Ash Ock

by Christopher Hinz

  On the FTL screens, the image switched to another camera shot. Jon Van Ostrand, supreme commander of the Guardians, appeared, seated behind a console.

  Losef stopped shaving her skull. “Council of Irrya, emergency session, August 7, 2363,” she spoke for the recorders. “Confidential database, confidential access.” She nodded to Van Ostrand. “We’re all here. You can begin your formal report.”

  The Guardian commander stared straight into his camera. “Approximately ninety minutes ago, remote sensors along our outermost detection perimeter picked up an incoming spacecraft, on a direct bearing toward the Colonies. Velocity of the intruder was a little under point-two-percent lightspeed at the moment of detection and has been dropping steadily, indicating a consistent rate of deceleration.

  “Our first phase data analysis indicates that the intruder is approximately the size and shape of a medium transit shuttle, three to four hundred feet in length. Definitely of Earth design. If the intruder maintains its present course and rate of deceleration, it will arrive at the Colonies in about three weeks.

  “The intruder is not broadcasting—at least nothing that we can pick up. We are still too far away for our penetration gear to be activated. Likewise, we’re still too distant to ascertain the parameters of the intruder’s computer shielding.”

  “ETA to intercept?” quizzed Losef.

  “We should be able to intercept the intruder with a fleet of our manned attack ships in approximately five days.”

  “A ship the size of a transit shuttle,” muttered Inez, “not only traveling at point-two psol, but decelerating as well?”

  Van Ostrand grimaced. “Yes, the latter was a bit of a surprise. All of the Star-Edge technology we’re aware of suggests that the pool-fusion propulsion systems that powered the original fleet needed the large mass of the starships to contain them. If, in fact, this intruder was launched from that fleet, then its high velocity is understandable. Up to twelve percent lightspeed was within the known limits of Star-Edge science. Point-two psol is a relatively unsurprising figure if we assume that this small intruder is merely cruising toward us at its initial launch rate. But that doesn’t explain how it’s managing to slow itself down. As yet, we’ve detected no evidence of propulsion reactions, either accelerative or decelerative. Our best guess now centers around the concept that the intruder vessel is somehow being remotely controlled from their main fleet. Perhaps the bigger Paratwa ships have the ability to retard the velocity of their auxiliary craft.”

  “How would they do that?” Blumhaven wondered.

  “Some sort of obverse laser sail technology?” Inez speculated.

  “That’s possible,” said the Guardian commander. “But we’ve detected no evidence of a sail.”

  Losef faced Inez. “Does La Gloria de la Ciencia have any research projects along those lines?”

  She nodded. “Yes. But purely theoretical. And our current understanding of laser sail spaceflight calls for the presence of a very large metal sail in the immediate vicinity of the vessel itself.”

  “There’s no sail,” Van Ostrand reiterated. “What we’ve got is one small ship, heading straight for us. And that’s it. Our projections suggest that we’re dealing with an advance scout, sent ahead of their main fleet.”

  “To test our defenses,” said Inez.

  “Possibly.”

  “Can we destroy this intruder?” Losef questioned.

  The Guardian commander shrugged. “According to projections, a craft of this size would be no match for one of our attack ships. But that’s just computers spouting data. Who really knows?”

  The Lion nodded. Van Ostrand did not have to spell things out. They were faced with the same apprehension that had faced the Council of Irrya for over half a century. Unknown technology. This intruder could be carrying weapons and defenses beyond their understanding.

  Inez finished keying something into her terminal, then brought her attentions back to the FTL. “Jon, what about the vessel’s course? Where’s it coming from?”

  “That’s another surprise. Our primary detection systems have remained in solsynchronous orbit, concentrated along the axis of the Star-Edge fleet’s original direction of departure from Earth. But this intruder is approaching from an entirely different angle, about seventy-five by thirty-five degrees polar from the original departure coordinates—way out of alignment.”

  Inez nodded thoughtfully.

  “Is there any evidence,” began Losef slowly, “to indicate that the intruder may not be traveling in a straight line?”

