by Alex Lamb
Snakepit’s own Nemesis machines had proven by far the most effective way of keeping the frontier safe and open. Whatever Ann thought about the Nems, they were clean, discreet and incredibly reliable. While nobody really understood how they worked, they followed simple cues with reassuring consistency. And they had staved off outright war for over two years without the true cost appearing on anyone’s balance sheet.
The Rumfoord League’s existence hinged on that fact. The sects’ secret colonies simply disappeared without them knowing why. Had the Nems not been doing the heavy lifting, such an ambitious operation would have become obvious long ago. Now, though, the sects’ increased aggression had made the ugly endgame inevitable. For all the horror it entailed, Ann looked forward to the resolution and transparency it would bring.
The rest of the report made grim, dry reading. Ann was supremely grateful when, after twenty minutes of silent, anonymous flight, her pod slid back out of the robot and into the exohull of an orbital habitat. She enjoyed a brief, thrilling ride down from the orbital’s hub, looking out at the curving ring of immaculate suburb below. The pod finally deposited her at a small domestic station in the centre of a well-maintained municipal park.
Ann stepped out and took a deep breath of artificially fresh air. It was balmy and scented with pine. There was birdsong, she noticed, though it was almost certainly piped. Attractive-looking apartment buildings peeked over the treetops. The glass-and-ceramic sky above her had been tinted a carefully calculated blue.
What struck her most, though, was the quiet. But for the birdsong, the place was absolutely and surreally empty. This had to be one of the many structures left over when the orbital building market collapsed – what people these days were calling ghost-cans.
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ said Sam Nagano-Shah as he stepped out mischievously from between the trees.
Sam was a powerfully built man with an apparent age of about fifty, dressed in a blue Fleet uniform. Laughter lines crinkled the edges of his brown eyes and his curly fair hair faded to grey at the temples. Ann had always found him attractive but unsettling. His kindly face didn’t quite match up with the occasionally harsh things that came out of his mouth.
She nodded. ‘Very.’
‘It’s amazing to me that people don’t want to use it,’ said Sam. He gestured at the trees. ‘You’d think the Earthers would be lining up.’
‘Indeed,’ said Ann.
Everyone knew why the Earthers hated orbitals. Even if you set aside the engineered political anger the sects spread about them, the core reasons to fear orbitals were primal. A refugee camp was still a camp, even if it was a pretty one. And a camp where people could accidentally shut off your air was never likely to feel homey, particularly after that nasty string of ‘accidents’ involving the habitats around Drexler. It would be years before the places were fully populated and New Panama had a dozen of them, which made them perfect spots for discreet meetings.
‘We picked the nicest one, of course,’ said Sam with a grin and a wink. ‘The one they gussied up to show visitors.’
‘Of course,’ said Ann with a tepid smile. ‘Why pick an ugly one if you don’t have to?’
Which was, of course, exactly what the League should have done, she thought. Picking an obvious habitat felt like a self-indulgent security risk. But besides being the head of Fleet police operations at New Panama, Sam was also the local League chief and a master at political subterfuge, so she kept her opinions to herself. In all probability, the factors guiding his choice had nothing to do with appearances.
‘You’re sure the location is secure, then?’ she asked, squinting into the open distance. An immense arc of unoccupied suburb curved away from her into a haze overhead.
‘Absolutely,’ said Sam. ‘We keep the Ulanu cultists and other weirdos out of this habitat. You won’t find any drug addicts up here. Or pure-food enthusiasts, for that matter.’ He gestured at the path. ‘Shall we walk?’
‘Certainly.’
‘How’s the family?’ said Sam.
His feet crunched on the gravel as they wound between the trees. A robotic gardener clad in shimmering green tact-fur pruned a branch ahead of them and clambered politely out of the way as they approached.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘All fine.’
