The Machine Awakes

by Adam Christopher

  “What being?” asked Hammerstein.

  “They don’t know.”

  Avalon looked around. Fleet Admiral Sebela stood from his chair. Gone was the tiredness, the weariness that seemed to have suddenly fallen upon him. Avalon could see the fire in his eyes, the way he held himself. It was time to face this rebellion down.

  Zworykin began to laugh. “Of course they don’t! Oh, but they will soon. My dear, glorious leader, all of Fleetspace needs to know how you betrayed us. How you tried to sell us out to that thing from subspace.”

  Subspace? Avalon didn’t know much about subspace, other than it was one of the dimensions that underpinned their own, three-dimensional reality. But subspace wasn’t used by the Fleet for anything.

  On the other side of the room, Commander Moustafa was staring at Zworykin, his jaw slack.

  Avalon frowned. What did he know?

  Then she remembered a story—a legend, really—just one of many tall tales told by marines out on patrol on cold nights under alien skies. A story about the things that lived in subspace.

  Monsters.

  And the word Zworykin had used. His exact choice of description.

  “A … thing?” she asked.

  Behind her chair, Zworykin dropped his voice to a croaky whisper, like he was one of those lonely marines out on the front, weaving a story. “Yes, my dear Commander Avalon. You’re the great-granddaughter of the woman who started it all, hmm? The namesake of our famous founder? Well, this thing has many names, but the Fleet Admiral here knows it best by one picked out of Japanese mythology: Izanami-no-Mikoto. You won’t find that name in the Shadow Protocol, even if the text in your briefing was declassified.”

  He walked over to the Fleet Admiral. “But that doesn’t matter. The Shadow Protocol failed. You failed, Admiral. It is just as well you did, otherwise that creature would be loose in our own universe. Your failure saved us, but it was failure nonetheless.”

  “I’ve had enough of your histrionics, Zworykin,” said Commander Hammerstein. He shook his big head and turned back to the armed psi-marines at the door. “Out of my way. I’m reporting this back to my division. The Command Council will have to be dissolved so we can sort this mess out.”

  The psi-marines didn’t move. Avalon could see Hammerstein’s distorted reflection in their opaque visors as he looked from one to the other.

  “I said stand down, marines. That is a direct order.”

  Zworykin chuckled. “You misunderstand, Commander Hammerstein. This council is already dissolved. The Psi-Marine Corps has already established control of the capital.” He turned back to the Fleet Admiral. “I am hereby relieving you of duty and will take interim command of the Fleet in your place. You will be held to face a Fleet tribunal in due course.”

  Avalon leapt from her chair. “You can’t do that, Zworykin,” she said. “Any charges brought against Fleet officers have to come through the Bureau. Through me.” She moved between the rebellious Admiral and the Fleet leader. “If you have a case, then present it.”

  Zworykin smiled. “Oh, you’re good, Commander. Very good. You’ll be useful to me. Perhaps I’ll bring you up in the ranks, give you a better position on my new Command Council. Now,” he said, stepping back and addressing the room, “tomorrow is Fleet Day. An important and symbolic occasion for everyone in Fleetspace. For that reason, although I have assumed command and my staff have secured the capital, the Fleet Admiral—although under arrest—will fulfill his public duties, and will continue to do so until such a time as the change of leadership can be communicated to the public and to our forces in their combat theaters.”

  The members—former members—of the council looked at one another, then back at Zworykin.

  “That is an order,” he said. “Failure to comply will result in court martial.” He waved at the two marines. “Escort Admiral Sebela to his private office and ensure he remains there.”

  The psi-marines acknowledged and, lowering their rifles, moved around either side of the table until they stood next to Sebela. In unison, they reached for Sebela’s arms, but he quickly lifted them, indignant.

  “Please,” he said, “I think I know where my own quarters are.”

  He marched himself out of the chamber, the two marines following close behind.

  “The rest of you,” said Zworykin, “will return to your divisions and continue the business of war. The council is dissolved. The Psi-Marine Corps are monitoring all transmissions. Any leak of the change of leadership to the public will be met with my displeasure.”

