by Nick Webb
“Yes, ma’am.” The vice president looked sheepish, and indicated the way through the door and down the corridor.
The main headquarters of the huge multi-planetary, multi-national defense contractor was shockingly spartan. Standard-size hallways and tastefully yet simply appointed offices. Not something Danny had expected of a corporation through which flowed nearly a quarter of IDF’s budget.
“Here we are—just through here, ma’am.” She waved them into an office, somewhat larger than the standard Shovik-Orion office space, where Danny could see several people sitting, waiting for them. “Just so you know, the CEO has recently stepped down and the board has yet to name a successor.”
“Who am I meeting with, then?”
“The chief operations officer, the vice president of governmental relations, and the newly elected chairman of the board.”
They walked into the office and nodded their greetings to the two men and one woman seated at the table. Danny didn’t know which one was which yet, but when his eyes landed on the man seated farthest from the door, he stopped.
And his jaw nearly hit the floor.
“You’re . . .”
The man stood up. Slowly. He seemed to be in some pain, and winced as he straightened his back. “I am. Secretary General Sebastian Curiel. A little the worse for wear, given my ordeal at Britannia. But here in the flesh, as weak as it is.”
Senator Cooper looked just as shocked as Danny felt. “You’re dead.”
“Apparently not!” he replied.
“I went to your funeral.”
“A tad premature, don’t you think?”
“I—I don’t know what to say. And you’re . . . the new chairman of the board?”
“The one and only.” He smiled broadly, but didn’t extend a hand in greeting. Which was just as well, since Danny hated the custom. He merely bowed slightly and sat back down. “Now. Let’s talk business.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Savannah Sector
Nova Nairobi, High Orbit
ISS Defiance
Engineering
Granger watched as Proctor crouched down next to the lab bench, peering at the box, moving around to look at it from different angles. She refrained from touching it, as if it would explode or release a cloud of toxic gas if she did, like a booby-trapped treasure chest in an old film.
He also was jealous of how she seemed to crouch down so low—did she get new knees? He’d somehow arranged for himself to be reincarnated from an incubation chamber on the Skiohra ship, planning it for millions of years, preparing himself a body that would be the exact same age as when he left this universe, but he apparently hadn’t the foresight to give himself young knees that didn’t hurt like hell when he bent them past thirty degrees.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Interesting.”
“That’s it? I could have told you that in a meta-space message, Shelby.”
“Calm down, old man.” She pointed at some markings on the side. What looked like a possible language. “Have we run that through our translation database? The teams working on communicating with the Eru and the Trits might be able to help.”
“Yeah. They don’t match anything we’ve got on file. And our translation software isn’t helping. It’s not Dolmasi. Not Skiohra. Not Eru or Trit. Nothing human, of course.”
“Except, are we sure it’s not human?” She finally stood up and leaned against the bench, facing him.
“How could it be? It’s clearly hundreds or even thousands of years old—”
“About thirteen hundred years old, sir,” interjected Commander Rice. “Plus or minus about a hundred years. We just completed the radiometric dating.”
“Exactly. That would put this thing back in the Middle Ages—”
“Renaissance, actually,” Rice offered.
“Fine. Way earlier than humans could have been out here—”
“And yet those graves had humans in them. At least the one we exhumed.”
Can I never complete a sentence around this guy? He tried to hide his annoyance.
“So the question is: what were humans doing out on a planet hundreds of light years from Earth during the Renaissance?”
“Tim, the answer is clear,” said Proctor, still bent low and examining the box, tracing certain markings with her finger.
That took him aback. “Oh?”
“The answer is you, clearly. Remind me again—what took you out there in the first place?”
He forced his memory to function. He wasn’t going to have a senior moment here, right now, in front of Shelby. “Christian. He sent me out with the mission to investigate some of the dead alien civilizations near the Kiev sector, thinking we might get some clues about the Findiri.”
“I knew about that part. But you didn’t end up going there.”
“No. About halfway there I started . . . remembering some things. Not specific things—just vague memories of places, star systems, star maps, certain star configurations, that kind of thing. And I . . . led us straight to that planet.”
“See? I’m right. Out of the blue, you lead your ship, with no map, no clues other than your memories, to a planet that had humans on it thirteen hundred years ago. I think we can safely assume you had something to do with those humans being there in the first place.”