In truth, she didn’t have much contact with them. She found them dull and slightly upsetting. She didn’t like the way they chivvied her to ‘be less cold’, and to ‘open up’. Her mother was a particular culprit. What was Ann supposed to do – sit there and tell them all about the burned bodies they’d had to suction out of the last Flag ark they’d found? Or perhaps they’d have liked her to explain why the habitat-building plans they sounded so excited about were dangerously ill-conceived? Her parents didn’t appear to have ever got over the fact that they’d had her modded for intelligence and critical decision-making and got exactly what they’d paid for.
‘Mostly boring, really,’ she added. ‘You know how it is with Galateans – they don’t call it the Switzerland of space for nothing.’
This was a running joke between them. Sam was also from Galatea. Most of the Rumfoord League’s top people were. The planet was still wrestling with an ongoing environmental catastrophe that had started long before the war, brought on by a failed attempt at terraforming. Barely a week went by without some kind of emergency.
Out of desperation, they’d long ago tinkered with genetic engineering in an attempt to create minds smart enough to fix their problems. It had left them with more than their fair share of eccentrics. Consequently, their society had a high tolerance for quirks. Ann found Sam’s love of chat somewhat taxing, but that was just Sam. Sam had been bred for leadership, not logic. It took all sorts.
‘Overcaptain Shah,’ she said, ‘please forgive me for being blunt but could we cut to the details? My assumption is that we’re here to discuss the fallout from the Tiwanaku assault – is that correct? You must have heard back from Earth by now.’
Sam smirked, apparently amused by her reaction. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Of course. The answer is yes, there will be a mission, as we expected, and we want you on it.’
Ann breathed deep. ‘How many ships?’
‘Monet expected two,’ said Sam. ‘Our people pushed for three, for the obvious reasons. Monet seemed flexible in that regard.’
‘So you need a first officer?’ said Ann optimistically. ‘Someone to help you keep the game from getting out of hand?’
‘No, Ann. I need a captain.’ He pivoted to face her.
Ann’s eyes went wide. ‘A captain? For which ship?’
‘The Chiyome.’
‘But I thought you were going to take it?’
Ann felt flattered but confused. The Chiyome was the ship the Fleet wasn’t supposed to have. It used hybrid Human/Fecund technology, with both a quantum stealth-shield and third-generation tau-chargers. It was, to all extents and purposes, invisible.
Sam shrugged and let some frustration show in his expression.
‘That I was, but Monet has made things a little complicated for us – he’s insisted on bringing in Mark Ruiz as a pilot for the Gulliver.’
Ann’s brow creased in confusion. ‘Ruiz. Isn’t he the man you told me about – Monet’s protégé? The one who stole a starship and nearly killed everyone aboard?’
Sam nodded and set off down the path again.
‘I thought he was out of the picture,’ said Ann. ‘Didn’t that get resolved?’
‘It did,’ said Sam. ‘Monet unresolved it.’
‘I can’t imagine the senate will agree,’ said Ann. ‘Given what you said, Ruiz must not have held a command for over a year.’
‘The senate already bought it,’ said Sam. ‘Admiral Baron threw his full weight behind the request and threatened to invoke emergency powers. We didn’t anticipate that.’
‘And did Ruiz con
sent?’
‘We haven’t heard back yet, but given the time-lag involved, we have to assume he will and prepare for that eventuality. League agents on Earth will no doubt be trying to figure out how to passively remove him from the proceedings without arousing suspicion. It goes without saying that they’ll have to be incredibly careful. Monet’s role is central to our plans and by now everyone will be watching Ruiz, from the senate, to the sects, to Monet himself.’
Ann exhaled as her mind raced through the implications. The League plan was, in broad strokes, simple. Having used the Nems to fake an alien attack, they’d lure Will Monet to Tiwanaku. Once there, they’d goad the Ariel Two into igniting a Nem swarm-response, having laid a convenient warp trail all the way to Earth. They’d then divert Will to Snakepit to make sure he couldn’t prevent the invasion that would inevitably follow. The Nems’ assault would be shut down almost as soon as it started, just after the Earther interests in the home system took a hit. The sects’ power would crumble while the Fleet would come off looking like heroes. With minimal loss of life, the political stalemate would be broken, with Colonial interests favoured. Even better, Will’s culpability would leave him conveniently malleable in the new order to follow. A return to IPSO’s current compromises would be out of the question.