  “No,” replied Van Ostrand. “Current projections establish a rectilinear course. Naturally, it’s possible that the vessel altered direction before we picked it up.”

  The Lion frowned. The original Star-Edge ships had departed from the solar system—as a group, pooling their fusion drives—on a compromise heading that would take them in the general direction of the three targeted star systems: Epsilon Eridani, UY Ceti, and Tau Ceti—all suspected of bearing planets. A final destination was not to have been decided until the ships were nearly forty years out; by then, it was hoped that closer astronomical observations would reveal their best choice, or choices. A method of alternating stasis had been employed by the Star-Edge crews, so that at any one time, only a fraction of the explorers remained awake.

  But at that forty-year juncture, the Colonies had later learned, the human crews had been overwhelmed by the Paratwa who had apparently infiltrated the entire Star-Edge project. Messages had been sent back to the Colonies suggesting that open revolt had broken out among the crews and that nuclear detonations had destroyed some of the ships. Today, it was known that those messages had been a ruse, transmitted back to civilization for two reasons: to hide the basic fact that the Ash Ock and their loyal breeds had assumed control as well as to allay suspicions that any stellar adventurers, whoever they might be, could someday return as enemies of the Colonies.

  And now, at long last, a ship was returning. But from a completely different direction?

  Blumhaven leaned forward, rested his elbows on the polished table. “Jon, assuming for a moment that the Paratwa fleet is following this advance scout on a direct line toward the Colonies, where would they be coming from?”

  “From deep space. There’s nothing in the neighborhood—in that particular direction, the nearest star is over half a million light years away.”

  “Then we’ll have to assume,” began Inez slowly, “that the intruder’s approach coordinates are meaningless in terms of their fleets’ location.”

  “Agreed,” said Van Ostrand. “We’re going to continue operating under the assumption that their fleet could come at us from any direction. I’m certainly not committing our main forces to that particular grid, aside from the intercepting attack ships.”

  “That sounds expedient,” offered Inez.

  Van Ostrand gave a weary smile. “That remains to be seen.”

  “Anything else?” grilled Losef.

  “For now, I’m afraid not. I wish I had twenty bricks of hard data to send you, but we’re still too much in the dark. My people estimate that it will be another two to three days before the intruder comes close enough for our main penetration gear to be activated. Until then—until we get a crack at this vessel’s computer—I don’t think we’ll be able to substantially upgrade our information. Unless, of course, we detect something else.”

  An uneasy silence fell on the chamber.

  The Lion spoke: “Do we break this news to the Colonies as planned?”

  Losef’s cold blue eyes seemed to burn into him. “You are all aware of the ICN’s views on this matter. No information should be released until a clear database is established. We’re just going to inspire needless confusion if we release this report now.”

  “Confusion for whom?” quizzed Inez sharply.

  The two women locked gazes. The process of releasing information had been a point of dispute between La Gloria de la Ciencia and the ICN for the Lion’s entir
e two-year reign as a councilor, and probably well before that. To a degree, the Lion understood some of the ICN’s reluctance; the banking and finance consortium strove to maintain the status quo, to keep the intercolonial marketplace as stable as possible. Abrupt releases of major information tended to inflict microchanges on all facets of the cylinders’ economies, affecting the trade flow between colonies as well as disturbing long- and short-term investment strategies.

  But there remained a fine line between maintaining economic well-being and depriving citizens of information that could deeply affect their lives. In this instance, the Lion felt that the free flow of information took ultimate precedence.

  Blumhaven said, “E-Tech believes that all data regarding the returning ship should be released as soon as possible. The Colonies must be kept fully abreast of the situation.”

  On the FTL screens, Van Ostrand nodded.

  Losef’s shoulders rose—a barely perceptible shrug. “The ICN is well aware of the Council’s feelings on this matter. We will not dispute the decision.”

