Independence: Book 1 of The Legacy Ship Trilogy

by Nick Webb

  After a pause, she remembered. “Fiona Liu.”

  He pulled up her data file, which was thin. “Born on San Martin, twenty-two years old … well that’s interesting.”

  “What?”

  “She attended the IDF intel academy on Britannia for two years, then dropped out.”

  “Intel? She was training to be an intelligence agent for IDF?”

  He nodded. “Looks like it. But she abruptly left. Took a job with … you guessed it. Shovik-Orion.”

  She shook her head. “So, Danny’s girlfriend gets some intel training. Quits, and takes a job with Shovik-Orion. Falls in love with my nephew, somehow ends up as an informant for both Admiral Mullins and Secretary General Curiel, and then pays for it with her life. Did I miss anything?”

  “That about sums it up. Look, Shelby, I know it’s hard to think about, but maybe your nephew was up to something no good. Maybe Liu finds out about it, the GPC gets wind, and they blow her up to cover their tracks, just … just like they probably did with Danny.”

  She couldn’t accept that. Danny wouldn’t, he just wouldn’t do something like this. But Ballsy was right. Or, at least, he was getting very, very close to the truth. The pieces were starting to come together. She stood up and started to pace. “Ok, let’s fit your son into this. And Batak. Watchdog Station gets slagged by the alien ship. In the confusion, Ethan escapes, but not before seeing two IDF officers execute a contractor—a Shovik-Orion contractor, remember.”

  He stroked his stubble. “Ok, so those two IDF guys might actually be either GPC, or Shovik-Orion themselves. They’re heavily involved in the meta-space shunt, possibly the nuke. And they see the station is about to blow up anyway, so they know there’s little risk in covering their tracks by killing their own guy. He’s going to be dust in a few minutes anyway.”

  “Right. The contractor has loaded this meta-space shunt into the shuttle. He gets shot. The two IDF guys take the shuttle and the shunt, not thinking anyone saw them. But then Ethan zooms out of the station at the last moment, and someone is watching and they realize that your boy might have seen something he shouldn’t have. So they pretend they’re with the Bolivaran Intelligence Agency—”

  “—a completely made-up organization,” he added,

  “—and try to kill the two potential witnesses. Ethan and Batak escape, and then the entire ship, the Miguel Urquiza changes course to chase them.”

  Volz shook his head in what she supposed what disbelief. “Whoever these people are, they’ve got influence.”

  She went on, piecing the puzzle together. “But by the time Ethan and Batak take the shuttle, the shunt has already been offloaded onto the Urquiza, leaving behind that ghost meta-space signature in the shuttle’s hold.”

  “So where did it go?”

  Proctor shrugged. “From the Urquiza? No idea. Could be anywhere by now. So, we’ve got another meta-space shunt out there somewhere, and according to Curiel, there’s a missing nuke.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “Well, he did give up all the other nukes the GPC had. Admiral Tigre confirmed that an hour ago. Why would Curiel give those up if he was planning on using them?”

  “To give him cover to use the one he kept.” Ballsy looked at her. “If I was a terrorist that was trying to confuse the shit out of everyone, keep everyone off balance? Might be something I’d do.”

  She nodded, and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Nested conspiracies, people willing to murder to cover their tracks, corporate overreach and abuse beyond any criminal enterprise she’d ever seen. If Shovik-Orion was truly involved in the Sangre incident, and the meta-space shunt business, then the consequences were … frightening. What was their end game? What did they want?

  Volz pointed at his screen. “Data packet from Commander Yarbrough just showed up.”

  “I’d asked him to collect all the scans of every shuttle, every container that has come aboard Independence. To see if there was something in the data that we missed. If the sensors were sensitive enough to pick up the meta-space ghost signal on Zivic’s shuttle, then maybe we could see if anything else suspicious had passed through the holds.”

  “Expecting to see something else there?” He started sifting through the data files Yarbrough had sent.

