin levels through the roof. One shot and you’ll be in fucking heaven for an hour. Three grand a bottle, man!”
“How many you make?”
“Only had enough spice powder for five liters. So you see, soon as Lieutenant Browning pays me, I can pay you. Or I can pour you a bottle of the stuff. Seven-fifty mls. We even got the labels and shit, and the fabber certification. That’s worth three grand right there.”
‘Fuck a bottle. We’ll take two liters.”
“What? I owe you less than three grand, man. That’s like seven kay!”
“But you’re late, and paying in goods means we’ve got to hustle to sell off the shit ourselves, and we ain’t getting no three grand a bottle. Nobody’s going to pay retail for stuff that fell off the back of a shuttle. And we ain’t waiting until some officer gets around to buying the shit off you, if he ever does. So make it two liters and we’re square.”
More than square. Only problem would be keeping the stuff away from prying eyes and sticky fingers, and he’d thought of a couple ways to do that already.
“That ain’t fair!” Eggo protested.
Russell laughed. “Where the fuck you think we are, brah? No such thing as fair. Not in this galaxy.”
* * *
“I’m sorry about Ms. Smith,” Lisbeth told Heather as she came into the cabin.
“You were there, weren’t you?”
She nodded. “What the hell did you do to yourselves? Do you know how dangerous that is, messing with your brain like that? You are lucky to be alive. Lucky to still be yourself.”
/> An unwanted memory flashed through her mind: a thing that had once been a Marine pilot, eyes turned into solid black orbs, growling, deadly and no longer remotely human.
“Lucky as hell,” she repeated.
“Black project,” Heather explained. “Got parts of our brains rearranged so we can do the sort of spooky stuff you warp pilots can. Supposedly with only minor side effects.”
“There are no minor side effects, Heather. There is only lucky and unlucky. Every time your mind wanders into warp space – and that’s what you three were doing last night – it’s like you are wandering around a forest at night, calling for your mama. If you’re lucky, nobody will hear you and come looking for you. If you’re not, death is the best you can hope for.”
“I’ll have a word with whoever thought these implants were a good idea. And by a word I mean taking an ax-handle to their kneecaps.”
“First thing is, if you ever use them again, you need to learn to be quiet and sneaky.”
“I think I’d rather leave them alone.”
“I don’t think that’s an option. Even if you figure out how to remove or turn off the implant, your brain is now attuned to that sort of thing. Without the implant, things might even get worse. You’d better learn how to deal with it.”
“You’re right,” Heather admitted, sounding none too happy about it. “Besides, if the Snowflakes turn out to be a problem, we’ll need all the help we can get. Even these things in our heads.”
“Who’s the other one, by the way? I know there are two of you. Three before Ms. Smith died.”
“June Gillespie? She’s in her cabin, indisposed. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with this anymore. Can’t even blame her. She’s not trained to handle dangerous situations. She’s a field agent, but not an operator; some data snooping and maybe seduction or fast-talking is about the best she’s capable of. Some asshole upstairs decided giving her those implants would turn her into a combat hacker.”
“Well, she’s going to have to learn how to cope, or there’s going to be another body in cold storage pretty soon. Or worse.”
“All right. I guess we can get together after we transit from Lahiri to Bethlehem.”
“Why wait? She doesn’t need to be anywhere near me, as a matter of fact.”
“We’re jumping in an hour.”
“I know. Three-hour jump. Plenty of time to give you two some lessons on basic safety. And working while in warp space may be actually safer than staying in the real world. Going into warp inside a big, well-shielded ship is fairly safe; it keeps your mind at a safe distance from warp itself. Using a catapult like a Marine is more dangerous, because the only thing between you and the outside is your suit. Still not too bad, though. Both forms of transport use a… I don’t know exactly how to explain it. Like a shallow area of the ocean. Too shallow for anything big to swim around in, so all you have to deal with is small stuff. When you’re using your brain instead of an artificially-created warp aperture, on the other hand, you’re swimming in the deep end of the pool. Until you learn not to splash around and make noise, the shallow end is a lot less risky.”
“I hated taking swimming classes when I was a kid,” Heather said.
“You’re going to hate this even more, at least until you learn how to swim.”
* * *
Transition.
Most warp-induced hallucinations consisted of disjointed forms of sensory input: a single figure appearing from the surrounding darkness; a scenario from the past, looking oddly distorted; often, just sounds and whispered words.
Not this time. Heather found herself in a rec room: ping-pong and pool tables, several wall screens, and a gaming holotank, surrounded by a couches lining the walls. An airlock door on one of the walls – bulkheads, really – made it a ship’s compartment. June and Lisbeth were also there. Lisbeth was relaxing on one of the couches. June was looking around like a bird surrounded by snakes.
“Welcome to my little oasis,” Lisbeth told them. “Took me a while to learn this trick, but it’s paid off handsomely since then.”
“You made this?”
“Yeppers. Everyone knows warp space affects your mind. Thing is, your mind can also affect warp space.”
“Can you just send me back and leave me alone?” June asked.
