by Nick Webb
The implications were disturbing. Frightening. That meant that whatever individuals caused the explosion over Sangre, their reach extended up into the highest echelons of IDF leadership, and had for years. Possibly decades.
It meant that they’d been planning this for years.
It meant that there could be more singularities out there. Weapons that caused unthinkable destruction in the hands of the Swarm.
It meant that … oh hell. The shuttle. The circular ghost meta-space readings that Batak and Zivic detected.
“Krull, you say we summoned you here. Was the signal the same? Did it match the one from Sangre?”
“It was … similar. But far less powerful, by many, many orders of magnitude. It was just a shadow of the same effect. A human might call it, a ghost of a signal.”
A ghost of a signal. She made a mental note to track the origins of that shuttle, and find out every stop that it ever made. It might not have had the meta-space shunt on board when it exploded, but it might have held one at one point. And the meta-space signature might have imprinted itself on the shuttle, somehow.
“One more thing, Vice Imperator.” She hesitated to even ask the question. She almost didn’t want to know. “Is the Swarm back? That ship we destroyed—surely you’ve seen it by now. Is it the Swarm? Are they back?”
Her answer was surprisingly confident. “No. It is not the Swarm. We would have known, through the Ligature, if they had returned. That ship, whatever it is, is not Swarm. It is … new. Something … some alien we have never seen before.”
Proctor breathed a little easier, and at the same time the knot in her stomach tightened even further. So it wasn’t the Swarm. That was good. But the enemy you knew was often far preferable to the enemy you didn’t. “We call them the Golgothics. They project a field that interferes with our … emotional control.”
Krull raised two hands. “As good a name as any. And yes, we have felt it, though, thankfully, it does not affect us as it does you. But I warn you Admiral, be careful. It’s … strange, how this projection field feels to us. Familiar, and not. Deadly, and not. It is tied into meta-space, like the Ligature, and yet, not. We do not understand it. I am sorry I can’t be of more help. I will contact you if we discover more about it.”
“Thank you, Krull. I will investigate this meta-space shunt, as you call it. If it’s caused as much damage among your people as you say, then … well, that’s an act of war, no?”
Krull nodded slowly. “I was not going to suggest as much, Admiral. I am trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. But given your history, your reputation, among my people, many were prone to believe the worst.”
Mother-killer. The term was implied.
“And Admiral, I believe you are mistaken.”
“Oh? Mistaken? About what?”
Krull eyed her, with what looked like sadness. “You speak of the ship in the past tense. You say you destroyed it.”
No.
Krull continued. “It is not destroyed. It travels, even now, into the very heart of your space.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Irigoyen Sector, San Martin System, El Amin
Bridge, ISS Independence
The screen had no sooner gone dark and replaced by the view of the still-erupting El Amin, than Proctor spun around and strode over to the tactical station. “Lieutenant Whitehorse, can we confirm that? We clearly saw no debris, but we also clearly did not pick up any q-jump signatures from that ship when the shuttle exploded.”
Whitehorse furrowed her brow, bringing up all the recorded data from the battle. “Correct on both counts, Admiral.”
“Then where the hell did it go?”
“Working on it, Admiral,” she said.
“Admiral,” said Commander Mumford from the science station. “It could be that the explosion from the shuttle’s core going critical may have masked a q-jump signal.”
Proctor drummed her fingers impatiently on the tactical console. “And? Can you verify that, Commander? If what Krull says is true, then the next target might not just be a dead moon, but something a little more substantial. Like, for example, Britannia. Or Earth.”
Mumford dashed over to the tactical station and sat next to Whitehorse. “Bring up a standard signature from a criticality event and overlay over our data. Then we run a Fourier transfer, subtract, reverse the transform, and what’s left should be the signal.”
Whitehorse nodded. “Got it.”
Proctor pointed down at the data. “Don’t forget to de-correlate the residuals from the data.”
They both looked up at her in surprise.
“What? Oh come on, you knew I was a scientist … am a scientist.”
Whitehorse returned to her data, but still smirked. “Yes, ma’am, but I thought you were a biologist.”
Oh, for the love…. “Biology’s science! Data is data!”
Whitehorse kept smiling, but also, thankfully, kept working. Data is data. It wasn’t only true, it was crucial, Proctor thought. You can manipulate conclusions, but you can’t escape data. Her college advisor, besides occasionally yelling out Science, bitches! would also from time to time dispense helpful advice and catchphrases, one of which was Trust your data, and it will trust you. “Trust the data, Shelby,” she murmured.
“Ma’am?” Mumford looked sidelong at her.
“Nothing. Anything yet?”
“Almost there, ma’am.”
Proctor began to pace impatiently. Time was running out, she knew, and they’d wasted precious hours at El Amin making repairs and assessing the situation. She supposed making repairs wasn’t a complete waste of time, but all the same, the Golgothic ship had given them the slip, and had an hour head start. That was unacceptable.
Trust your data. She glanced up at Yarbrough, who was still engaged with repair efforts. “Commander, a word.”
“Admiral?” He paused his conversation with an assistant and looked up at her.
