It was just dumb luck. He knew that. Having a highly unbreakable body, this time, had worked against the Peacekeeper’s better interests.
The Peacekeeper’s weapons bays were not fixed, but constantly moving, so should the ship’s designs fall into enemy hands, particular weapons solutions which might most impact Pria’s adversaries could not be targeted.
Those weapons bays on each deck didn’t just move on some conveyor belt which itself could be shut down. The space cannons, laser pulse rifles, et al, teleported from one location to the next. The tubes or tunnels enclosing the different firing solutions were wormholes attuned to the hull sensors. The moment a section of hull sensed a particular weapon’s solution headed its way, the right defensive firing solution teleported into place to fend it off.
Evidently, Rayban had been the best solution for repelling this enemy. He and his peashooter, which seldom saw much action in a warbird of this class.
But he couldn’t stop what was coming at him.
Techa, what a mess!
The two weapons bays would self-repair in seconds.
That may as well have been eternity raised to the nth power as far as Pria was concerned, working in Singularity Time.
As to Rayban, well, his body was typically immune to plasma blasts. Most of the engineers slash gunnies down here were pretty damn battle-hardened. There was a time in his past when his kind was used to clear minefields simply by walking through them. But this plasma weapon had come with something extra.
He glanced at his chest. It was mostly gone. The thin threads left framing his outline would not have been enough to keep the two parts of him together in most classes of humanoids. Alas, he wasn’t sure that was much of a blessing in this case.
The plasma ball had bored through him to explode some distance behind, explaining why the rest of his body had survived. But the superfluids that had come pouring in through the hull, the sap of the destroyed Trees of Life ships still floating around out there, were slowing repairs in here. He couldn’t even get up off the floor. He just had no traction against the frictionless material.
He sent a bitchy, scathing report to Pria regarding needed bioengineering she should have thought to provide him with the first time. Maybe in his next bioprinting, he’d get the upgrade request he just put through. Barring that, he would still have the satisfaction of seeing back through five billion years of war history he’d lived through personally. Unlike other humanoids in her charge with Pria had printed up with fake histories to go with her ever-evolving weapons solutions, Rayban had been one of the few to actually date back as far as Pria did. That was the advantage of dying and being reborn again in the loving embrace of a supersentience overseeing his bioprinter. Maybe Rayban had seen enough fighting for one lifetime. And he’d retire in his next incarnation to be a war history professor. They would be in high demand throughout the Gypsy Galaxy Grouping going forward; he could depend on that. Assuming Pria allowed this final thought to carry through to his reincarnated self. She might well be editing his memories for her benefit. Techa, the chain of command was a real bitch; and supersentiences hadn’t changed that much. To say nothing of not being able to stray from character for five billion years. He was beginning to see why people took up acting.
Now, as to the agonizing, gut-wrenching pain, even in the absence of guts… it would be seconds more before those nerve-endings could convey how they truly felt about all this. What joy. So much to look forward to.
***
GENERAL SCHOPENHAUER’S PEACEKEEPER
THE SECONDARY BRIDGE
General Schopenhauer surveyed his secondary bridge deck, made to accommodate a much larger bridge crew than the primary command module above. “Looks like we’ll be retiring to the primary bridge. I hope you people had the good sense to see to it that the most essential clones of the lot of you are already waiting for me.” He was addressing their ghosts, daring them to leave the room before he was done issuing his orders. Or he may as well have been. Not a single crew member had survived the relentless laser attack. The chamber had been turned into a pin cushion to store light-needles. For all of Pria’s ability while operating in Singularity State to singlehandedly stave off an invading galactic fleet big enough to fill up their entire galaxy, it seemed she was not invulnerable. He figured he’d survived via the same dumb luck that had gotten him this far—off a world under relentless asteroid bombardment no less. He should have been dead a hundred times over before boarding the ship.
