What it found was a race on the verge of terminal catastrophe.
* * *
The trading ship touched down on the Sea of Tranquility two days after Sofia’s birthday. Instead of a limited future of austerity and decline, she now had the chance to grow to maturity in an expanding civilisation. Welcomed into the Multiplicity of Races and provided with aid and succour, the reinvigorated humans quickly blossomed from their home system, spilling out to the surrounding stars.
Sofia travelled widely, first with her parents and then, later, on her own.
Freed from her subterranean existence on the Moon, she couldn’t get over the freedom of being in space. She got a job as a pilot on a ground-to-orbit shuttle, and later spent a few years as an ice miner shepherding comets in the Oort cloud, out on the ragged edge of interstellar space. When she finally left the solar system entirely, she did so as the captain of a freighter, hauling colonists and supplies out to the newly settled worlds of the fledgling Generality.
En route, she married the ship’s first officer, Carlos Konstanz.
After a hundred trips and a dozen years together, they had earned enough between them to buy the freighter from its owners. By the time Sofia reached her early thirties, they owned a small fleet of merchant ships and had become modestly wealthy. However, her diaries from this time indicate that she struggled with a lack of fulfilment, feeling herself rudderless and devoid of purpose, seeking to dedicate herself to something more meaningful than the simple acquisition of wealth—a sentiment sharpened by the untimely deaths of her parents and, soon afterwards, the unexplained disappearance of her husband during an otherwise routine trading expedition to Hopper space.
For a time, she became depressed. She worked routes alone, preferring the solitude. She became a virtual recluse, operating her business remotely and spending the majority of her time hundreds of thousands of kilometres from the nearest human being, with only the pitiless stars for company.
Those who knew her best feared for her sanity.
But then, a year or two after the tragic losses, while browsing an old archive that had been offered as payment by a computer-based civilisation that existed purely for the accretion and cross-referencing of information, she found something that piqued her interest.
According to the trove, a race known as the Hearthers had once existed close to the forward edge of our spiral arm. The Hearthers had hailed from a watery world in an elliptical orbit around its star. Its summers had been brief, heady months of frantic fecundity and gorging, all too swiftly over. For three quarters of its orbit, the planet swung beyond the outer limit of its star’s habitable zone, plunging the surface into a deep and seemingly endless winter. In order to survive, the Hearthers had been forced to cooperate. Their philosophy was one of abnegation and service, dedicating their lives to the survival of others and the furtherance of the greater good. There was, in their culture, no more noble or heroic act than the rescue and adoption of travellers caught far from home in the first freezing blasts of winter.
Small wonder then that when they joined the Multiplicity in their turn, they took their philosophy with them to the stars.
The Hearthers worked tirelessly to knit the differing cultures into a single loose alliance. They brokered treaties and instigated conferences. But their most enduring legacy was one that chimed most closely with their own values.
Until the coming of the Hearthers, individual governments and civilisations had been responsible for the wellbeing of their ships, and vessels and crews that ran into trouble far from home might as well have been at the far side of the galaxy for all the help they could expect. The Hearthers changed that, creating a fleet of ships for the specific aim of rescuing travellers stranded in the unforgiving depths of space. Loosely translated, the fleet’s name could be rendered in English as “The Communal Grouping of Individual Hearths into One, Dedicated to the Preservation and Recovery of Stricken Itinerants”.
For six thousand years, the Hearthers and their fleet served the races of the Multiplicity. They hurried to the aid of floundering starships, and brought food and medical aid to planets blighted by famine and pestilence. Their name became a byword for trust and dependability. The yellow star logos on the hulls of their ships became the universal symbol for emergency rescue. Their crews were afforded a heroic reverence in eight hundred cultures scattered across two hundred thousand light years…
But it didn’t last.
Fifty centuries before Sofia’s birth, while on Earth woolly mammoths roamed the northerly wastes of Siberia, the rescues stopped. Distress calls went unanswered. The ships of the fleet disappeared and the Hearthers vanished. They abandoned their bases and way stations, and expeditions to their home planet found only a cold and uninhabited world, snowbound and desolate.
* * *
When Sofia Nikitas first read the story of the Hearthers, she realised with an electric thrill that she had finally found the purpose that had been eluding her. She resolved to dedicate her wealth and resources to the re-establishment of The Communal Grouping of Individual Hearths into One, Dedicated to the Preservation and Recovery of Stricken Itinerants. Only she would call it the House of Reclamation; and, at first, she would limit its activities to the squabbling factions of the Human Generality. In time, when the House had been given the chance to prove itself, she could expand the scope of its operation to include all the races of the Multiplicity.
Within a year, she had retrofitted her entire merchant fleet for its new duties. The expense almost broke her, but after a few high profile recoveries, individual governments agreed to contribute to the upkeep of the House in return for the benefit of its services. Personnel and ships applied to join the organisation; depots and way stations flourished at strategic points throughout human space; and slowly, one calamity at a time, lives were saved.
The Hearthers’ yellow star-shaped symbol became the sigil of the House, and their translated motto—Life Above All—became its mantra and mission statement.
