“I heard she’s promoting you to lieutenant commander,” said Sam. “And wants you to head up the program.”
Shrugging, Laz said, “I heard that, too.”
“I heard she wants to rebuild Heroic,” said Halsey. “Make it a full-blown starbase this time.”
Laz nodded. “Part of the initiative to beef up the outer sectors. They want to be prepared next time.”
“Speaking of that,” said Avery, “Zoe Proctor’s algorithm is the talk of CENTCOM. A hundred and fifty years before the Swarm come back? Pretty damned precise for translating an alien language.”
“Zoe Proctor is a science prodigy,” said Halsey with what sounded like a mother’s pride. The whiskey was starting to add a lilt to her voice. “I’d take it at face value. Hey, Sam, how’s the arm?”
Sam shifted and winced. “It’s there. It’ll heal.”
“Any idea who hired this Codeine character?” asked Laz. “Or why?”
“None at all, on either score. Although, the PADD he was carrying had a Russian power core.”
Laz grunted. “Of course it was the Russians. It’s always the Russians.”
“But why would the Confederation want you dead?” wondered Halsey. Then, a bit more playfully, “Sam, what’d you do to piss off the Kremlin?”
“Maybe it wasn’t the Russians,” said Avery. “Maybe the PADD was just Russian tech.”
That evident mystery silenced them all for a heartbeat or two.
“Do you really think Brent kicked out the Swarm’s influence in the end?” asked Halsey. “Actually saved you?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” Sam shrugged and scowled again at the evident pain it caused. “And he said something at the end, but … I don’t know.”
“Well, at least you have plenty of time to figure it out,” said Laz, pouring them all another round.
“A hundred and fifty years,” said Sam thoughtfully. “Plenty of time, right?”
Addison shared another look with Laz, and another smile. “Plenty of time for a lot of things.”
Earth, Sol System
Washington, D.C.
The Situation Room, the White House
“At last we’re all here,” said Quentin Chamberlain. Around the table sat his National Security Council. On-screen were Chinese Premier Wei, Russian President Ivanov, and a very harried-looking Melinda Kilgore. “Let me begin by offering you, Premier Wei, my sincerest gratitude for your intervention at Britannia. Without it, I have no doubt the Swarm would’ve taken billions of lives. No doubt whatsoever.”
Premier Wei bowed his head in acknowledgment. “I am only glad that we made it in time, Mr. President.”
“I take it your problems at home have been—” Quentin chose his next words carefully. “—taken care of?”
Wei allowed himself a brief smile. “The situation is much more stable than when we last spoke,” he said. “We even purged a handful of foreign agents that had access to uncomfortably high levels of the government.”
The UEF president noticed Ivanov seemed a bit uncomfortable upon hearing that.
“Mr. President,” said Ivanov, “I feel I owe you an explanation—”
Chamberlain reached forward on the table, and Ivanov’s voice went silent, though his lips kept moving. “Oleksiy … Oleksiy … I’ve muted you. We’ll get to you in a minute.” He ignored the offended look on the Russian’s face. “Mr. Premier, apologies for the interruption. But I just have to ask—why?”
“Why, Mr. President?”
“What finally convinced you to send ships? I’m not ungrateful, obviously. I’m just curious.”
“Ah, that. Well, as you no doubt know from Mr. Huxley’s intelligence briefings,” he said with a wink toward their previous conversation, “I’m deemed somewhat progressive for my country, my culture. But there are some aspects of tradition that—if I set them aside—would make me less than Chinese. Whatever I thought of his policies, Premier Sun’s betrayal of our people and humanity as a whole was unforgiveable. I understand about Swarm control. I understand that, perhaps, he had no choice. Nevertheless, his actions brought shame upon our people—upon our entire republic. There was honor to be restored there, a balance to put right. And I have done so now.”
Quentin nodded, understanding. “Indeed you have, sir.”