  With that, Zworykin strode from the council chamber. As the other officers milled around in confusion, Avalon and Moustafa drew together into a corner of the room.

  Moustafa put his hands on his hips, eyes wide as he looked at Avalon. “So, is it just me, or did my CO just stage a coup?”

  Avalon looked around the council chamber as the others filed out. The room was cavernous, all black, hard, shiny surfaces, glassy like the table. Everywhere she looked, she could see a dull reflection of herself and her friend.

  “This is bad,” she said. “Very, very bad.”

  “No kidding. What do you think Sebela was doing?”

  Avalon frowned. “The Shadow Protocol? What was Zworykin talking about? A creature from subspace?”

  Moustafa shook his head. “Whatever that is, it sounds like bad, bad news.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  Moustafa paused. “Zworykin?”

  “No, Sebela. I need to find out what just happened.”

  “And how do you plan on doing that?” Moustafa gestured toward the door. “They’re not going to let you anywhere near him.”

  Avalon shook her head. “Didn’t you hear what our new Fleet Admiral said? Until he says otherwise, it’s business as usual. Which means…”

  Moustafa’s eyes widened as he joined the dots. “Which means you’re still the Bureau Chief.”

  “Right,” said Avalon. “And that means that any officer under arrest—like Sebela—is technically under my jurisdiction.”

  “Okay, but look, you have to be careful. I get the feeling our new CIC won’t take kindly to you snooping around.”

  Avalon folded her arms. “We all need to be careful. This whole thing is very, very dangerous.”

  “As a coup, this was a pretty bloodless one.”

  Avalon felt her expression tighten. “So far,” she said.

  3

  Avalon found the Fleet Admiral’s official quarters in darkness, the main office lit only by the multitude of lights from New Orem shining through the floor-to-ceiling window. Sebela stood looking out at the city, arms folded, nothing but a tall black silhouette.

  The Bureau Chief raised a closed fist to her mouth and was about to cough politely when the Admiral spoke.

  “So they’re still obeying the orders of some of us?”

  Avalon joined Sebela at the window, her forehead creased in confusion. Sebela glanced at her, then nodded toward the door.

  “Oh,” said Avalon. “Well, under confinement you’re officially under Bureau jurisdiction, sir.”

  Sebela gave a tight-lipped smile and turned back to the window. As Avalon looked out at the vast Fleet capital, she found her eyes drawn to a large section of even blue light, beyond the shining skyscrapers on the other side of the city from the Capitol Complex. The glowing space had no buildings and stretched to the horizon.

  The Fleet Memorial. Where those who lost their lives serving humanity were interred. No matter where they died, no matter how far away. The Fleet always brought them home. Always.

  “Five thousand, three hundred and twenty,” said Sebela. Avalon glanced at him. He was looking toward the Fleet Memorial as well.

  “Ah … yes, sir,” said Avalon. Then she frowned. “Five thousand, three hundred and twenty what?”

  Sebela unfolded his arms. “Personnel killed in action in the last cycle. Tomorrow is Fleet Day. I haven’t even written my speech yet.”

 
He turned to the Bureau Chief, a sad smile playing on his lips. “Somehow I’m not really in the mood.” He chuckled and walked toward his desk, an antique made of real wood.

  Avalon watched him, wondering what he found so funny. He was under house arrest, and what Zworykin had planned for the former commander-in-chief didn’t bear thinking about.

  “I imagine he’ll be true to his word and keep you around in his new regime,” said Sebela. He seated himself behind the desk and waved at the lamp to his left, which faded up, spilling a cone of warm yellow light over his workspace. Then sat back and ran his fingers along the edge of the desk, apparently studying the magnificent grain of the ancient wood. “You are as young as you are naïve, Commander Avalon. But Zworykin is arrogant. If he is to finalize his transition to power, he will need the Bureau on his side, and he thinks he can bend you to his will.”

  Avalon folded her arms. “I’m not such a pushover, sir.”