The secondary bridge was repairing itself post haste. His crew, on the other hand… well, if they managed to pull themselves together, it wouldn’t be in any timeframe that served his interests. “No offense, ladies and gentlemen and whatever. I just don’t have time to pay my proper respects.”
Schopenhauer got on the elevator and headed up to the primary bridge.
Much to his relief, it was manned, and waiting for him.
“I assume Pria is still in command and you’re all sitting around with your thumbs up your asses because it’s the wisest move in my absence.”
“Yes, sir,” came the chorus throughout the room.
Seven officers.
It wasn’t much, but at least it was a lucky number.
“Just how damaged are we?” Schopenhauer asked to any and all.
“The damage is minor, sir, but operating in singularity state, minor damage can pile up quickly, and molehills can turn into mountains in the bat of an eye.” That was a strange Octopus dude with a balloon-like head bigger and taller than Schopenhauer was at 6’ 5”. The creature’s many tentacles seemed to be doing the work for twelve officers, spread across a number of consoles, so all in all, a good choice for a primary bridge crew member, not to mention his big brain promising all kinds of utility.
“Just how long before damage to the Peacekeeper hits critical mass?” Schopenhauer asked.
“Less than a nanosecond,” Octopus Dude replied. Schopenhauer would get names later. It hardly seemed to matter now.
“So plenty of time to complete our mission, then?”
“A virtual eternity, but whether that’s enough time is something you’ll get to judge for yourself. Pria keeps the primary bridge in singularity state.”
“Shit!” Schopenhauer’s attention shot to the big screen—the port to the stars. It should have occurred to him that none of his conversation would have made a bit of sense otherwise. The mission would have been long over.
He raced to his captain’s chair. “Why didn’t someone tell me this was a strap-in affair?” Schopenhauer buckled his seatbelts crossing over both shoulders together and himself into his command chair as the ship took another shuddering hit. “Who are we fighting again?”
The crew regarded one another, concerned over Schopenhauer’s memory lapse.
“The entire intergalactic invasion force, sir, more star fleets than you can possible keep track of in your tiny brain,” Octopus Dude said.
“And what have we got in play?”
“Just us, sir,” the talking crayon said.
“Against an invasion that spans the entire Gypsy Galaxy! Son, did you have your Wheaties this morning?”
All of his bridge crew members swiveled on their chairs toward him.
“Great,” Octopus Dude said in a tone that didn’t sound so great. “For all we know, this is the sane part of him, and the orders we’re acting on came from the demented side of him.”
They all pivoted back to their stations.
Schopenhauer was fighting against the restraints of his captain’s chair. “Who tied me down? Get me out of this mess right now, or I’ll have your asses!”
Octopus Dude just shook his head. The others just ignored Schopenhauer. “Pria,” Octopus Dude said, “mute the captain, please. So I can concentrate on what the hell I’m doing!”
“Listen to me, you pissant—” Schopenhauer never got out the rest of his rant. He’d been muted with noise canceling technology so precise…Just wait until I get my hands on
that Pria bitch, whoever she is. “This is mutiny, you hear! Mutiny!” It didn’t matter how loud he shouted. He couldn’t hear himself talk.
EIGHTY-THREE
ABOARD THE NAUTILUS
Crumley heard the splash a blue whale makes after breeching coming from behind him.
There wasn’t much that could take his eyes off the viewport right now, but the sound bore investigation.
It was Leon, crawling out of the rejuvenation tank.
Crumley rushed to steady him before he fell over. Having experienced it firsthand, he could honestly say that collapsing was not a good look on Leon.
Still dripping wet and trying to cough the breathable liquid from his lungs out of his mouth, and with it also oozing out his nose and eyes, Leon tried to talk. That’s when he remembered the small problem of the liquid filling his lungs. He bent over and hacked the last of it out. Crumley helped him with a knee to the stomach.
It wasn’t quite the Heimlich maneuver, but it seemed to help.
“Thanks,” Leon said.
“Sleeping Beauty picked a hell of a time to awaken.”
