by Nick Webb
Isaacson grinned. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
Titler made a slight choking noise. “Yeah, heh. Well I was kidding. These are mostly scientist and engineering types. They wouldn’t know a brothel if it bit them in the ass. Mostly recruited from the Ivies and other big tech and science schools. They wanted the best of the best for this operation—brightest minds, and all that. Mistakes can kill. And stupid workers make dead workers.”
Scientists and engineers. Total war, indeed. He’d read the statistics. Every single able-bodied person below the age of forty had been drafted, and millions more older than that had volunteered. No one was overlooked. Every profession was represented. In centuries past, the elite classes might have avoided such duties. Not this time. Everyone—especially the ones with a technical background—was fair game.
Conner’s brother—he’d been in science, hadn’t he? Had things turned out differently, the young man might have been drafted into the anti-matter research and production program, and would be down there on one of the production floors below. Hell, Conner would have been able to go in and harass him for a few minutes while Isaacson talked. If only.
“Ten thousand workers, huh? Need any more? Are your needs met?”
Colonel Titler nodded. “We’re just about at capacity, sir. Any more and we’ll have to set up more barracks and living facilities. As it is we’ve got people sleeping in shifts.”
“Good. I’ll pass the word on to the president. Excellent work here, Colonel.”
An hour later, on the shuttle, Conner didn’t say a word, and Isaacson didn’t try to draw the kid out. He sat ensconced with Levin in the back, thumbing through documents the intelligence and secret services had provided him with, trying to piece the puzzle together.
“I don’t get it, Hal. The only source of anti-matter bombs is our own military. I just went and inspected the material production. Colonel Titler runs a tight ship—I don’t see how he could let anything slip through his fingers and into the wrong hands.”
The national news was playing on a screen in the cabin, and the news anchor announced the results of the previous day’s battles with the Swarm: ten ships lost during the last engagement at New Dublin and the Centauri Systems.
Isaacson snorted—the administration’s propaganda arm had been busy. He knew the true losses were far higher. He watched as Captain Granger’s face flashed on the screen, with images of a giant parade in his hometown of Boise on repeat in the background. Damn. The man was a legend in his own time. It was a wonder they hadn’t promoted him to Fleet Admiral already.
Levin shrugged. “Maybe there are other production facilities?”
Isaacson thought about that. “Others? Seems unlikely. Titler told me that they produce enough material for fifty-thousand bombs per month. General Norton told me his facility under D.C. only made a thousand casings per month. So if anything, there must be other manufacturing facilities making casings for all this anti-matter. Maybe forty-nine more, if the layouts are the same. I can’t imagine they’d need any more production facilities.”
The news continued, playing footage reels of the battle over New Dublin, emphasizing, of course, the destruction of the Swarm vessels. Eventually, the images changed to damaged houses and shots of dusty, barren terrain—the news anchor had switched topics.
And in other news this evening, residents of Wendover, Nevada report feeling a powerful earthquake this morning. Geological survey equipment recorded the quake as registering at seven point one on the Richter scale, an unusually large tremblor this far from the usual fault lines out west. There are several reports of witnesses seeing fireballs out in the Utah salt flats and hearing an explosion at the time of the quake, but those reports are not independently confirmed at this time. We’ll have more on this story as it develops.
“Well look at that, Hal.” He pointed at the screen. “I wonder if we’ve found ourselves another anti-matter production facility.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
New Dublin, Eyre Sector
Bridge, ISS Warrior
Granger muttered a profanity. “And why in the hell would I agree to that? You just destroyed three of my ships, and your allies just destroyed twenty.”
Vishgane Kharsa bowed his head slightly. “Because, Captain Timothy Granger. I have been instructed by the Valarisi to offer you terms of peace.”
“Surrender? No thank you.”
“Not surrender. A peace treaty.”
Peace? Could it be?
No. President Avery herself said that this would only end one way. With the complete and irrevocable destruction of the Swarm. They would not come back. Ever.
But for now, they had a chance to stall, at least. “Very well. You say you will come here? I assume you won’t come alone? How many security personnel will be accompanying you?”
A sound came from the Vishgane that Granger could only interpret as a scoff. “Security? Please. You pose me no threat. If you try to take me from this place or otherwise harm me, over five hundred Dolmasi ships stand ready to descend on our current position and subdue you.”
Granger nodded slowly. “Understood. I expect you in our main shuttle bay then. We’ll send the coordinates over after—”
Kharsa interrupted. “We know where your shuttle bay is, Captain.”
“Oh?”
“We know everything about you, Captain Granger. What the Valarisi know, so do their allies.” He held up two fists, as if in goodbye.
The screen went blank, replaced by a visual feed of the battlefield, a graveyard of steaming ship hulls and scattered debris. Occasional electrical arcing raced over the dead IDF ships, and steady rivers of goo streamed from the remains of the Swarm carriers.
“Proctor, with me. Alert the marines—I want fifty men lining the walls of the shuttle bay and perched up above on the walkways. And call Doc Wyatt—he might have some insight after talking to Kharsa. Diaz, you have the bridge.”
He led the way out the door. Proctor followed.
“Tim, do you really think they want peace?”