  “At this point? I’ve gotten to the point where if the unexpected doesn’t happen, then I’m pleasantly surprised.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll look it over. I just don’t think we’re going to find anything here. We need to get into the classified files at CENTCOM Earth or Britannia, and dig up the real dirt on Shovik-Orion’s IDF contacts. I bet we’ll find some real gems in there.”

  “Perhaps.”

  He cocked his head at the screen. “You’re right. When the shuttle first came aboard, the routine sensor scan picked up a minuscule variation in the q-band radiation signature. Wasn’t high enough to trip any automatic warnings, but it was definitely there.”

  She smiled. Good. They finally had real data. “Trust the data, and it’ll trust us,” she said, absentmindedly.

  “Hm?” Volz scanned more files.

  “Just something my thesis advisor always said.” She began pacing the CIC. “Don’t forget timestamps, cross-tabs, origination files, authorship credentials … everything. Dot the ‘I’s on this, Ballsy. We can’t afford anything less.”

  “You got it.”

  She crossed her arms and stopped pacing. “Also, given that IDF at the highest levels seems to be compromised, I think we should keep an eye out for—”

  “Admiral Proctor to the bridge!” Commander Yarbrough’s voice boomed through the CIC out of the speaker.

  Her eyes widened. “Commander? Status?”

  “We’re one jump away from Earth, Admiral. And based on meta-space chatter, it looks like we’re seconds behind Curiel’s fleet.”

  “His fleet? He has a fleet?”

  “Looks like it, ma’am. And he’s broadcasting some sort of ultimatum. I think you’d better get up here.”

  “Jump us the rest of the way in. I’ll be right there.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Terran Sector, Earth

  Bridge, ISS Independence

  Proctor made it to the bridge in record time, and it still felt too slow. By the time she got there, the bridge was dead silent, except for the comm speakers which were broadcasting Curiel’s voice.

  “… suffered indignation after indignation. Outrage after outrage. And Sangre de Cristo was just the tip of the iceberg, my fellow citizens. For decades, those of us on the periphery have suffered in silence while the rich get richer, those in power accumulate more power, and the small portion of society that is at the top grinds their heels down on the rest of us. The evidence that I’ve broadcast today is indisputable, and the conclusion obvious. And let me be clear. I come in peace. The Galactic People’s Congress is a peaceful, democratic organization devoted to the just and peaceful and fair government of all humanity, whatever world or moon or station they live on. If weapons are fired now or hereafter, it will never start with us. For we are—”

  Proctor glanced at Lieutenant Qwerty and motioned her hand across her throat. Curiel’s voice dropped down to a background murmur. “How long has he been going on like that? And what is this evidence he referred to?”

  “About five minutes so far of his political garbage,” said Yarbrough, with what Proctor interpreted as pure derision. “And the evidence is flimsy, at best. He claims to have a video of the Sangre incident. Contends that one of his ships was transporting a recovered nuke to CENTCOM San Martin to turn over to UE authorities when it was hijacked by an alleged shadow organization within IDF who then launched the nuke at the planet.”

  “A video? Heavily edited, no doubt. Let’s see it.” Proctor sat down in the captain’s chair.

  Qwerty nodded and brought the video up on the front viewscreen. The familiar view of Earth was replaced by a now equally familiar view of the Magdalena Issachar—familiar at least to Proctor, w
ho had spent enough time looking at a rendering of the ship, wondering if it had been her nephew’s coffin.

  Except the Magdalena Issachar wasn’t alone. A larger, sleeker vessel approached rapidly. Its lines and angles along with the subtle bristling weapons dotting the hull, made it clear that it was a state-of-the-art military ship. “Commander Yarbrough, you’ve been involved in our shipbuilding program. Is that one of ours?”

  He hesitated. “Yes, ma’am. But, according to the video, there are no hull markings. No nameplate. Nothing to identify it.”

  A pit formed in her stomach as she watched the ship dock with the Magdalena Issachar. Nothing happened for a minute, so she motioned for Qwerty to advance the video until there was more movement.

  A figure emerged from one of the smaller airlocks, clad in a vacuum suit. The distance was too great to see a face, but somehow, from the posture and the way it carried itself, the way it moved, she knew.

