by Jay Allan
“So, it’s bad, but I’m still alive.”
“That is a reasonable assessment, Captain.”
Graham frowned. He hadn’t really been talking to the AI that last time, and he certainly hadn’t been looking for a response, least of all, confirmation of what was apparent even to him, even in his battered state.
“Anything new on the…” He was halfway through asking about the warp gate, when the AI beat him to the punch.
“Scanners intermittently active, Captain. Picking up sporadic energy readings. It is impossible to assign a certainty to any conclusions, but it appears we have one or more vessels transiting.”
So…now I die again…
“Any progress on the engines?” He couldn’t imagine what the repair bots had managed to do in the two or three minutes that had elapsed since the AI’s last report, but he couldn’t think of anything else.
“Negative, Captain.”
A few seconds passed by, silent, save for the sounds of stirring among one or two other of the bridge crew, as the lone medical drone tended to them. At least I’m not the only one to survive…not that it’s likely to matter…
“Captain…scanners confirm a vessel emerging from the warp gate and moving toward our position.”
“Weapons?” Graham knew the answer before he even asked the question.
“Negative, Captain. All offensive systems are offline.”
“We can’t fight…we can’t run…” He was speaking softly, to himself, but the AI answered him again anyway.
“That is essentially correct, Captain. Projected time until enemy vessel enters firing range four to eleven minutes, depending on class and armament. Minimal operating power of scanners makes more accurate assessment impossible.
Graham found it less than comforting that the AI had data on all known First Imperium weapons, and the only use it served was to give him a seven-minute range in calculating the instant he, and whoever remained of his crew, would die.
He felt a strangeness that it even mattered to him, that he was so anxious to know just when the end would come.
Graham gave up, leaning back and exhaling, resigned to wait for death. But that only lasted a moment. Then, he felt a resurgence, a rush of energy he couldn’t completely explain. He might be doomed, he might die…but he would never give up the fight until it was over.
“I need options to increase engine output…right now. Do we have anyone conscious down in engineering?”
“There are no options that do not violate core safety parameters. It is impossible to report with certainty on the status of crew members with the monitoring system down, however no personnel have reported in. All functional repair bots are working on the engines and reactor, but projections are six to eight hours for any meaningful…”
“I said now! What can we do now?”
“The power conduits leading to the engines are badly damaged, Captain. Any increase in power levels before making necessary repairs…”
“All power to the engines now. Damn the risk!” What the hell difference does it make if we blow ourselves up, or let some First Imperium ship do it?
“Captain, there is no way to calculate the risks involved, with so many of the internal monitoring systems offline. Caution is…”
“Is there a First Imperium ship heading our way or not?”
“Yes, Captain.”
Graham was exasperated with the AI’s almost intentional-seeming naivety. He understood, of course, and Vaughn would probably survive longer if it sat where it was, if only by a few minutes. Deciding to take whatever miniscule chance there was, and most likely blowing up the ship in the process, might be a human way of thinking, at odds with the machine’s best calculations about how to proceed in a desperate situation. But Graham was still in command.
“Do it. Now.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Graham turned back toward the one functional screen on the bridge. The scanner data coming in had been intermittent at best, but, as he looked this time, he could see a staticky image, a First Imperium ship. The mass numbers had updated, and the computer was displaying file footage of a massive vessel.
It’s a Leviathan…
Leviathans were massive superbattleships, the largest First Imperium craft known.
Vaughn hadn’t detected any ships that large during the fight in G48, not even close. Graham held his gaze, even as he could hear the AI’s voice warning him about the thrust levels about to kick in. Assuming the ships didn’t just blow immediately.
Where the hell did that thing come from?
Graham felt a new fear, growing into a panic. He’d sent back intel on the antimatter factory, but now he realized he’d probably vastly underreported the strength of the defending forces.
If there are Leviathans in that system…
“No…” He mouthed the word more than spoke it, and he shook his head as the terrible reality sank in. He’d sent a report on a vital First Imperium system…but now it was looking like he’d helped to lure his comrades into a trap.
He could feel Vaughn shaking as the power was forced into the engines…and the pressure, as the g forces increase to 2g…3g…then…
Nothing. Vaughn lurched hard, and another round of sparks flew from the equipment panels along the outer walls of the bridge. Graham could feel the weightlessness, physically a relief to his tortured body…but also a realization that Vaughn had lost her engines entirely. He hadn’t blown up his ship, but his gambit to escape had failed.
He turned back toward the screen, expecting it to be dark, but realizing that it was still functioning on some sort of emergency power. It wouldn’t do him any good, not in terms of survival.
But it would let him watch his killers approach, to stare into the face of death and wait for the enemy guns to open fire…and send his ship and whatever remained of his crew straight to hell.