“Well, that’s a stretch. Okay, maybe. But go on.”
“And so the answer to opening this box is also clearly you. Have you even tried opening it yourself yet?”
“I— no.” He felt sheepish. “Fine.” He stood next to her and looked down at the thing. It was apparently solid, as if forged from a single piece of metal. Spectral analysis had shown it to be an exotic mix of various metals and dopants arrayed into a crystal structure that made the interior opaque to any of their probing, except for the fact that it was emitting a low-level meta-space signal.
She touched his shoulder. “Pick it up, Tim. It might . . . jog memories.”
He reached down and touched it, half expecting an electrical jolt that would unlock a cascade of vidid memories, but . . . nothing. He picked it up, turning it this way and that. Looking at it from every angle.
“There. See? Did you really come all this way for me to tell you to pick the damn thing up?”
Proctor didn’t reply, but merely pointed. He looked at where she was pointing. Sure enough, in the center of the box, an indicator of some type had started glowing and slowly pulsing.
It was an X, next to the shape of a thumbprint.
“‘X’ marks the spot, huh?”
“Cliched. But we’ll take it,” she said.
He pressed his thumb onto the blue-lit thumbprint. And with a few faint mechanical clicks and whirs, the sidewall opened.
Granger peered inside.
“It’s . . . old.” He reached inside and pulled out what looked like a book. Or a stack of parchments, bound together between cracked, ancient leather with a strap. “Well, I’ll be damned. I left myself a book.”
“Sounds like you,” said Shelby. “You love books.”
He unlatched the strap from its mechanism and opened to a random page. The paper wasn’t paper, it seemed. Vellum?
“I prefer books I know how to read, however.”
The page was gibberish. Written in letters he didn’t recognize. But the page he’d opened to had beautiful illustrations. “This page has a leaf drawn on it.” He turned to the next page. “And this one a sprig of different leaves.” Another page. “Here’s a tree.” He flipped a few dozen pages. “Oh my god. A constellation? Do any of you recognize which one?”
Proctor and Rice leaned in closer. “No,” said Rice. “None of the zodiac signs and nothing I recognize from Earth. But I’m from San Martin, not Earth, so . . .”
“Shelby?”
She shrugged. “I’m from Britannia. I don’t recognize those stars.”
He was from Earth. At one point, at least. And these were a mystery to him. “Run it throug
h the star database, Commander.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Rice stroked his chin. “Might it be a constellation as viewed from the planet we found this on?”
“Makes sense,” said Granger. He flipped through the adjacent pages. More star systems, more constellations. And— “That’s a black hole.”
Proctor studied it. “That’s remarkable. The space warping effects, the bent arcs of plasma and spacetime. All drawn in a renaissance style. It’s like if Leonardo Da Vinci had boarded a starship and flew up close to an active supermassive black hole.”
He flipped to the final page.
And nearly dropped the book.
“Well, that’s uncanny,” said Proctor. “They did a pretty good job. Looks just like you.”
Staring back at him from the page, drawn presumably by hand, in ink, was Granger’s own portrait, almost like a caricature. And below it—
“English,” said Rice. “Hot damn, sir. Is that . . . ?”
“Handwriting. English handwriting.” Granger bent lower to study it. It was a curly, fancy script, like you’d find in some renaissance calligraphy collection. Except it wasn’t the English from the period, like he would have expected. It had the vocabulary, syntax, and meter of modern English.
“Can you read it?”
He read slowly, as the script was so curly it was almost illegible. “Those that speak the end shall come. Until that day, preserve his memory.”
“Preserve his memory?” said Proctor. “A little too on the nose with that one.”
“Those that speak the end?” said Rice.
“Findiri.”
“Ah,” said Rice. “Fin for end, dir is like speaking, right? What language is that from? Not quite Spanish.”
“Damned if I remember,” said Granger.
Proctor pointed at the bottom of the page. “There’s one last thing. I thought it was just an ellipsis or something fancy to mark the end of the document, but it’s too big for that. They’re tiny drawings.”