  Maria Losef remained the most eminently practical member of Council, thought the Lion. Outvoted four to one, she would waste no time on additional debate. But other than her pragmatic skills, there was little to admire in the woman; at times the Lion even acknowledged a vague feeling of animosity toward her. Of the five councilors, she was by far the least accessible to the billion-plus people whom she helped govern. Even Blumhaven, with his demanding bureaucratic nature, espoused more obvious human considerations.

  She typed something into her terminal. “I suggest that we release the Van Ostrand report—subject to the standard security deletions—simultaneously to all major intercolonial data networks and licensed freelancers. Would later this afternoon be acceptable?”

  Everyone nodded in agreement.

  “And with that report,” added Blumhaven, “I believe that the Council should transmit a special note to the Order of the Birch, expressing our sympathies toward their loss.”

  Van Ostrand frowned. “Doyle, is that wise? 1 can’t begin to count the number of times that the Order of the Birch has publicly criticized each and every member of this Council for our supposedly weak stand on the Paratwa issue. I see no reason to offer special patronage to them.”

  Inez broke in. “Jon, I agree with your feelings. But in the coming months, I suspect that we’re going to need all the public support we can gather. I think Doyle’s right.”

  “A special sympathy note will be tagged onto our official release,” said Loser, ending the discussion.

  Inez turned to Blumhaven. “Has the Birch murder site been cleaned up yet?”

  The E-Tech director shook his head. “Not yet. We’re shuttling a special investigation team in from Napoli. The murder site will not be disturbed until they arrive later this morning.”

  “I was wondering,” Inez began casually, “whether a special team from La Gloria de la Ciencia would be permitted access to the scene as well?”

  Blumhaven regarded her suspiciously. “For what purpose?”

  “This team has done some remarkable plasma necropsy work, using experimental techniques. Possibly these techniques could locate evidence that might be overlooked by regular methodology.”

  For a moment, the Lion thought that Blumhaven was going to refuse. But then he shrugged. “All right. Send them over in about six hours.”

  “Thank you,” said Inez graciously.

  And I thank you, too, thought the Lion, keeping his smile to himself. Inez’s ploy had worked.

  Gillian, in disguise as a plasma necropsy researcher from La Gloria de la Ciencia, would be allowed to examine a fresh murder site. The Lion was not sure whether such an investigation would actually uncover anything new, but Gillian and Nick had seemed to think it was extremely important, and the Lion had convinced Inez that their eagerness was genuine.

  This latest massacre, the sixth one in four months, and coming only five days after the Honshu tragedy, was likely to provoke a tremendous outcry throughout the Colonies. The Council would be put under heavy pressure to stop these insane killings. That was probably why Doyle Blumhaven, normally reticent in allowing outside agencies to directly intrude upon E-Tech Security investigations, had relented to Inez’s request. It was Blumhaven, in the days ahead, who would come under the most fire to bring an end to the massacres.

  The Lion acknowledged a fresh concern. The Order of the Birch massacre at the meeting hall had occurred within hours of the Guardians’ detection of the returning Paratwa starship. Coincidence? It had to be. He could not imagine what possible connection there could be between the two events.

  “Is there any other business to attend to?” questioned Losef.

  No one responded. Losef ended the session with a formal remark to the recorders.

  “It’s going to be a busy day,” muttered Inez, as they prepared to exit chambers.

  The Lion did not doubt it.

  O}o{O

  “Identification, please?” challenged the guard, raising his thruster rifle to chest height.

  Gillian whipped out his fake ID slab, supplied by Inez Hernandez at La Gloria de la Ciencia, and extended the holo. The young E-Tech Security man examined it for a moment then nodded. “I believe they’re expecting you, Mr. Dynassa. Your assistants have already arrived.”

  Gillian smiled. He had never met his so-called assistants, had no way of even identifying them. He was not a plasma necropsy specialist from La Gloria de la Ciencia and his name certainly was not Amphos Dynassa. One more prevarication and this whole fragile plan was liable to collapse into a rubble of disconnected lies.

  He made his way past the guard, through the rear service entrance to the Augustus J. Artwhiler Memorial Conference Center. There was a certain irony to the fact that this huge building had been named after the deceased Guardian commander. Fifty-six years ago, Artwhiler had been a real hindrance to Gillian and Nick’s search for Reemul.