Chapter Eight
From the Journal of Max Harmon
For twelve years, I have maintained my grip on power. I have not sought to control the media, not excessively, at least, nor have I imposed burdensome restrictions on the lives of the people—at least none that weren’t absolutely necessary. Still, there is no question I am a tyrant. Though Erika West tells me I should not think that way, that any ruler who feels guilty about being a tyrant almost certainly is not one. But, if not a tyrant, exactly, certainly a dictator. I generally heed the advice of my trusted subordinates, and when possible, do as the people want, but in the end, I act alone, and my power is absolute.
I had no choice, that is what I tell myself. I did only what was necessary to save Earth Two, to keep my people alive in the face of a new danger from the First Imperium. There is truth in all of that, of course. The threat is real, certainly…and it is deadly. But it is also a convenient mindset, a way to absolve myself of guilt for my actions. It is certainly what I tell myself at night, struggling to let sleep come, even for a few precious hours. Nevertheless, I question how much, if any, of that I believe.
I know, better perhaps than anyone, what our fate will be at the hands of a victorious First Imperium. I do not know what we face in the months and years ahead, but it has become more and more likely that there is, in fact, a second Regent out there somewhere, an artificial intelligence of a scale and technology we can barely imagine, much less truly understand. Indeed, that view had advanced from hypothesis to commonly-accepted knowledge, and few doubt there is a replica of our old enemy out there somewhere. We were able to destroy the first Regent, of course, something I remember vividly, but that does not make this threat any less dire. Nor, does it mean we can necessarily repeat our actions of four decades ago. The mere fact that this new Regent knows what happened to the old one removes the element of surprise, the blind spot that kept the doomed machine from comprehending that we had the audacity to strike it on its own capital planet.
We face other hazards, as well, other dangers I have controlled through my power. The end of the Prohibition satisfied the
Mules to an extent, at least for a time, but it inflamed fear of the Hybrids among many of the others. The old Human League has recovered and grown, in both numbers and in the intensity of their vitriol, and our society has become more fractured than ever, held together only by the ever-present threat of extinction…and, of course, by my authority, wielded as infrequently as possible…but wielded nonetheless. There is no reasonable argument against the assertion that we need a firm hand in control right now, yet am I the only one who could wield such power? Could I not have stepped aside, allowed a successor to take the reins, to lead Earth Two forward?
I have wondered if I cling to control not because it is essential to our survival, but because, after four decades as the only leader Earth Two has ever known, and twelve of those years with absolute authority, I have, myself, become corrupt, that though I despise the burden and detest the idea of it all, I cannot loosen my grip. Can I imagine following anyone’s orders, making myself subject to another’s commands? How long has it been since I have taken an order from another? Am I truly the best person to lead my people through this fight? Or am I just another authoritarian, unable to pry clenched fingers from the reins of total power?
Presidential Residence
Victory City, Earth Two
Earth Two Date 12.02.42
“Mr. President…” The voice was tentative, the Marine guard clearly uncomfortable awakening Earth Two’s absolute ruler in the middle of the night. But he needn’t have concerned himself. Max Harmon was wide awake, as he was so often, sitting quietly on a chair to the side of the bed centered along the far wall.
He stood up, the abruptness of his move displaying some remaining vestige of his combat reflexes, and he looked toward the officer standing just outside the bedroom door peering in. He extended his hand, a silent signal to the Marine to wait for him to come out, and not to come inside and awaken his wife. But he was too late.
“I’m awake, Max.” Mariko Fujin’s voice was soft, but it was alert enough to tell Harmon that his wife had not been asleep, not for some time. He’d long been tormented, by regrets and ghosts from the past, from the realization of the things he’d done, by the fear of the future…but it cut at him especially deeply to realize how his choices—his duties, in his more self-forgiving moments—had affected his wife.
“Try to go back to sleep, Mariko.” He felt foolish the instant the words came out of his mouth. He knew his wife had long wished he would step aside, allow someone else to bear the burdens that had weighed on their entire life together…but she had also lived under the same threat he had, in constant fear that one day First Imperium forces would pour into Earth Two’s system, and all that the survivors from the original fleet and their several generations of descendants had built, all they possessed and everyone they loved, would be gone. And, he was damned sure she knew well enough that Marines didn’t wake Earth Two’s dictator in the middle of the night unless something was wrong.
The diminutive ex-fighter pilot sat up, reaching for the robe she’d left hanging over the bed post, even as Harmon walked toward the door.
“What is it, Captain?” he said to the uncomfortable-looking Marine as he gestured now for the man to come into the room.
“Sir, Admiral West sent me to inform you that…we have received a communications drone from one of the exploration fleets.”
Harmon glanced up at the officer, wondering if the man had any idea exactly what the exploratory fleets were, or what they did. The specifics of the long-term program of scanning space, of monitoring the enemy, and trying to lead them away from Earth Two, was heavily classified. Most of the spacers on the missions didn’t even know the true purpose of the flotillas.
But one thing the task forces weren’t supposed to do was come back anywhere close to Earth Two…or send any kind of direct communication that might be tracked. Had that happened now?