“Not in your current state, ma’am,” Lisbeth said in the tone of voice military personnel used when dealing with clueless civvies. “You’re still wide open, and even here in the shallow end, you could pick up something bad. Don’t worry. You’re in a safe space now.”
“How did you manage this?”
“Part of pilot training. You learn to make warp ghosts go away. From there, making things show up seemed like a logical step. It takes some work. I’ll try to teach you.”
“I can’t believe the Agency put these death traps in our heads!” June said.
“That sort of episode isn’t normally that bad, ma’am. I think one of you is unusually sensitive to warp influence. Ms. Smith tried to intervene and unfortunately the interaction between the three of you was enough to attract something bad.”
“A warp ghost, you mean.”
“Possibly. Or something worse.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure. I’m learning on the job, Heather. There is no rulebook. But I think there are things in here, and they aren’t hallucinations. They are attracted by certain negative emotions – that’s one reason why sending people on one-way warp drops with bombs strapped on their backs results in ninety-nine-percent-plus transfer losses. People without hope get picked off first. People with certain mental issues go next.”
“Agent Smith was in New Roanoke when a pirate raid seized the colony,” Heather said. “They murdered most of the adults and used the children for… amusement. She never shared the details with me, we were never that close, but the official reports were bad enough.”
Lisbeth nodded. “That might explain what I saw. Some kinds of trauma provide entry points for these things. Warp demons is as good a name as any, I suppose. I’m trying to get people to use the name Warpling, but most people think I’m on drugs.”
“Warplings isn’t bad,” Heather said “And I thought we were the warp demons.”
“If only. I haven’t really seen them, but they are something else. And as far as I can tell, they can’t come here. I figured if they could, we’d all know about it by now.”
June shuddered.
“But I can teach you to send the ghosts away, and that’s what you will be dealing with, most all of the time. Almost the entire time.”
And if it turned out to be a demon, they would probably die, Heather realized.
She shrugged. You had to die of something.
Six
Habitat for Unique Diversity, Xanadu System, 166 AFC
“Impressive,” Heather said. The word was wholly inadequate for the sight her imp was piping into her optic nerves, and she knew it.
The so-called Habitat for Unique Diversity was a space station, the largest wholly-artificial structure Heather had seen. There were stories of mysterious titanic objects beyond the Orion-Cygnus Arm that explorers and astronomers had discovered, things that might be ring-worlds or Dyson Spheres or something beyond imagination. Attempts to further examine those structures had been gently but firmly rebuffed by their creators, who were either the Elder Races themselves or some intermediate stage between them and planet-dwelling primitives. Compared to those unknown and unknowable creations, the habitat wasn’t all that impressive. Compared with anything modern Starfarers had accomplished, on the other hand…
The Wyrms liked to take planetoids and build space facilities on them. They could be as big as a thousand kilometers in diameter; beyond that size, the energy costs to propel something with such mass became prohibitive, not to mention the need to reinforce its structural integrity so moving it around didn’t cause it to crumble like a wheel of soft cheese. The Horde built warren-like communities in asteroids up
to fifty kilometers in length, propelled by thousands of graviton thrusters. They were the largest structures capable of performing warp transit, using means unknown; attempts to capture one of their wandering communities always led to their self-destruction, and interrogations of captured Horde pirates had yielded no useful information.
Xanadu’s sole celestial body was an artificial construct three thousand kilometers long and fifteen hundred kilometers wide. Its inner core might have originally been a planetoid or moon, but there was no sign of it. All that was visible was a myriad of wings and struts extending from the cylindrical main body by as much as another thousand kilometers, looking deceptively frail in comparison to the sheer bulk of the main structure. The engineering prowess displayed in the habitat’s size would have been impressive enough; the artistry involved in its decoration was awe-inspiring.
Most space stations had simple lines and designs, practical to an almost brutalist degree. There were a few differences between cultures, of course; some favored straight lines and sharp edges, while others went for curves and spheres. But beyond a handful of stylistic choices, once you’d seen a few space stations you’d pretty much seen them all. Until now.
“Like a Gothic cathedral,” Peter commented, and that was a hell of a lot better than ‘impressive,’ although it still didn’t do justice to the sight captured by the Brunhild’s sensors.
The structure on the screen was as much a work of art as anything else. Its outlines were covered with crystalline statues in a dizzying variety of colors, each depicting creatures of several thousand species. To be visible at the magnification level she was using, the smallest one would have to be the size of the Statue of Liberty before its slagging at the hands of the Snakes. They were more than statues, however; they were animatronic. The inhuman figures performed complex movements, reenacting battles or scenes from histories she knew wouldn’t be found even in an in-depth Woogle search. The gossamer-looking extensions were wider than a dreadnought and nearly as long as the main body. Gold and silver were the predominant colors, in variant gradients of shade and intensity, interspaced with mosaics of what appeared to be stained glass. And nothing about the gorgeous shapes betrayed the fact that this was a colossal city suspended in space, a sealed habitat large enough to house hundreds of millions of people and massive enough to generate an impressive natural gravity field: about 1.4 m/s, according to her imp’s calculations. It made the great orbital fortresses around Earth look like a child’s marbles.
Advance to Contact (Warp Marine Corps Book 3) Page 9