“Give me the bullet,” Leon said, still trying to get the liquid out of his eyes, which was viscous enough to be blurring his sight.
“General Schopenhauer…”
“That madman?”
“Um,” Crumley continued, “has decided to take on an intergalactic invasion force saturating the Gypsy Galaxy, single-handedly, in his Peacekeeper.”
Leon nodded, then chuckled. “I remember now. He succeeds, too, barely. At least in the dozen or so timelines I checked out with him in it.”
“Let’s hope you didn’t return to the timeline where he doesn’t succeed.”
Leon approached the viewport with the cinemascope view of the war in progress. The smart screen, of course, was slowing things down for human absorption; the war was taking place well outside the timeframe mortals could possibly respond in. The screen was cutting to whatever vantage point on the war offered the most intel, offering up essentially a highlights reel. That highlights reel in turn was provided by Mother’s having hacked the COMMS of numerous enemy vessels in addition to being looped into her own deployed fleet.
As Leon’s eyes cleared, he said, “My God, it never gets any less impressive every time I look at it.” All the same, he pulled his eyes away from the screen a few seconds later. “Come on,” he said, “we’ve got to get to Nemo.”
“You mean Solo?”
“Yeah. You wouldn’t believe how many timelines in which they refer to him as Nemo, the man who can resurrect the Nautilus from oblivion, even when Natty can’t.”
Crumley had him by the shoulder, helping him to walk. But after a few steps, Leon broke free of the hold. “I’ll be all right. It’s everyone else I’m worried about.”
Leon took one last look back at the viewport as they headed out of his chambers.
Once in the great hall of the Nautilus, they marched toward Solo’s private chambers. Crumley asked, “Why did you pick now to come up for air?”
“If Schopenhauer succeeds, it’ll cause our enemies and allies alike to fall in line. It will mean a complete cessation of all hostilities between warring galaxies. The TGCs will be convinced we have what it takes to break us the hell out of The Collectors grip. The TGEs will just be too afraid of being bombed back into the Stone Age by our technology and will let The Collectors deal with us, biding their time to resume their animosities toward all parties.”
“The cessation of all warfare… That’s what brings The Collectors? When nothing else would?”
Leon nodded, and then shook off the rest of his fatigue. “We won’t have much time.”
“But if you were right in suspecting that they don’t get their hands dirty, they just play the different parties off one another, advancing their hidden agenda indirectly through the progress we make in killing one another, what moves could they possibly have left?”
Leon groaned. “You sure you don’t want me to help you walk?” he said, noticing Crumley starting to stagger.
Crumley made a sour face. “Just give it to me straight.”
“The Collectors don’t exist in space-time, not exactly. They can’t be reached by us. Unless Solo…” They were at Solo’s chambers, and the doors slid open to admit them.
Solo read Leon’s face and his mind, and realized just which Leon he was dealing with. “You want me to access the nodal point?”
Leon nodded. “The thin slice of each of these universes that comprises the artificial multiverse created by The Collectors for their prison, it’s held together by that nodal point. If we can destroy it, we can set all the trapped parties free.”
“I thought you didn’t want to do that,” Crumley interjected, “just the TGCs which can be reasoned with, not being overly addled by greed and power.”
“That’s just it,” Leon explained. “I don’t think The Collectors will let it come to that. They won’t sacrifice the entire prison just to keep the Gypsy Galaxy and its small posse of tag-along galaxies in here.”
Solo nodded. “We should bring the other madman into the mix, Dillon, Hailey’s father. His aptitude with celestial physics so far…”
Leon smiled. “Not like you to accept help, Solo, from anyone.”
Solo demonstrated for him, changing the display on the smart-screen that gave a cinemascope view of the stars and the war in progress, with a wave of his hand.