“Where is Admiral West, Captain?” Harmon turned abruptly and walked toward a doorway, one leading to a large walk in closet. He waved for the Marine to follow as he slipped inside and reached out to grab a uniform. He’d hemmed and hawed about wearing military garb over the years since he’d seized absolute power. He had dressed as a civilian when he’d been an elected president, but he’d since found some strength in the connection to his days as one of the fleet’s officers. That had been a terrible time, one of constant danger and headlong flight…and yet, he remembered it fondly in ways, as a period in his life when he’d been able to do what he’d perceived as his duty without stomping on every ideal he’d ever believed in. Somehow wearing a uniform made him feel like an officer taking temporary emergency control, rather than one of the more grotesque images of dictators, calling themselves things like ‘president for life.’
Even though he was, for all practical purposes, ‘president for life.’
“She is at the command center, sir. Waiting for you.” A short pause. “I have an escort waiting to accompany you.”
Harmon felt a slight twinge at the reminder that he needed Marines to escort him to his office. He’d been well-loved back in his navy days, a member of one of the Alliance navy’s great families, and one of the most popular officers in the fleet. He still maintained decent approval ratings among the pilgrims, but the original crews of the fleet’s ships were now just below two percent of the total population…and more and more of Earth Two’s younger people had known him only as a tyrant. There were no serious threats to his rule, none he was aware of—not organized ones, at least—but he was fairly certain there were a good number of people on Earth Two who would be just as happy to see him dead and gone. And, it only took a lone assassin to make that a reality.
That’s how Terrance died…
The original commander of the fleet, Admiral Compton, the hero all pilgrims revered as the man who’d saved them, had been lost not to battle, not fighting the enemy or blown to atoms at the helm of his flagship, but at the hands of a single killer. It was a lesson well-learned, and as much as Harmon detested the need to surround himself and his family with guards, he did it nevertheless.
“Very well, Captain…you can wait outside. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” The officer stood where he was, turning slightly, but hesitating. The fact that one of his chief guardians seemed to think he needed protection along the route from his bedroom to the house’s main door spoke volumes about the restive state of much of Earth Two’s population. “I’ll be perfectly fine in here, Captain. The house is very well-protected.”
“Yes, sir.” The Marine officer paused just an instant longer before he saluted and hurried out of the room. The brief hitch was one most people wouldn’t have even noticed, but Harmon saw the extent of concern in his protector’s body language. He tried to focus on the fact that his guards were as loyal as they seemed to be, but it proved to be scant recompense for the understanding that a significant number of those he governed would be happy to see him dead.
“Do you think…” Mariko stepped inside the closet, stopping a couple feet away from her husband. She didn’t finish her question, but she didn’t have to, either. Harmon knew exactly what she’d intended to ask.
“I don’t know, Mariko. It’s been twelve years since the last major crisis…but we’ve had skirmishes since then, and we’ve pretty well established that the Regent has been replaced by another AI of similar capability, perhaps even an exact copy.” Harmon found it necessary to remind himself that his people were facing an enemy that was, at its core, pure data. A man like Terrance Compton had been utterly irreplaceable. An entity like the Regent, however capable and sophisticated, could be copied verbatim, and replicated at will. All it would take was hardware sufficient to house it.
“Maybe there was just another skirmish.” She paused, not looking terribly convinced at her own words. “But, if it is, there shouldn’t be a drone, should there?” The edge to her tone poked at the discomfort both Harmon and his wife felt about his directives to the exploratory fleets…particularly the one that forbade any
force making contact with the enemy to return to Earth Two, or even send back a direct communique. Forces engaging the enemy were limited to sending messages to pre-established systems that were nowhere near Earth Two, rally points that were checked periodically. It was a very slow way to call for help, and one unlikely to result in any aid reaching a beleaguered force, if the distance involved in interstellar travel hadn’t been enough to achieve that by itself. But, every spacer knew his or her life was forfeit if need be, to protect the secrecy of Earth Two’s location.
Harmon didn’t answer, and Mariko didn’t ask again. After a few seconds of standing by the door, looking at her husband, she turned slowly and said, “I’ll go make some coffee for your guards. There’s no reason to wake, Lucy.” Harmon’s position as head of state came with a lot of staff, assistants, guards, advisors…but he and Mariko had always tried to keep their residence feeling like a home. Lucy Barre was a Tank, and she’d been the entirety of their household staff for the last ten years.
He almost told her that making coffee wasn’t necessary, but she was already gone. He shook his head. Mariko was always doing little things like that for his guards, making sure to show them kindness and respect. He was never sure if it was just her personality—she was an exceedingly polite person in most situations—or whether she remembered too well what it felt like to be in the service, on duty at all hours.
Or, he thought more darkly, because she understood all too clearly that the men and women tasked with presidential security would be the final ones who determined if some threat harmed her family or not. If some political activist or aggrieved party, angry at some action or decree he’d issued, came for vengeance.