  “Danny,” she breathed.

  The tiny figure crawled along the hull, away from the military vessel attached to the docking port. Before long, the other ship detached, and left, and moments later the Magdalena Issachar’s engines came to life, propelling it towards the surface of Sangre de Cristo. The figure crouched on the hull, and then jumped. Both the ship and the tiny figure grew small in the video feed as they plummeted down, until finally the feed washed out with the explosion of the ship just kilometers above one of the habitat domes on the surface.

  So Danny was dead, then. She had, somehow, known deep down that was the case, and yet all along she had to be sure. Now she was sure.

  And now it was time for payback.

  “Admiral, the broadcast stopped. Secretary General Curiel is hailing us,” said Qwerty.

  She nodded. “Put him on.” The screen had returned to a view of Earth, with a smattering of ships in the foreground—Curiel’s fleet. A collection of what looked like second-hand frigates, freighters, cruise-liners, and colonial ships. Proctor suddenly understood where the fleet had come from. “Rex,” she said. The man was more than a used ship salesman. He must also have been the GPC’s lead ship procurer.

  Curiel appeared on the screen. His attractive face lined but resolute. He knew a million cameras were recording him, so he was putting on his best show. “Admiral. I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too, Curiel. Though I wonder why you are.”

  “Redress of grievances, Admiral. A basic right guaranteed by our government.”

  She shrugged. “Backed up by a fleet? Looks more like a threat to me.”

  “Honor guard. And please. These ships are no match for you or any IDF battleship.”

  Lieutenant Qwerty caught her attention. “Admiral, it’s President Quimby. He wants to talk to both you and Curiel.”

  Perfect. Just like the old days, caught up in a galactic diplomatic incident while there’s a war for survival going on. “Put him on.” Join the party.

  Now there were two men looking down at her from the screen. One telegenic and determined, leading a burgeoning resistance movement and knowing he had to come across as plausible and presidential, the other old but just as telegenic as all presidents must be, the leader of all of United Earth. “Mr. President,” she said.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be out saving civilization, Admiral?” he said. “Where’s the alien ship? Have you destroyed it yet?”

  She understood what was going on, at least on President Quimby’s end. The cameras were running, after all. Setting himself up as above politics, concerned only for the safety and security of all humanity.

  “President Quimby, you are intentionally avoiding the important issues and people I am here representing,” began Curiel. “I demand an immediate—”

  “Really, Mr. Curiel? Earth and all its worlds face an existential threat, and all you care about is politics?” Quimby tutted, and turned back to Proctor. “Admiral? I asked you a question.”

  She nodded. Dammit—getting thrust into politics was as far down her to-do list as it was possible to be. Right after scrubbing the mold off the grout in her shower. “That’s why I’m here, Mr. President. I have reason to believe that Earth itself is in immediate danger.”

  “And why would you think that, Admiral? The alien ship is not here. Do you have intel suggesting it’s on its way?”

  “I do, yes.” She didn’t know how much to tell him, at least about the cryptic warning given to her by the Skiohra matriarch, and especially over a channel that was being broadcast all over Earth.

  “And what are you here to do about it?”

  Lieutenant Whitehorse cut in. “Admiral!”

  She spun around. “What?”

  “The fighter bay. Something just came out of it. A large container. It’s—the readings are … odd.”

  “Odd?” The pit in her stomach grew deeper. “Put it onscreen.”

  The faces of the president and secretary general were replaced by a backdrop of Earth, with a storage container tumbling on its axis.

  “Get me Captain Volz,” she said.

  Qwerty shook his head. “Comm to the CIC is down. But there is an audio broadcast coming from the bay itself.” He tapped a few buttons, and the speakers blared with a vaguely familiar voice. Young and nervous.

  “Long live the Galactic People’s Congress. I do this on the orders of Secretary General Curiel, Admiral Proctor, and on behalf of all freedom-loving people across the worlds of Earth.” The voice paused, and Proctor finally recognized it. The deck hand. Floppy blonde hair kid. The one who was almost overcome with awe at the sight of her. Yeoman Sanders continued, voice rising in emotion: “We’ll never forget … we’ll never forget Sangre.”