  The passing of time often rebuts the passing of the individual, Aristotle had once remarked. Gillian found himself smiling at thoughts of his long-dead Ash Ock proctor, the Paratwa who, along with Meridian, had been ultimately responsible for Gillian’s training. Aristotle had taught Gillian and Catharine well, filling them with subtle knowledge, preparing their monarch Empedocles for some future role in the Ash Ock’s grand scheme of conquest.

  The circle of five—the sphere of the Royal Caste. We were created to unite the Paratwa and rule humanity.

  But the madness of the final days—the coming of the Apocalypse—had interrupted the great plans of the Royal Caste, and the five monarchs of Gillian’s unique Ash Ock breed had been swept toward other destinies. The tways of Aristotle had perished in a freak disaster in South Africa. Gillian, still undergoing training, had lost Catharine in an attack on their Brazilian base.

  It was then that Sappho and Theophrastus had secretly gathered up many of the surviving Paratwa, gained control over the Star-Edge project, and extricated themselves from the madness that was engulfing the planet. The fifth Ash Ock, Codrus, had emigrated to the Colonies and set out to cripple the technological growth of Earth’s survivors, an effort that had been successful until he was caught and killed fifty-six years ago.

  And now Sappho and Theophrastus are coming back. Despite the fact that the Guardians had detected only one small ship, Gillian felt certain that a Paratwa fleet would not be far behind.

  At the entrance to assembly hall F, two more guards demanded ID. Satisfied that Gillian’s holo closely matched his appearance, one of the men whispered something into a hidden transceiver. The wide door hesitantly slid back, forming a slender opening. Gillian slipped through. The door slammed shut.

  The sides of assembly hall F converged toward the front; the floor descended slightly, then rose into a stage. If viewed from overhead: a pie slice, with the pointed end lopped off by a dark burgundy wall—the stage backdrop—textured with enough holorivets to ignite and sustain a dozen simultaneous 3D projections.r />
  On the stage itself, the main presenters’ table bore a sextet of slumped-over bodies. The remainder of the massacre victims were scattered throughout the hall. Most looked grotesquely posed, as if they had been rigged from above by some crazed puppeteer who had suddenly cut their lines, permitting them to fall haphazardly into theater seats or collapse into misshapen bundles in the aisles. Less than ten feet in front of Gillian, resting perfectly on an armrest, lay a severed human hand, its fingers still gripping the plush fabric.

  Death: a filmy layer of static, an overload of information penetrating sensory pores. It was as if he had stepped into a high-pressure whirlpool, where each droplet of water carried an electrical charge.

  He drew a sharp breath. The air reeked of tissue preservative and a vaguely unpleasant odor that reminded him of stasis capsules. Probably the corpses had been sprayed by E-Tech immediately following the massacre. Nevertheless, it was a fresh murder site. Here he could do what could not be done in the terminal in Honshu. Here he could allow his mind to structure a gestalt of the violence. Here the unconscious assimilations could occur.

  But first, purely cerebral demands had to be addressed. He could not simply wander through this room in a semitrance, trying to metabolize and integrate the brutal deaths of dozens of people. Not without creating suspicions.

  Too many living human beings, most garbed in E-Tech Security uniforms, were swarming through the huge space. Some examined bodies, others transferred equipment up and down aisles or stood together in small isolated huddles, whispering. From one of those huddles, a short potbellied man, wearing a lab smock stained in blood, spotted Gillian. He gave some orders to his group, then marched across the hall.

  Tiny eyes in a jowled face appraised Gillian for a moment. Then the man stretched out his hand. “I’m Inspector Xornakoff, E-Tech Security. You’re Mr. Dynassa?”

  Gillian gave a nod and shook the extended palm, noting that there were only four digits. The inspector’s little finger was missing; the hand was shaped to encompass only a thumb and three fingers. Not surprisingly, the man’s other palm boasted an identical arrangement.