“And now, I have business here at home to attend to. Not everyone values tradition as much as I do,” he said with irony, “and I still have some hearts and minds to win in the Politburo. Until we speak again, Mr. President.”
“Until then, sir. And thank you again.”
Wei’s image faded, leaving a red-faced Ivanov and the haggard admiral on-screen. Chamberlain reached forward. “Go ahead, Oleksiy. You were saying?”
There appeared to be a battle raging behind the Russian’s eyes. The better angels of his nature seemed to win.
“Mr. President,” he grumbled, gearing up again. “As I was saying—I wish to offer apologies on behalf of the Russian Confederation and myself personally.” These last words seemed strained, Quentin thought. But at least Oleksiy said them, and appearances were important. “Admiral Volkov’s departure from Britannia Sector was ill timed, to be sure.”
Kilgore snorted.
“But,” continued the Russian president, “we had credible intelligence the Swarm was preparing an attack on Yalta Sector. Like Premier Wei, I too have a Politburo to answer to. My pleas to support your defense force fell on deaf ears, and Admiral Volkov was ordered to return to protect the Motherland.”
“Without even saying goodbye?” Kilgore’s tone was disbelieving and flippant at the same time.
“Admiral Kilgore, to you especially, I wish to offer my sincerest personal apologies. I am conducting a full, internal investigation of Volkov’s actions and pledge to provide a complete report to you when it is done—unredacted.” Ivanov punched the desk in front of him with his index finger to emphasize the last point, which he clearly thought a significant gesture.
“Uh-huh.” Kilgore was not convinced.
“Apology accepted, Oleksiy,” said Chamberlain. Ignoring the incensed scowl on Kilgore’s face and the generally shocked looks around his own conference table, he continued. “We look forward to receiving that report.”
“Very good, Mr. President. And thank you for your understanding. Now, like Premier Wei, I must beg off further discussion at this point. I want to appoint a special investigator immediately to look into this matter.”
“Of course, Oleksiy. You do that.”
Ivanov nodded and signed off, leaving Kilgore’s extremely unhappy face the only one left on-screen.
“He’s lying, Mr. President!” insisted Kathy Wakefield.
Everyone began talking at once but stopped when the president held up his hand.
“Of course he’s lying,” said Chamberlain. “But we know he’s lying. And he probably knows we know he’s lying. It’s politics, Kathy. We have to live with the fact that Ivanov controls the second most powerful military in human history. We gave him his way to save face, and now we know just how much we can’t trust him. Thank God that knowledge wasn’t bought at a higher cost than it was.”
Kilgore’s face had slowly relaxed on-screen as the president explained. “Keeping your enemies closer, sir?”
“Always a sound strategy,” sighed Chamberlain. “And speaking of strategy, this report you forwarded … from Lieutenant Proctor. Do you really think she’s onto something with this?”
“Captain Halsey seems to,” answered the admiral. “We’re having our Science Division reanalyze Proctor’s data and check her calculations. But her numbers seem good.”
“But a hundred and fifty years? Why that long?” asked Wakefield.
Kilgore shrugged. “As you pointed out in our last meeting, Madam Secretary—we can’t know why the Swarm do what they do because we have no cultural frame of reference, other than our own, for judging their actions. But we must use this time to prepare.”
“How can you b
e sure they’ll return?” asked Kyla Torres.
The admiral paused. “I can’t be sure, Ms. Torres, for the same reasons I don’t know why they have this apparent cycle. But I can be sure of this—if I’d tried to conquer a species and I was as powerful as the Swarm and I got my ass handed to me twice in two months—as soon as that dinner bell rang again? I’d be all in.”
“That’s a human reaction,” noted Wakefield.
Again Kilgore shrugged. “Just so, Madam Secretary. But we don’t dare not prepare.”
“No,” said Chamberlain. “We don’t dare do that. Admiral, Kyla tells me there might be a way to reverse-engineer the alien metal to enhance our own starship hulls?”