  The voice cut out, overwhelmed by the sound of an explosion.

  She felt it underneath her feet as it shook the whole ship.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Terran Sector, Earth

  Bridge, ISS Independence

  “Explosion in the fighter bay, Admiral!” Whitehorse yelled from tactical. “Reading massive damage down there.”

  Proctor’s mouth hung open. “Ballsy,” she whispered.

  And on the screen, something happened, almost in slow motion it was so unthinkable. The walls of the storage container drifting down towards Earth fell away, revealing the contents.

  A missile, topped by the unmistakable shape of a nuclear warhead. The rocket engine at the rear ignited, and it leaped away towards the surface.

  “Commander,” she rushed over the Qwerty, “hack into it. Disable it. Disarm it.”

  “Working on it, ma’am.” His hands danced over the console like it was a piano and he was a maestro, but to her chagrin he shook his head. “I can’t get into the warhead’s control system, Admiral. It’s … wait a second. Hold on—”

  She gripped the edge of the comm station. Qwerty finally nodded. “I disabled the thrusters. It’s just ballistic now.”

  She turned to the screen. Sure enough, the rocket engine had turned off, but it was still plummeting down towards the surface. Proctor recognized the European continent down below, clouds covering half of England and France. The Alps glistened with snow down towards the southeast in the distance. “Time to impact?”

  “About twelve minutes, twenty seconds, ma’am,” said Lieutenant Whitehorse, “depending on what elevation it’s programmed to detonate at.”

  “Prepare rail-guns.”

  Whitehorse shook her head. “I don’t recommend that, ma’am.”

  “Why not?” said Proctor. “That missile is big enough to hit with mag-rail slugs,” she said, doing some quick mental calculations. The slug would hit atmosphere and encounter heavy turbulence and eddies, but it would stay on course long enough to hit the nuke. “If we miss, we’ll take another shot. As many as it takes.”

  “It’s a MIRV, ma’am. There are at least fifteen warheads on that thing. If we hit it just right, then maybe. But we hit it wrong, then we have fifteen ballistic nukes on our hands.”

  “Fine. Then we start ta
rgeting all fifteen—”

  Whitehorse’s brow furrowed. “Hang on, that’s odd.”

  Now what? Before she could ask, Lieutenant Qwerty waved a hand to get her attention. “Admiral, an IDF fleet just q-jumped into the vicinity. I’ve got Admiral Mullins on the comm.”

  “Mullins? What the hell is he doing all the way out here?” She spun around to Commander Yarbrough, who was busy with coordinating damage control for the fighter bay, presumably. “Commander? Do you know anything about this? You’ve been in contact with him.”

  He didn’t even look up. “Sorry, Admiral. I can’t answer that. My hands are a little full at the moment.”

  Whitehorse finally looked up, her expression pale. “Admiral. Weapons systems are … locked down. I can’t get into the system.”

  Proctor’s spine stiffened. The conspiracy ran deeper than I thought. She wanted to kick herself for being so careless. Attention to detail used to be her thing. When she was a captain, she’d have noticed all the little details and assembled a complete picture of the threat before anyone else even realized something was up.

  Now she was caught with her pants down.

  “Admiral Mullins coming onscreen, ma’am,” said Qwerty.

  She turned to the face on the screen. “Ted, thank god. We’ve had an … incident over here and we’ve lost access to our—”

  His face glowered at her. “How could you, Shelby? Fleet Admiral Oppenheimer trusted you to protect us against that … thing. And here you are conspiring against the legitimate government of United Earth.”

  So. Her suspicions were correct. The explosion at CENTCOM Bolivar. The officers Zivic had seen murder the contractor. The Miguel Urquiza pausing rescue operations to chase after Zivic and Batak. Mullins’s demand that Proctor return the two of them to him at Bolivar rather than to Admiral Tigre on San Martin. It all started to add up.

  And the CEO vacancy at the top of Shovik-Orion. CENTCOM Bolivar was in the heart of Shovik-Orion city.