The devil, though, was in the details. Getting Monet and his ship to Tiwanaku and soliciting a violent response from the Nems were both trivial tasks. Shutting down the Nems at Earth wasn’t likely to be a problem, either, given the League’s extensive knowledge of the machines’ weaknesses. Getting the Ariel Two to Snakepit, however, required finesse. The plan hinged on the careful manipulation of Will Monet – a process that had been underway for years. Unless Will took himself out of the picture at the critical juncture, the most powerful starship in human space would remain dangerously – and unpredictably – in play.
In that context, Ruiz’s involvement was something of a wild card. Ruiz had been their leverage – their means of ensuring Monet’s compliance. Their plans for abducting the young roboteer would have to be scrapped.
‘That makes control over the Gulliver somewhat uncertain,’ she said. ‘I mean, if he has helm control, how are you going to get the ship to Snakepit?’
‘A good question. Which is exactly why I’ve added myself to the diplomatic team,’ said Sam. ‘I’m going to take on the role of strategy specialist and manage him directly.’
Ann paused, unsure of what to say.
‘Do that and you’re putting your life on the line,’ she said eventually.
The Gulliver would be in the thick of it when the Nems reacted to their visit. Their response would be swift and terrible, and the Gulliver was unarmed.
Sam nodded. ‘Because that’s my responsibility. Which means that I need you to play the outfield in the Chiyome.’ He grimaced. ‘Let me come clean with you. I’m asking you because I need someone totally rational on that ship. Someone who will stay on top of things. I know your politics aren’t aligned with most of the League but you understand better than anyone why we’re doing this. You were the one who built those models. You know how many more people will die if we don’t act. We’re talking about billions here. We’re talking about the end of civilisation itself.’
Ann nodded. Her predictive work on frontier conflicts had attracted the League’s attention to her in the first place.
‘It may get unpleasant in there,’ said Sam. His face darkened into a scowl. ‘We’ve never used the Nems on a target as large as Tiwanaku. It’s more than twice the size of the settlement the sects tried to dump at Nazca, and you know what that was like.’
Ann wished she could forget. After laying the warp trail to Nazca to lead the Nem swarm to its prey, she and the other conspirators hid at the edge of the system and listened in on the emergency broadcasts from the doomed Flags. Worse still, she’d been part of the surface clean-up team after the Nems had finally fallen torpid.
She’d stood in the sterilised dust where the illegal settlement had once sat and stared at the weirdly organised heaps of dismembered human bodies and machine parts. Immobile Nem surface-workers loomed all around her, clumsy and insectile, vapour still venting from their backs. The eyes of the not-quite-dead machines tracked her as she passed, the fine orange hairs that covered them quivering in the planet’s feeble breeze. Her skin crawled just thinking about them.
It had taken weeks for the Nem activity at Nazca to peter out, and probably weeks for their last victims to die. During that time, the Nems had busied themselves with cryptic, purposeless tasks, like dying ants bereft of a queen. The League had held its breath waiting for them to stop so they could safely descend to the planet and clean up the remains.
It appeared that the larger the target they used the Nems to clear, the longer it took for them to shut down afterwards. The League’s scientists had speculated that above some threshold, the machines would take on a different behaviour – probably the creation of a new colony. That in itself wouldn’t be such a bad outcome. However, it’d leave the League with plenty of explaining to do when the next IPSO scout flight arrived.
‘This puts the whole operation way outside our comfort zone from the get-go,’ said Sam. ‘We’re playing with fire but absolutely cannot afford to get burned. Do you understand me?’