Still in her thirties, Sofia Nikitas had grown to be one of the most powerful and respected women in the Generality, able to command an armada larger than could be mustered by most nations. And she did it in the name of her dead mother and father, and her missing husband. Only ever clad in mourning black, she devoted herself to their memories, and to the hope that through her efforts, others would be spared the pain of similar losses.
Unfortunately, things weren’t exactly as they seemed, and in her fortieth year, she faced an unexpected betrayal.
Her husband, Carlos, had been alive all this time. His trip to Hopper space had been a diversion, a sleight of hand to cover his absconsion from hitherto unsuspected gambling debts. Now, at the height of Sofia’s fame and influence, he came back into her life, attributing his desertion to temporary amnesia and demanding an equal share of her assets—assets she had already poured into the formation and maintenance of the Reclamation fleet.
Sadly, Carlos was as charismatic as Sofia was introverted. He looked good on screen and knew how to charm an audience. More importantly, he had the backing of several of the House’s key trustees—men and women who had been close friends and colleagues before he disappeared, and who now rallied to his banner, convinced he’d make a better figurehead for the organisation than the awkward, reclusive and grief-stricken Sofia.
For a year, the dispute fulminated in the courts. Accusations and counter-accusations flew, and various governments and political factions weighed in on one side or the other, hoping to curry favour and influence. Finally, when the scales of public and legal opinion seemed to have tipped decisively in Carlos’s direction, and the fabricated scandals and authentic acrimony had become too much for her to bear, Sofia followed once again the example of her predecessors, the Hearthers. She fled, leaving behind all her possessions and wealth, and a single fertilised embryo in a clinic on the Moon.
Nobody knew where she went. She ran so far and so fast, she eventually became somebody else.
And that’s where the story ends.
The House of Reclamation continued to operate. Carlos claimed the embryo she left, and it grew to be your great-grandmother. When Carlos retired, some hoped Sofia might return, to claim and once more oversee her empire of altruism. But she never did.
And now even the most fervent of her remaining supporters has had to face the fact she has been lost forever, having died in penniless obscurity somewhere out among the stars she so dearly loved.
* * *
I stopped talking.
Curled in the bottom of the life raft like a fledgling in a nest, a silver survival blanket drawn tightly around her shoulders, Captain Konstanz had begun, very gently, to snore.
TWENTY-SIX
ASHTON CHILDE
The sheets beneath me were wet with sweat. Was I back in the jungle?
I hinged open reluctant eyelids, and found myself facing an unfamiliar ceiling.
The Trouble Dog’s infirmary turned out to be capacious enough to deal with a battle’s worth of wounded crew. More awake now, but still woozy with anaesthetic, I estimated it contained at least sixty beds. The room was so long that the curve of the hull hid the far end from sight.
Only two beds in all that space were illuminated and active. The rest slumbered empty and dark, waiting to receive casualties from the Geest van Amsterdam. The first of those functioning beds was mine, the second Laura’s. Propped up on pillows, she faced me from across the aisle, her right leg wrapped in an inflatable grey foam cast.
“Welcome back,” she said.
I worked dry lips, tried to swallow. “Yeah…”
“We were lucky.”
Lucky? I looked down. A similar cast covered my torso from clavicle to pubic bone. IV lines carried clear fluids from a selection of bags hanging on a metal pole beside the bed. The air smelled of strong disinfectant and freshly laundered bed linen. A monitor kept track of my blood pressure, pulse, respiration and body temperature.
“I think you were luckier.” I couldn’t feel anything below my sternum. “How long was I under?”
“About three hours.”
The room wallowed uneasily, the way it sometimes did after six quick shots of tequila. When it settled, I asked, “Why are you smiling?”
The corners of her eyes wrinkled at the bitterness in my voice. “Because we’ve had this conversation three times already.”
“Oh.” I let my eyelids close, lulled by the hiss of the air conditioning, the rise and fall of my own breathing, and the gurgle of the fluids in their tubes. I wanted to get out of bed but I couldn’t move. “Where’s the medic?”
“Asleep, I should think. It’s around 0100 hours, ship’s time.”
“Did they get the pellet out?”
“Yes.” Laura’s voice was hesitant, and I could tell there was something she wasn’t saying. With great effort, I levered open my eyes.
“Yes, but?”
She scratched an itch on the skin of her thigh, trying to work her nails beneath the edge of her cast.
“I’m afraid you sustained a penetrating abdominal trauma.” She wouldn’t meet my eye. “The pellet fragmented inside you, and damaged your liver, spleen and pancreas. In addition, you’ve lost a section of small intestine.”
I tried to swallow again, but my mouth and tongue were still dry. “They removed it?”
“They had to.” She looked tired but her tone was firm and reassuring. “In fact, I helped. The ship’s medic’s very young and didn’t seem to know what he was doing. I had to talk him through it.” She smiled again. “I even thought he was going to faint at one point, but we were using some smart state-of-the-art battlefield tech. Laser scalpels, self-guiding needles, accelerated healing. You should be up and around in a couple of weeks.”
“How long until we reach the Gallery?”
“Just under twenty-seven hours.”