Granger peered in close. “Four drawings. Meticulously hand drawn with an extremely fine-point stylus. Goddamn these seventy-year-old eyes. Rice, look at this for me. Tell me that I’m seeing what I think I’m seeing.”
Rice moved in close. “Huh. Well I’ll be damned. It’s four faces. First is human. I don’t recognize the other three. Alien faces, from the looks of it.”
Proctor leaned in and peered at them. “The second one is Eru. The third? I believe that’s Itharan, based on what Whitehorse has sent me. And the fourth?” she shook her head. “No idea. But it has a circle around it. I thought it was part of the face, but it’s just circled.”
Granger bent over and squinted at the final image. “It’s not Dolmasi. It’s not Skiohra. But . . .”
“But what?” said Proctor.
“But I’ve seen them before.” He stood back up. “I remember. Just a shadow of a memory, but it’s there. These aliens. That was their world we were on. I was with them, for a time. I . . . made arrangements for their defense in case the Swarm found them. It appears I failed.”
And then he stood bolt upright. “Oh my God.”
Proctor nearly gasped. “You remember. What is it, Tim?”
“This manuscript. It’s from me. Most of it is irrelevant. But I hid something in here.” He tapped his finger on the four faces. “Here, in each one.” He looked up at them. “There’s not just one. There are four.”
Proctor shook her head in disbelief. “And let me guess. We need all four? Remember that room on board the Skiohra ship? We couldn’t enter it unless Human, Dolmasi, Skiohra, and Valarisi were present? This could be the same.”
“I think you may be right.”
“But how do we translate this damn thing if the aliens that wrote it are long dead?”
Granger’s eyes defocused for a moment. He reached back. Way back. Pushing against the gray veils of fog that covered his memory of that time. “They’re not long dead.” He slammed the book shut, sending dust flying everywhere, and walked away from the table toward the door.
“Where are you going?” said Proctor.
“We need to go back.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Savannah Sector
Nova Nairobi, High Orbit
IDF Shuttle
Admiral Proctor tapped her fingers absentmindedly on her armrest as the shuttle departed the Defiance, en route back to the Independence. The puzzle pieces were all there, but jumbled into a pile, and she had no idea what the picture was she was trying to assemble. She wasn’t even sure she had all the pieces. Safe to assume she didn’t.
Two months ago, on that secure hardened intel station in the asteroid belt at her top-secret briefing with Oppenheimer and his intel folks, Tim had hinted that the secret to defeating the Findiri was simple. So simple that it would surprise them.
But of course he couldn’t remember, dammit.
And they still, after all this time, had not actually engaged the Findiri. Just long-range meta-space echos and the destruction on Zion’s Haven. Anyone that could actually tell her about them were dead.
And now an indecipherable manuscript found in the grave of a human on a dead alien world. A manuscript referencing Tim Granger himself, over a thousand years ago, and suggesting that the key to stopping the Findiri was coded into a collection of alien manuscripts supposedly written by Tim himself.
So now they were on a wild goose chase to find long-lost artifacts, in addition to facing a potential civilization-ending threat.
She squeezed her eyes shut, tightly. Forcing the tears back. Civilization-ending. Hell. Civilization had already ended for billions of people. Her home, Britannia, was gone. A giant ball of red magma in its place, mixed with the debris of Saturn’s moon Titan.
No use mourning now, Shelby. Mourn later. Act now. Save the fucking day. Then mourn, when everyone is safe.
UNT’UNT’WA.
Her eyes snapped open, her fingers stopped drumming. “What?”
The pilot, sitting just in front of her, glanced back. “Excuse me, Admiral?”
“What did you say?”
“I’m sorry, Admiral, I didn’t say anything.” The young man looked at her askance, then turned back to his flight controls. The Independence was now in view, and she could just make out the doors opening to the shuttle bay.
Proctor turned her head to look behind her. No one was in the rear of the shuttle. They were alone. But then, who—
UNT’UNT’WA.
Could it be…?
She closed her eyes, and thought. Thinking the words, as if she were saying them.
Is it you? Are you really still there?
OF COURSE I’M STILL HERE, SHELBY PROCTOR.
What do you mean, Unt’unt’wa?