Ann found his change of mood intimidating. She nodded. She never knew with Sam whether to treat him like a superior officer or some kind of friend.
‘Isn’t that what everyone does these days, though?’ she said defensively. ‘Since the war, the whole economy’s been built on borrowing alien tech. And there have been fewer surprises with the Nems than with the Fecund ruins.’
‘People don’t use Fecund ruins to carry out mass executions.’
Ann flinched inwardly and changed the subject to lighten the tone. ‘What about Ash? Wasn’t he going to captain the Gulliver?’
‘Ash becomes Mark’s second. And the moment the shit hits the fan, I’ll issue an executive order and slide him into the hot seat. You don’t need to worry about the Gulliver – I’ll cover that angle and rendezvous with you at Snakepit. You keep your eyes on Monet.’
‘And who’s my second?’
‘Jaco Brinsen-Nine,’ said Sam. ‘Do you mind?’
Ann shrugged. ‘Of course not. Jaco is a dedicated contributor to the League and an accomplished officer. I can see why you picked him.’
Jaco was part of Sam’s own staff. She couldn’t have asked for a more attentive second, even if he was an FPP zealot.
‘So that’s a yes, then?’ said Sam. ‘You’ll take the position?’
‘Of course,’ said Ann. ‘I could hardly say no.’
Sam’s expression darkened again. ‘I wanted to give you the option. If someone offered me this job, I’d be shitting my pants. We’ve set a juggernaut in motion here and we have to stay the course. A lot of people are going to die. The next fifty years of political history are about to be shaped by what we do. Maybe the entire course of human development.’
‘Desperate times—’ she started.
‘Desperate times doesn’t even begin to cover it,’ he said, his gaze fierce. ‘If we had a government that was awake enough to solve this problem without us, it would have happened by now. But we don’t, which means we have no choice but to go around them. We won’t make any friends doing this. The best possible outcome will be that nobody ever realises what we’ve done for them.’
He stared at her, waiting for something. She had no idea what to say.
‘I won’t let you or the League down,’ she told him.
‘Just understand that your primary responsibility now is to make sure that Monet gets out of there alive and heads straight for Snakepit. It is imperative that he take the bait. The predictive models we have for him are only about sixty per cent reliable, as evidenced by this Ruiz business, despite him being the most modelled man alive. Whatever happens
, we need him to be a part of what follows. He’s too dangerous anywhere else. Whoever controls the Ariel Two has the edge in human space. And that needs to be us.’
‘Understood,’ said Ann.
The idea of manipulating her childhood hero wasn’t a comfortable one, but they all had to play the hands they were dealt. She understood how important it was that Will remain in the dark, even while she hated the necessity of it.
‘What will happen to the Griffin?’
‘River Chu will take over,’ said Sam. ‘The Griffin will conveniently be sent on a tour of the home system. That way, River will be able to participate in the clean-up process.’
‘Of course,’ said Ann.
She’d have preferred for her crew to be a long way from Earth when disaster struck but knew that Sam couldn’t spare the staff. The reach of the Rumfoord League might be long but its members were few. They relied on their network of uninformed FPP sympathisers for almost everything. And at least half of the League’s effort was taken up just keeping that network functioning.
‘One more thing,’ said Sam, his voice softening again. ‘I need a favour.’
‘Whatever you need,’ said Ann.
‘It’s not part of our core mission plan, but there’s a way we might be able to safely, gently resolve this Ruiz business before the mission even starts. I think we have to try.’
She glanced at him nervously. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘I’m planning a small scandal to disqualify Ruiz from taking command – something that Monet would find disappointing but plausible. I think it should be easy enough to arrange. I’m asking you because you’ve got more undercover police experience than just about anyone else in the League and you’ll be there on Triton at the right time. All you’d need to do is make contact with a certain member of the Triton underworld and set up a suitably embarrassing episode – anonymously, of course. I’ll handle the rest. Think you can manage that?’