I let my head sink back, into the pillow, feeling the weight of the drugs dragging me down…
* * *
When next I woke, my head felt clearer. The ship’s medic was standing beside my bed in a bright orange jumpsuit. He squinted at the readouts on the monitor.
“Welcome back,” he said. “How are you feeling?”
I hadn’t noticed before how young he was. But then, with a pellet lodged in my gut, I’d had other things to worry about than the age of my surgeon.
“Like the worst hangover in medical history.”
He smiled uncomfortably. He seemed unsure what to do with his hands. After a moment of dithering, he pushed them into the pockets of his suit. “You’re going to be immobile for a while,” he said.
“I really can’t afford to be.” The notion filled me with claustrophobic panic. All I wanted to do was stand up and go for a walk. Feel the sun on my face, the wind against my skin. If I couldn’t get out and about, I’d have no hope of completing my mission. And when I was well, they’d dump me back in that godforsaken jungle.
He looked embarrassed. “I don’t see you have a lot of choice, I’m afraid.”
I cleared my throat to cover my agitation. I had to get out. I just had to. “This is a battleship’s infirmary, isn’t it?”
“Um, yes.”
I felt my left eye twitch in an involuntary tic. My hands felt shaky. “You didn’t serve in the war, did you, son?”
“No.”
Neither had I, but… “Maybe if you had, you’d know what a battleship’s infirmary is for.”
He coloured. “It’s for treating the sick and injured.”
“No.” I shook my head for emphasis. My heart fluttered in my chest. I had to get out. I wanted to scream at him, and it took a superhuman effort to keep my tone level and friendly. “When you’re taking fire you have no real interest in treating anyone. What you want is for them to get on their feet and back to their posts. You want to patch them up and keep them fighting.”
He looked blank, and I began to doubt that he had anything but the most basic medical knowledge.
“Trust me,” I said. “I know what I’m talking about.” I wagged a finger in Laura’s direction. “And so does she. Wheel her over here and she can show you what you need to do.”
* * *
I’d never worn a standard-issue combat exoskeleton, but I had seen them used. At first sight, they resembled nothing so much as a medieval torture device. They consisted of a close-fitting frame of carbon-fibre ribs and struts designed to support the limbs, enhance the wearer’s strength, and allow the body to remain mobile in high-gravity environments. During battle, the Conglomeration Navy used them to keep injured crew upright and functional, employing the rationale that it was more important to win the fight than treat the wounded. If the ship was lost, the wounded would be killed anyway. Better they fight first and seek treatment when victory had been secured.
Unfortunately, without anything but the most basic first aid, many expired anyway, succumbing to shock and the effects of their injuries even as their powered exoskeletons kept them on their feet and at their stations.
Even under the best of circumstances, they were risky things to wear. If you weren’t careful, they could literally pull you apart. But wearing one would at least give me a shot at completing my mission. If the alternative was to lie here in this echoing sick bay for another fortnight, I figured the risk would be worth taking.
Across the aisle, Laura felt otherwise. “I’m not going to help you kill yourself.”
“Well, I’m going to fit myself into it anyway.” I jerked my thumb at the medic. “And this kid isn’t going to be much use.” I glanced up at the boy in the white coat. “No offence.”
His hands were busy readying the suit, forcibly splaying open the hinged grey slats of its ribcage to make room for me. “None taken.” His accent sounded familiar.
“Are you Conglom’?” I asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. “I was.”
“But you were too young for the war?”
“I went to
the Academy.”
“On Ravenscliffe?” I smiled as best I could through the pain and medication. “I was a cop there,” I told him. My heart was really racing now. “But long before your time, I guess. Now, as one Ravenscliffe boy to another, are you going to help me get this on?”
Luckily, he seemed too embarrassed to notice the desperate quaver in my voice. He blushed and moved his weight from one foot to another. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Neither have I.”
Laura sighed. “Ash,” she said, “for the last time, please don’t be a fucking idiot.”
She could see right through me. She knew I was panicking. To throw her off, I countered her plea with one of my own. “Are you really sure you’re not going to help me?”
“No.” She tightened her jaw. “Because it’s a stupid idea, and I don’t want to see you dead.”
Genuine concern filled her eyes, which only added to my irritation. I didn’t need her pity. All I needed was to get my mission completed, so I’d never have to sweat through another night on the edge of that airfield.
I switched my attention to the gawky and unshaven medic beside me. “What’s your name, Doc?”
“Preston.”
“Well, then. Help me up, Preston.”
* * *
The skeleton’s ribs clamped over mine like the jaws of a slowly closing trap. I felt them cup, squeeze and lift my injured torso even as further struts clipped themselves to my arms and legs. Even my fingers and thumbs were being reinforced. The skin prickled at the back of my neck as the suit’s neural filaments burrowed into my spinal cord, and a needle pushed into the skin on the back of my right hand, installing a drug line for sedatives and painkillers. Now the spinal link had been made, it would take a skilled surgeon to unpick the microfilaments and unhook me from the suit’s embrace, and Preston didn’t look up to the job. If I wanted to avoid damage to my central nervous system, I’d have to keep the suit on until after the mission.
Embers of War Page 12