  “Ha!” said the Admiral. He tapped an index finger on the edge of the desk. “There is the famous fire your grandmother had. You are young but stubborn. I think Zworykin has a battle coming. To him the Bureau is a distraction—he has always thought so. He thinks as little of it as he does of you. In a way, that is a good position to be in. He doesn’t see you or your department as a threat. Remember that, Commander. That may be a truth that is useful to you if you are to survive what is coming. Perhaps here is a chance to live up to your name at last.”

  Avalon sighed. Here we go, she thought. “I’m sorry I can’t live up to her legacy, sir,” she said, her eyes shooting daggers at Sebela. Zworykin didn’t have a monopoly on arrogance at Fleet Command, that was for sure. But Sebela seemed to be on her side, at least, even if he was now showing it in his typically infuriating way. He was also right. In a way, she actually shared the view of the others on the Command Council that the Bureau wasn’t really part of the Fleet, at least not its military command structure. The whole point of the Bureau was that it was an independent branch, tasked with policing the internal affairs of the Fleet and, where such tasks overlapped, handling local law enforcement. Sebela—and now Zworykin—were in total control of the Fleet, and therefore of the Bureau, but the Bureau was allowed to run autonomously under the chief’s control.

  Until today, anyway, thought Avalon.

  Avalon changed the subject. “You seem remarkably calm about this, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  Sebela smiled again, but this time the expression was sad. “Anything for a quiet life,” he said. “And Fleet Day is an important occasion. I am duty-bound to honor those who serve the Fleet. Even Zworykin can’t take that from me.”

  Avalon sat in one of the huge armchairs on the other side of the Admiral’s desk. They were real leather, and the seat creaked pleasantly beneath her as she crossed her legs.

  Sebela met her eye. “So, are you going to ask me about the Shadow Protocol or not?”

  Avalon frowned.

  The Admiral laughed. “Oh, Commander, I am a psi-marine. I can sense the question dancing at the front of your mind.”

  “Well,” she said, “I apparently don’t have the required clearance to know about it. But I do want to know what is going on. How could a single mission fail badly enough for Zworykin to gain the leverage to stage a takeover?”

  “Perhaps it is just as well you don’t have clearance,” he said quietly. “I wish we’d never conceived of the mission. Never made contact.”

  Avalon took the bait. “Contact? The creature Zworykin was talking about?”

  Sebela looked away, the light of the desk lamp casting the side of his face into a deep shadow, his eyes glittering in the gloom.

  “Izanami…” he said.

  Avalon watched him carefully. It seemed like he had stopped blinking, stopped breathing.

  “Sir?”

  Then he turned back to the light, and she saw tear tracks running down his cheeks. “If you don’t mind, Commander, I have a speech to write.”

  He didn’t move, didn’t take his eyes from her face. She drew breath to speak, then thought better of it. She stood and snapped a salute.

  He nodded in acknowledgment. “Commander.”

  “Sir,” she said. Then she turned and marched out. At the double doors of the office, she turned around, but the Fleet Admiral had moved back to where she had found him, standing by the window wall, looking out at the city at night, the light on his desk dimming automatically to nothing.

  There were two marines on guard outside the doors. Avalon glanced at the men who stood motionless, their rifles held crosswise in front of them, their faces invisible behind the visors of their combat helmets. On their chests were the inverted black triangles of the Psi-Marine Corps.

  Avalon left as quickly as she could, unwilling to risk anyone else sensing her deepest, innermost thoughts.

  4

  Caitlin wiped the rain from her eyes and leaned back into the tree. The bark was rough but soft when she pressed the back of her skull into it. Her arms loose by her sides, she trailed her fingertips over the bumpy surface behind her, and she closed her eyes, focusing on the tactile sensations of the tree, of the rain on her face and the way the rain collected around her eyes, which felt hot.

  There was silence in her mind. Her brother hadn’t spoken to her since this morning. And she’d had no message from her contact either. But that was okay. The mission was still a go. She took a moment to focus, to center herself, like she’d been taught at the Academy. A warrior’s mindset was as vital as their physical prowess. She had a job to do, a mission to complete, and complete it she would. The only difference now was that her orders weren’t coming from the Academy instructors.