She approached and lowered her voice. “I need you to look into something for me.”
He nodded discreetly. “Ma’am?”
“We need to know more about this shunt. Every ship, every shuttle, every fighter, and every cargo container that comes aboard a capital ship like the Independence is still subjected to a rigorous battery of sensor screens, correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. I want you to go into the database, and pull the records of every single scan of everything that has come aboard this ship in the past … three months.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Three?”
“That’s when the Independence was commissioned, yes. I want it all. I want to know if we can see a meta-space shunt just from the previous sensor logs, and if anything else has some aboard the ship without us knowing, like with Zivic’s shuttle. These lapses in operational security are unacceptable, and they end now. Understood?”
Her tone was no-nonsense, and he snapped to attention. “Yes, ma’am.”
She leaned in closer. “Go. Pull the logs immediately. Send them to both Volz and me.”
With that, he retreated to the XO’s station and got to work, pulling in his two assistants to help parse the volumes of data that were to be pulled.
“Ok, I think we’re close.” Whitehorse tapped a few more buttons, and finally nodded. “Got it. It’s pretty garbled—no chance we’ll be able to derive a heading from this—but yes, it made a q-jump.”
Proctor’s skin prickled. Straight into the heart of your territory, Krull had said.
She couldn’t take any chances. “Ensign Riisa, plot a course for Earth.”
“How do we know it went to Earth, ma’am?” said Whitehorse. Proctor regarded the young woman, remembering what Ballsy had said about her, about the trauma she’d been through at the hands of his own son. She hid it well—Proctor noted that even during the height of the Golgothic’s emotional control-crippling broadcast, she’d kept her cool. The lieutenant’s control was admirable.
“We don�
�t, Lieutenant. But in this case I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
“But don’t you worry that it might show up at Britannia, or another heavily populated system?”
Do I worry? Yes, but like you, Lieutenant, I’m not going to show it. “That’s a risk we’ll have to take. Ensign Riisa, are the jumps calculated?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Initiate.” She stood back up and headed for the door. “Get us most of the way there, but pause for the last t-jump until I get back.”
Time to run through the data with Ballsy.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Irigoyen Sector, Interstellar space
Sickbay, ISS Independence
When he woke up, Sara was staring down at him. That was the first thing he noticed.
The second thing was the terrible raging fire all up and down his right side and back. It wasn’t so much pain as it was pure itch. Like the second day of the worst sunburn in his life, times a hundred.
“Ow,” he mumbled. Zivic’s jaw was slack and his tongue stiff. They probably still had him heavily medicated, he supposed.
“Well if it don’t rain…,” she said, breaking out into a smile. “Welcome back, Ethan.”
He worked his jaw until it moved properly. “Did it work?”
“Huh? You mean, whatever you did that landed you the best seat in the house?” she said, waving an arm around her, indicating the main floor of sickbay, which looked unnervingly occupied by wounded.
“Yeah.”
She shrugged. “No idea. I’m just a mechanic, remember? And I only just broke out of jail—they don’t tell me too many things around here yet.”
“Hey, look at us! Both out of jail. We’ve made incredible progress today.” He chuckled, which he immediately regretted. The bandages all down his side seared with pain.
Her smile disappeared, and she leaned in close to him. “I … I thought I’d lost you there. When they wheeled you in … shit. You looked dead.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” he said, with a wink. Winking was okay—it didn’t hurt like laughing did.
She kissed his cheek. He looked side-long at her—to flirt, or not to flirt, that was the question. “You missed.”
“Funny.” She smirked at him, but leaned in close to his ear. “But seriously, don’t ever do that again. I mean, we just met a few days ago and everything, but….” She grunted, and pulled away, leaning back in the chair next to the bed. “Just don’t do that again, okay?”
“Agreed.” He nodded, and started taking stock of himself. Wiggling his toes he realized his boots were still on. Moving his legs around told him his pants were still on, thank god, and all his bones seemed to be intact. He flexed his shoulder, which was sore, but which also seemed to be back in its socket. Convinced he was just fine after all, except for the sunburn of a lifetime, he lifted himself up to a sitting position, wincing at the burning pain under the bandages. He waved the doctor over, whose eyes bulged when he saw Zivic sitting upright.
“Lieutenant Zivic, lay back down. Now. You’ve got three days minimum recovery time in that bed while the reconstructive gels do their work.” The doctor pointed down to the pillow authoritatively.
“Doc, I’ve got work to do. The alien ship is still out there, right?”
The doctor shook his head. “None of your concern anymore. Your job right now is to heal. You’re of no use to anyone in your condition.”
His frustration was oddly gratifying. To finally feel useful, after two years of sitting at dead-end assignments. To finally feel important. To finally, well, help people. And now he had to sit again. Sit and wait.
Frustrating. Yes, it felt frustrating. But also damn good. It had been too long. He was born to fly—he had it in his blood, in his heart, and he’d let his mistakes get into his head too much. He’d let them linger there too long. The past was the past, dammit. Time to move on.
“Fine. I’ll be good.” He slowly leaned back, and the doctor nodded approvingly. “Is there at least something I can be doing while I wait this out?”