“Are you kidding?” Granger shook his head as they strode down the halls, taking a detour when their usual route to the shuttle bay was cut off by extensive battle damage. Injured crew members, supported by comrades, hobbled down the halls toward sickbay. Doc Wyatt flagged them down and fell into step with them.
“An actual Dolmasi is coming aboard the ship?” said Wyatt.
Granger nodded. “Wants to talk peace. Or so he says. We need to find out what they really want. Are they just stalling to save those last two Swarm carriers? Is there something we have that they want?”
“Is there something we know that has made them change tactics? Maybe our new willingness to invade into their space has changed their minds about this war,” added Proctor.
Granger stepped over a steel girder that had been knocked loose from the ceiling. “Or at least given them pause. Maybe they’re just stalling until more ships show up. We should have the fleet on a hair-trigger—q-jump the hell out of here if anything unexpected shows up.”
“Agreed.” Proctor called up to the bridge to relay the order and before long the three were standing outside the shuttle bay. Colonel Hanrahan, the marine commander, met them outside.
“I’ve got forty men on the walls, and ten up above as sharp shooters should the need arise.”
“Good. Clear the hallways around the shuttle bay. If we need it, we’ll use the conference room down there by the galley. Get twenty more men stationed around the corner, a few in the galley itself, and in each storage compartment on either side of the conference room. Seal off the deck, and have hazmat units ready in case anything … completely unexpected happens.”
“Aye, sir,” replied Colonel Hanrahan in his gruff voice.
Granger walked through the door with Proctor and Wyatt in step just as the Dolmasi shuttle was passing through the electromagnetic atmosphere shield. The giant bay door closed slowly behind it and the small craft settled to the
floor.
The ramp lowered. Vishgane Kharsa stepped out, alone.
If not for his obviously scaled face and hands, Granger would have thought him human—two arms, two legs, a largish torso, stark militaristic clothing that covered most of his skin. Two feet, though these were bare and more heavily scaled than his hands. Each had five toes, though. A remarkable case of parallel evolution—Granger supposed the exobiologists would have a field day if the war ever concluded and there were any Dolmasi left to study.
Granger stepped forward and held a hand out toward Proctor and Wyatt each. “This is my executive officer, Shelby Proctor.” She stepped forward and Kharsa extended his hand—he seemed very well versed in Earth social customs. Proctor shook it after a tentative pause. “And my chief of medicine, Doctor Wyatt.” Doc Wyatt stepped forward and shook Kharsa’s hand as well.
Vishgane Kharsa stepped forward and offered his hand to Granger, who accepted it.
Instantly, his head began to swim with blurred images, light, and color. He swayed involuntarily. Granger felt himself falling, and within a moment, all went dark.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
New Dublin, Eyre Sector
Bridge, ISS Warrior
Granger blinked and shook his head.
He was dreaming. Looking around, he recognized the recurring dream he’d been having. But this time he was awake. Two lights shone down from above and he smelled the familiar acrid burn. He sat up—he was sitting on a table. An examination table? A tube stuck out of his arm. He ripped it off and slid down from the table, glancing around the room.
A window. There was a window on the wall of the room—a small space that looked like a medical examination room. He hobbled over—his legs hurt—and peered out the thick glass.
Space.
Unfamiliar stars peered back as he looked all around the starscape.
A green planet rotated far below. Speckled with scant clouds and a surface dappled with occasional giant lakes and channels, the sight looked familiar. Almost. He was struck by how welcoming the globe appeared. He yearned for it. He needed to get there, desperately. It looked so close, yet he was far above in orbit, aboard some sort of station. As his eyes grew accustomed to the scene, he noticed shimmering lights—not stars—set against the distant star field. Ships?
With a roar, the world snapped back into view. Kharsa. The handshake. He stumbled forward and released his grip. Proctor reached out to steady him, and half a dozen marines nearby raised their weapons suddenly.
Vishgane Kharsa peered down at him—he was at least two meters tall. “Are you well, Captain?”
The memory was fading fast, just like his dreams. But he’d never progressed this far before. Had contact with the Dolmasi somehow stirred his memories of his disappearance? He waved the marines off. Slowly, they lowered their assault rifles.
“Fine.” He stood taller. “Just fine.”
Proctor let go of Granger and gave him a look that said, Are you really ok?
He nodded slightly to her and looked back at Kharsa. “How do you know so much about us? You know our language. You know our customs. How?”
“I told you, Captain, what our allies know, we know.”
“The Swarm taught you our language?”
Kharsa bowed his head slightly. “The Valarisi have been aware of humanity for hundreds of years.”
“And they determined we were a threat? That we had resources they wanted? Or do they just attack everyone?”
Kharsa looked confused. “The Valarisi desire all to be their allies.”
“Do they control their allies?”
“Are you asking if we are slaves? No.” Kharsa made a choking sound that Granger recognized as the laugh. “But the Valarisi are … very persuasive.”
Right. Most conquerers tend to be persuasive with the people they rule, Granger thought.
“Very well. Why have you come? You want peace? Then tell the Swarm to stop invading our space. Stop attacking our worlds. Leave us alone, and we will leave them alone.”