“The nodal point to which you refer,” Solo said, “is a Lagrange point—a place where all of the parallel universes in the multiverse of The Collectors Prison comingle without grating against one another. I don’t have to tell you that it is as artificial as this multiverse they’ve concocted. Such a thing in nature, would be incredibly rare… one, perhaps, in all the multiverses of the multiverse of multiverses.”
“And how do you know they, or whoever they work for, didn’t find it?” Leon asked.
“Anticipating just this conversation, I’ve been probing the nature of the nodal region for some time,” Solo said. “I’m afraid even if they found the needle in the haystack, the fact that it could have persisted for billions of years on its own…Well, that’s another set of nearly impossible odds.
“Still…” Solo seemed to get lost in his mind.
“What, Solo?” Leon asked.
“If it is artificial, the technology that allows for it is well beyond anything we have. I’ve used my mind to scan our entire menagerie of legacy tech, including much that Theta Team hasn’t even had a chance to look at yet, or Mother, for that matter. I’ve also scanned what the other galactic empires and civilizations in The Collectors’ Menagerie have to work with, interfacing with Omni, as needed. And there’s just nothing, I tell you…”
“It gets worse,” Leon said.
Solo’s eyes which were losing focus again, rapidly refocused on Leon. “What, Leon?”
“In the event anyone in this prison has any bright ideas about getting free, and should get close enough to pull it off…” Leon said.
“The guards at the gate,” Crumley mumbled.
Leon nodded. “There’s an armada sitting in the nodal region, out of our reach, out of traditional space-time. And I’m betting they come equipped with tech we’re no match for either.”
“And they’ll come flooding in the instant the truce is declared,” Crumley said, putting the pieces together for himself. “If only to take us out so that hostilities may resume. What I don’t understand is why play us off one another to watch our war games evolve if they were never going to let it evolve to where it could be of any use, far less, any threat to them?”
Leon regarded Crumley wide-eyed. “My clone tasked with the Forbidden Zones on Earth, who I left in command, didn’t tell you?”
“It’s possible the intel is circulating around in Mother’s brain,” Solo said, “and she has not forwarded it to us because she’s overwhelmed, or because it’s a puzzle piece that she’s not ready to lay down yet.”
Leon sighed. “I suspect the ones who installed The Collectors as our prison wardens continue to be interested in the many paths galactic civilizations could take to reach new heights,” Leon said. “That way there’s no chance of being blindsided by tech no one saw coming from a relatively primitive society. It’s an imperfect system, since they can’t possibly monitor everybody. But if they can put a large enough sampling of lifeforms under enough pressure…”
“Where things evolve fastest,” Crumley said, again keeping pace with Leon’s reasoning. “Gods, too, at least relative to us, in the form of the TGCs and TGEs that subcontracted out to The Collectors, can do the devil’s work, forever finding ways to pull the crabs back down into the bucket the instant any is about to crawl over the lip, counting on the other crabs to do most of the work for them, so they hardly have to intervene.”
“It’s important to remember,” Leon said, “that this prison was created for a number of reasons, all of which we may never know. You can bet keeping these galactic civilizations from ever becoming a threat to the TGCs and TGEs that locked them up in here was a big part of the motivation behind this multiverse prison. But understanding the true nature of The Collectors, the jailors that do the handiwork of the TGCs and TGEs, is what will best serve us as regards making our escape.
“What Omega Force Clone Team One found out to that end,” Leon continued, “is all-important. They isolated the race they believe to be the ancestors of The Collectors on a world known as Sanguis. They were then a race of psychic vampires.”
His audience took a collective step back as if he had released a bomb in the room, and they had been forced back by its blast radius. Leon pressed on anyway. “Since then they have evolved their methods, learning to feed psychically off of others without actually killing them.”
“All they have to do is fan the flames of war on the worlds in their charge, feed off the additional psychic energy, without the hosts even knowing they’re being fed off of.” The bands in Solo’s rainbow eyes were twirling about one another as he ran the calculations in his head, very possibly trying to nail down how much psychic energy these psychic vampires needed.
Moving Earth Page 70