“Your bandages could use changing. The nurses are pretty damn busy with all the casualties. It’s something your friend could help with, if she’s comfortable.” He showed them the tubes of reconstructive gels that would need to be reapplied, then left in a hurry to go attend to a groaning patient on the other end of the room.
He flexed his feet again, feeling his calves slide against the interior of the boots. Something was missing.
The flasks. Both of them. He normally kept them tucked right in at the tops right below his knees. They must have fallen out during one of the mad dashes he’d had to make over the last day or so.
And he smiled—he didn’t miss them in the slightest.
“Hey, want to do something really gross?’ he said, pointing to his bandages, waggling his eyebrows.
Batak made a face, but then grinned. “That’s what she said.” She leaned forward and started unwrapping.
Chapter Fifty
Terran Sector, Terran System
Combat Operations Center, Fighter bay, ISS Independence
“Wait here, please,” Proctor said to her marine escort as they passed the doors to the fighter bay. They saluted, and she walked into the bay, which was bustling with activity. Deck hands scurried around wheeling fuel containers, ordnance loaders, and giant wrenches—like the one she’d used to club that Matriarch.
Mother-killer!
A group of fighter pilots bunched up near the door parted for her, greeting her with nods and salutes. Before she could ascend the stairs to the CIC she nearly ran into the young man she’d seen earlier, with the flopping blonde barely-regulation hair and the youthful nervous face.
“Admiral! Sorry, let me get this out of your way….” He grunted, struggling to push the heavy cylinder away from the stairs. “Just needed a place to put it during the tooling rotation of the last shift’s shuttle and fighter inspection and I—”
She smiled, trying to set the young man at ease. “It’s all right, yeoman. You’re doing a fine job.”
“Yeoman Sanders, ma’am,” he added, nervously. Good god, kid, get a grip. Haven’t you seen an admiral bef—
Oh. She saw the look of nervous adoration on his face. She’d seen it before. Grangerite.
“Thank you, Yeoman Sanders,” she said when he’d cleared the path. “Excellent work. Keep it up.”
He saluted, and kept pushing the cylinder out of the way. She climbed the stairs to the CIC, grunting against the lingering pain of her injuries. When this was all over, she told herself, she needed about two months laying on the beach.
“Welcome to the jock-cave,” said Captain Volz from his computer terminal in the corner. “This is where the magic happens. Don’t worry, I’ve got all the fighter jocks runnings sims, and my assistants are out mopping floors.”
Good. He was alone. “Have you uncovered anything about Shovik-Orion?” she said, closing the door to the CIC behind her.
“Just a little bit, Shelby. Without connecting to IDF’s network I’m only going off what we have on the ship’s database.”
“And?” She sat down next to him, glancing over his terminal.
“Just the standard stuff. They’re one of the largest military contractors, we knew that. Their contracts total over fifty trillion per year.”
“Shit,” she murmured. “That’s gone up since I left. They used to be a minor player. Like, two, three trillion, tops.”
“Yeah. Hell, I’m thinking about retiring and taking a consulting position with them for a year. Then buy myself a tropical island on Britannia.”
She leaned in to read the company profile. “Who’s their CEO?”
He frowned. “I … don’t know. The last one resigned suddenly about six months ago, and for all I know they haven’t replaced him. At least, the Independence’s computer doesn’t know.”
Strange. “How does a major company like that go six months without a CEO?”
He shrugged. “Board o
f directors? Maybe there’s company infighting. With that much in contracts coming in, politics get … serious. In the past five years they’ve gone through three CEOs, four presidents, and half their corporate board has turned over.”
She nodded. “Makes interdepartmental politics at my university seem like a toddler splashy pool.”
“The more money, the higher the stakes.”
It didn’t seem right, though. “I think we’re dealing with more here than just standard posturing within a company. This is one of the most powerful organizations in existence right now, outside of UE’s government and the other players. Russian Confederation. Chinese Intersolar Republic. Hell, just this one company has a higher cash flow than the entire Caliphate. They renamed the capital city on Bolivar Shovik-Orion City, remember?”
“Yeah. They officially moved their headquarters there two years ago. The mayor’s on the corporate board, of course?”
Proctor frowned. “Now that’s not legal.”
“Technically, it is. There was a little-noticed amendment to a funding bill in the senate two years ago that exempted Bolivar and several other worlds out in the Irigoyen and Veracruz sectors from certain corporate regulations.”
“Figures. Let me guess: the other party?”
“It always is,” Ballsy said with a smirk. “We’re talking about the same party, right?”
It was a running joke between them—they’d long been members of opposing political parties—and it was something that finally made her smile. She realized that that hadn’t happened all day. “It’s always the other party.” She wracked her brain, struggling to think, to remember … anything. Any missed detail or loose thread she’d forgotten.
It all came back to Danny. Where the hell are you?
“The girlfriend. Danny’s girlfriend. The one that was killed in the bombing at CENTCOM Bolivar. Bring up everything we’ve got on her.”
Volz tapped a few keys. “Do we know her name?”