“Yes, Mr. President. It’s still theoretical, but the briefing I just read says that while the Science Division can’t reproduce the base element that makes the Swarm hulls so strong—it’s from a different universe, after all—they can simulate its molecular properties through software. They’re calling the R&D effort Project Intelligent-Adaptive Superstructure.”
Rob Francis clucked his tongue. “Not very catchy.”
“Well, Mr. Francis, they’re engineers. What do you expect?”
The president laughed. “Touché, Admiral. I’m sure whatever corporation gets the contract will come up with something snappy and slap a trademark on it.”
“I have no doubt, sir.”
“How are your people, Melinda? My condolences on the loss of Captains Richards and Preble and all those who gave their lives to preserve our freedom. I don’t mean that to sound like a speech. I just … well, I just mean it.”
“Thank you, sir. Every one of our ships needs major overhauling, but if Zoe Proctor is right, we have plenty of time for that. And I have some ideas about how we can best put the time we have to good use. My first priority is to improve our eyes and ears in the outer sectors, where the Swarm seemed to come from. Trust me, sir: you’ll be hearing from me soon about funding.”
Chamberlain nodded. “Whatever resources you need, Melinda. Whatever you need.”
An Undisclosed Location in Russian Space
“An impressive performance, Mr. President.”
Ivanov reached for the bottle of vodka and poured himself a drink. “Would you like one, Balasz? The war seems to be over, at least for the time being. No reason to stay sober now, eh?”
The naked Soldova, who’d been standing just off camera during the conference call, approached the desk. “Do you think Chamberlain believed you?”
“Doubtful. Volkov pulled out right when he was needed. Chamberlain and the rest will deem it ‘typical Russian duplicity.’”
“So you’re preparing for war, then?”
“Of course not! Chamberlain wouldn’t dare! Didn’t you notice how he allowed me to extricate myself gracefully from the situation?”
Soldova sat, which was a relief to Ivanov. His neck was tired of keeping his eyes up for decorum’s sake.
“I’m not sure I understand. He knows you deceived him. And you know he knows. And yet you will continue to work together as if no betrayal had ever occurred?”
Ivanov smiled. “Mr. Soldova, you have just described human politics, human nature, to a T.”
Soldova became reflective. “Deception is a very confusing enterprise.”
“Now you are getting it, my friend. Now you understand.”
“But that’s just it. I don’t understand at all.”
“Exactly.”
Ivanov downed his vodka in a single swig, then reached for the bottle again.
“I believe I will have that drink now,” Soldova said, pushing an empty glass forward. “So tell me, what happens next in this grand deception? I’m absolutely intrigued.”
“More exciting than watching a boring old documentary, eh?” Ivanov poured the vodka. “The military will manufacture the report I promised Chamberlain that explains how Volkov and my chief antagonist in the Politburo are Swarm agents. How they colluded to undermine the defense of Britannia by pulling our ships from the sector over my strenuous objections, just when those ships were needed most. Then they will both be shot by firing squad and the footage leaked everywhere. Then I will supply the written report to the UEF, the Chinese, and the Caliphate showing the men’s compromised status as a symbol of transparent Russian cooperation among the community of nations.”
“But those men are not our agents.” Soldova sipped the vodka and grimaced. “Wait, another deception? To sell the idea of the first?”
“A convenient and necessary one and for that very purpose, yes. Plus, I rid us of a loose end and a primary rival of my own in one fell swoop. And what about you? Will you go to sleep like the rest of your … people?”
Ivanov gulped the vodka quickly, and Soldova mimicked him. He seemed to enjoy it more that way.
“No, and it isn’t sleep at all. It’s more a period for focusing on other priorities, you might say. With each initiative, we fully commit ourselves to its accomplishment.”
“So I’ve noticed,” said Oleksiy. He reached forward and refilled their glasses. “But you didn’t succeed here.”
“No. And neither did you. Your assassin failed.”
Ivanov nodded because it was, after all, true. “I still don’t understand why you wanted one junior starship captain dead. True, Avery did acquit herself well in battle, but … all those resources, all that effort.”