WE ARE ONE. IT IS WHAT YOU SAID. WE BELIEVE YOU. AND, IN SPITE OF THE MISGIVINGS WE FEEL ABOUT BEING ONE WITH HUMANITY AFTER ALL THAT HAS HAPPENED, YOU ARE CORRECT.
Why did you become silent?
YOU DON’T KNOW?
No. I’m sorry, I don’t. All I know is that one day, almost two months ago, we were still talking like this, and then the next day, nothing. You stopped answering. I thought you’d managed to find your way out of my body without me knowing.
MY OWN BODY IS IN A DISPERSED LIQUID STATE WITHIN YOUR VEINS, SHELBY. THERE IS NO WAY FOR ME TO LEAVE WITHOUT DIRECT INTENTIONAL EXTRACTION. LIKE YOU’VE DONE WITH NEARLY ALL OF MY PEOPLE, FORCIBLY EXTRACED FROM THEIR HOSTS, ALL IN THE NAME OF OPERATIONAL SECURITY.
In her mind she could almost hear the sarcasm. She wasn’t sure Valarisi were capable of sarcasm, but if they were, this was it.
I’m sorry. I didn’t agree with the decision. It was Oppenheimer’s. But I did keep you. And I arranged for Ensign Decker to keep his.
AND THE REST OF US BANISHED TO A REPURPOSED SWIMMING POOL ON KYOTO THREE.
Will Decker be okay?
WE BELIEVE SO. HIS MIND IS STILL IN SHOCK. HE’D BECOME ONE WITH HIS COMPANION. YOU SEE, IT WAS LIKE CUTTING OFF ONE OF HIS BRAIN HEMI
SPHERES. BUT I BREAK MY SILENCE NOW TO TELL YOU: YOU ARE NOT SAFE.
She felt some relief at the news about Decker, but hearing her companion say you are not safe raised the hairs on her neck. That could only mean one thing. The Findiri were close.
Are— are the UE researchers not having any success figuring out how to integrate you directly into starships you can pilot and man yourselves? In your true liquid state? Without human hosts?
THEIR PROGRESS IS LAUGHABLE. THE FINDIRI ARE HERE, SHELBY, AND WE ARE NOT READY. WE’VE HAD TWO MONTHS TO PREPARE, AND WE ARE ALMOST RIGHT WHERE WE WERE WHEN WE DEFEATED THE SWARM AT THE PENUMBRA BLACK HOLE. YOU’VE WASTED THE TIME ON PETTINESS, SUSPICION, PARANOIA, AND NEEDLESS MISTRUST.
“Dammit, Christian, you old fool,” she whispered under her breath. It was Oppenheimer’s insistence on the removal of the Valarisi companions from their hosts in the IDF fleet after the battle of Penumbra that got them into this mess.
I’m sorry. I tried to change his mind. But, why the silence?
OPERATIONAL SECURITY GOES BOTH WAYS, SHELBY.
Fair enough. But you’re talking to me now. Why?
I’VE TOLD YOU. YOU ARE NOT SAFE. THE FINDIRI ARE HERE. THROUGH OUR GROWING LIGATURE, WE HAVE FELT THEM. AND NOW WE HAVE LOCATED THEM.
Her eyes widened. You know where they are right now? Where?
CURRENTLY AT A POINT BETWEEN ZION’S HAVEN AND EARTH. YOUR ONLY SAVING GRACE RIGHT NOW IS THAT SPACE IS VERY, VERY, LARGE, AND THEY DO NOT YET KNOW THE EXACT LOCATION OF EARTH.
That’s their target?
YES, WE BELIEVE. THEY MEAN TO CUT A SWATH OF DESTRUCTION STRAIGHT INTO THE HEART OF HUMAN CIVILIZATION, DECIMATING THE CORE WORLDS OF UNITED EARTH AFTER STRIKING EARTH ITSELF.
But why? You’ve felt them. Can you not discern their reasons? Why are they attacking?
THEY SEEK THE LEGEND, OF COURSE. THEIR CREATOR.
Tim.
YES.
But why?
THEY NEED HIM. I CAN’T DETERMINE THE EXACT DETAILS OF WHY, BUT IN ESSENCE, THEY ARE DYING. AND FOR THEIR RACE TO SURVIVE, THEY NEED THEIR CREATOR.
Interesting.