Kharsa cocked his head, as if thinking hard. After several moments he finally said, “No.”
“Excuse me? That’s it? No? Then our business here is finished. Get off my ship.”
“My apologies, Captain, I’m merely passing along the will of the Valarisi. Think of me as their conduit. Their mouthpiece.”
Interesting. Could they be in constant communication? He gave Proctor a knowing glance, and she looked back, steadily. She turned to the alien and bowed slightly. “Excuse me, Captain, Vishgane, I have duties to attend to. If you’ll excuse me.”
Good. She understood.
“Captain,” she said, nodding to him.
“Commander.”
She reached out a hand to him. Odd. They rarely shook hands. As he clasped hers she pressed something into his. Aware that she was giving something to him that she didn’t want the alien to see, he closed his fist around it and hooked his hands behind his back.
Proctor left. He turned around to make a show of watching her go, and with his back turned to Kharsa he glanced down at what was resting in his palm.
The tiny earpiece receiver that Proctor wore in her duties as XO.
Her purpose was clear. He was to wear the earpiece. She would help him guide the conversation with the Vishgane. It was obvious what she was going to attempt:
Listen in on the Dolmasi’s conversation with the Swarm. Crack the code.
Now to keep Vishgane Kharsa talking. Granger turned back to him and smiled.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
New Dublin, Eyre Sector
Bridge, ISS Warrior
Isaacson scrolled though file after file, directory after directory, searching for the relevant information, but either he just didn’t know where to look, or he didn’t possess a high enough security clearance. He could find nothing on the anti-matter processing program. Nothing on the bomb casings. Nothing on the Squaretop Mountain Wyoming site. He couldn’t even find Sergeant Gall’s service record—the young scientist he’d met in MUNCENT—only her draft record.
Interesting. Perhaps that meant….
He glanced up at Conner. The young man had obviously been crying, but kept it silent. “What was your brother’s name?”
The kid sighed and closed his eyes. “Preston.”
Isaacson nodded, and discretely entered the brother’s name into the draft database he’d brought up on his data interface pad. “A good name. Preston Davenport? Tell me about him. What was he like?”
“Well, sir, he was taller than me, for one. Way smarter. Always scoring higher on tests—”
“He was close to your age? You were in school together?” Isaacson asked absentmindedly, feigning close attention.
He nodded. “Just a year older. He was the smarter one, but I was always more athletic. I could always squish him at wrestling or basketball or whatever we did.” Conner droned on. It seemed therapeutic for him to talk about his brother. Isaacson nodded at appropriate points, asking vague questions that induced reminiscent and nostalgic answers.
But mostly he was focused on the data coming across his screen. Or rather, the lack of it. Very, very interesting. There was hardly any information on Preston Davenport either. Nothing besides the draft record, like Sergeant Gall. No assignment. No current location. His current status hadn’t even updated to reflect the boy’s recent death.
Both Preston and Sergeant Gall simply did not fit anywhere in the government logbooks, beyond the basic record of their existence.
Conner had stopped talking. He’d apparently just told a humorous story about his brother and a pained smile showed on his face. “Sounds like a wonderful young man, Conner. You should be proud,” said Isaacson. “Proud of his service. He died defending United Earth. Speaking of which, did he ever mention where he was posted?”
Conner shook his head. “Said it was classified. But it was on Earth, out west somewhere. At least, that was what I guessed from things he said. Something about the heat an
d the dry air. Made his skin crack.”
An idea struck him. Preston was stationed somewhere near Wendover, Nevada. Somewhere he might have been killed by, say, a massive explosion that locals would have felt as an earthquake. An explosion underground. It was too coincidental to be unrelated.
“Well, when we get back to D.C., let’s have a drink in his honor. And maybe, when you’re feeling up to it, I’ll treat you to some, ahem … coffee.” He winked at the young man. Nothing better for the soul than busting a nut.
“Sorry, sir, I’m not a big coffee fan. It’s the caffeine. Headaches.”
Isaacson almost sighed from the disappointment—that probably meant there was a big can of instant coffee waiting for him at his D.C. residence rather than an exotic half-Columbian, half-Sumatran woman.
But before he could react, the shuttle lurched.
And dove.
“Strap belts, NOW!” the captain yelled into the cabin comm. Everyone around him immediately latched their seatbelt, but Isaacson fumbled with his—he rarely wore it. He fastened it a split second before the entire cabin turned upside down.
The shuttle rolled several times, and lurched into a new direction.
“Captain, what the hell are you doing?” Isaacson screamed toward the cockpit.
Something caught his eye outside his window. He understood.
Two fighters, guns blazing, closing in on them fast.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
New Dublin, Eyre Sector
Bridge, ISS Warrior
“Vishgane, we have much to discuss. You seem to know so much about me and my ship. Would you like a very brief tour before we continue?”
Granger held out his hand toward the doors to the shuttle bay. Colonel Hanrahan stepped forward. “Sir, I don’t believe that is prudent at this point.”
“I understand your concerns, Colonel,” Granger eyed the Vishgane. “But if our guest had nefarious purposes he would have ordered his fleet to directly engage with ours.”