“By way of explanation, I will offer you only this—we will return, and we intend to shape the future we return to. And Avery’s daughter is the greatest threat to our success in that time.”
“Avery’s daughter? You speak as if you know how the future will unfold already, Balasz. I—I assume you are being metaphorical. Or, perhaps, metaphysical?”
“Your linear concept of time is like so much of your understanding of the universe,” said Soldova. “Limited and childlike. Time is three dimensional—accessible across the plane of spatial existence, with the right technological….” At Ivanov’s perplexed expression, Soldova waved his hand. “Nevermind, Oleksiy. You don’t need to understand.”
Ivanov shrugged. When a magician refused to explain the trick, all you could do was ponder it later. “So, you will be back then. That is the only course for your race, yes? Conquering other, useful races like us.”
“Yes. Despite your ignorance in some areas, your unique mastery of the art of deception is a quality we’d like to add to ourselves. And on that topic, Oleksiy….” Soldova’s voice became calm, cautioning. “I have said it before, but after this invaluable lesson you’ve taught me today, I feel I should reiterate—never … ever … try to deceive us. You have a place at our table. But it is our table.”
The Russian president’s face became stone. “Why, I wouldn’t think of ever deceiving you, Mr. Soldova. You know, if you still have your human memories, you know that we Russians sometimes call vodka lekarstvo—the cure for all ills of the body.” Raising his glass, he continued, “Let us toast the everlasting health of our alliance, Balasz. To the future!”
Soldova lifted his glass and touched Ivanov’s.
“As friends.”
Epilogue
Uncharted Territory, 126 Light-Years from United Earth Space
The Orphanage Settlement New Galilee
“Mother, can we go outside and play?” asked Cassandra. “The wind isn’t bad.”
Sister Elaine Cornwell cocked an ear at the thick metal walls. There was a rare, mid-afternoon lull. The temperature would still be harsh, but at least there was no wind chill to add to it.
She surveyed the roomful of students. The younger ones like Cassandra worked on artistic endeavors designed to encourage creativity. The older children studied advanced subjects: mathematics, physics, chemistry, astronomy. She watched them at their tasks—finger painting, solving differential equations, studying human history. Studying war.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, Elaine noticed it was nearly the end of lessons for today anyway. “Children?” she called. A gro
up of younger teens debating the Mongol invasion of China went silent, followed quickly by the rest. “How about we finish early today? Spend some time outside?”
“Yes, please!” in its various forms teased a smile to her lips. Cassandra wiped her fingers vigorously on a rag. And without even being told, mused Elaine.
“All right then, but remember to wrap yourselves up! The wind’s low, but so’s the temperature!”
“Yes, Mother Cornwell,” the children chorused in reply.
Elaine led them into the bright sunshine. Giggles and other happy sounds of children released from their school-prison filled the crisp, chilly air. Several of the larger kids grabbed a ball and headed for the gaming field.
Her eyes followed Martin, the oldest, as he organized kickball teams. He’d be leaving soon, when he turned eighteen. Off to IDF Fleet Academy. She’d miss him. He was one of her favorites.
A mother shouldn’t have favorites, she scolded herself.
Some of the kids seemed less like children and more like creatures she was merely charged with raising to be productive citizens. But Elaine viewed most like they truly were her children. She’d born every one of them into life, albeit from a test tube and an incubator, not from her womb. She’d nursed every one of them past the helpless, parasitic stage of newborns, through the inevitable rebelliousness of infancy, and finally shaped their personalities along a predetermined course. There were artists, scientists, mathematicians—virtually every aspect of human culture and society represented in them.
Forty years had passed since the aliens had first touched her, brought her into their fold. And in that time, she had raised and sent among the human race more than fifty of her charges. Each had ventured forth to explore their own gifts—as scientists, artists, inventors—leaders and followers of every stripe. Her life’s work for the greater galactic cause, painted in flesh and blood.
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