  She opened her eyes and leaned around the tree to see down the hill, toward the Fleet Memorial.

  People were gathered already on the tiered seating that stretched ten rows back, an undulating mass of blue and olive Fleet uniforms, most glinting with chrome and gold, rising up against the huge creamy stone wall that arced like a half-buried seashell, its surface inscribed in microtext with the names of the war dead. At the front center was a lectern, and in front of that the caskets were arrayed, each draped in the flag of Fleet Confederacy. There were just six, but the number was merely ceremonial. The annual Fleet Memorial culminated, after the Fleet Admiral gave his eulogy, with the interment of hundreds, if not thousands of fallen personnel, their remains repatriated from every corner of Fleetspace. These burials happened daily, of course, but once a year the routine became ceremonial and symbolic. Fleet Day was a day of remembrance for everyone.

  In front of the caskets, the temporary stage dropped down, its edge lined with marines in full dress uniform. Then the dignitaries and invited families of the fallen, facing the lectern, their backs to Cait’s position. Then the general public. And at the back, closest to Cait’s vantage point, but still more than a kilometer away down the gentle slope of the hillside, were the media, reporters, producers, and technicians alike hustling for position as drone cameras hovered over their heads. The light drizzle didn’t seem to be bothering anybody. It was just a heat shower and would pass in minutes.

  Cait had watched this ceremony several times in the past from the comfort of her family home. She wondered if some members of that same family—members she hadn’t seen for weeks now—were sitting down there, waiting for the ceremony to begin. If they were, it was unfortunate they were about to be eyewitnesses to history, but the mission was the mission.

  Cait pursed her lips and exhaled, forcing herself to relax. She could feel a tingle on her skin, that ever-present buzz in the back of her mind ramping up a notch. That wild, uncontrollable talent, threatening to make itself known again as her stress levels rose.

  Enough, she thought, clenching her jaw. And it worked. The feeling faded, not completely, but the power shrunk back, like a scolded pet. She was relieved, a little. She thought for a moment that maybe, one day, with help and training, she could control it. That’s what her trainers had said, but at
the time she hadn’t believed them. There was something in their eyes, something in the way they looked at each other when they were talking about her that she hadn’t liked. That was partly why she’d left, of course.

  Partly.

  Cait glanced up from the bustling proceedings at the bottom of the hill and cast her eye over the rest of the Fleet Memorial.

  As a military cemetery, the Memorial was huge, a ten-square-mile zone crisscrossed with perfectly aligned headstones, with the giant wall of remembrance in the center at the bottom of a shallow basin, the edge of which was lined with trees—the perfect spot for Cait to set up. With a theater of war so vast, the front thousands of light-years across, the space was needed. Half of those interred here hadn’t even been born on Earth, but all Fleet personnel were laid to rest at the Fleet capital, New Orem. It was a great honor.

  Cait felt the bile rise in her throat, but swallowed it quickly and tilted her head back, opening her mouth a little to let rain water trickle in. Then she spat it out and rolled her neck.

  Honor. Yeah, right. That.

  They’d brought back the remains of her brother’s psi-marine fireteam a month ago—they said. It had taken them that long to untangle and identify what was left of each marine—they said—so they could be officially returned to each family, including the one that Cait didn’t belong to, not anymore. Not since the lies, the betrayal.

  The Fleet had a lot to answer for.

  Cait turned back to watch the build-up to the ceremony. Not long to go now.

  She’d been waiting, planning, for weeks, ever since she’d run out from the Academy and hit the slums of Salt City, following the mysterious directions left for her and the voice of her dead brother in her head. Their family had been trying to find her, she knew that. She had watched them, making sure their efforts were for nothing. If Cait was honest, she’d thought that keeping out of sight, buried somewhere in Salt City, would have been a far more difficult task. But her family—and the authorities, including the Academy staff who had just lost a valuable asset and potential psychic warrior—hadn’t been able to track her. It had seemed strange at first. After Cait had entered the Academy, she’d been tagged, effectively becoming Fleet property. The manifest tag at the base of her brain should have made it impossible to escape, impossible to avoid detection and capture. But they hadn’t found her.