Moving Earth

by Dean C. Moore

  Origa bowed to Sonny and disappeared, teleporting to the first of the assassins she would be speaking to who could get the word to the others much faster than she could.

  Sonny looked harshly at the Blue. “Well?”

  Gerlari waited for him to put his eyes back on her before responding. “You’re a fool.”

  Sonny’s temper flared yet again.

  She ignored him. “Sacrin is not long for this world. When he is gone, Farsi will become Leon’s wife. Even I can see that coming. It’s a natural pairing, our most brilliant war strategist coupled with the one woman that can ensure he doesn’t waste a moment traversing timelines that will slow him from achieving his aims. Every wrong decision she keeps him from making is another timeline pruned from the tree that points to his goal that he might otherwise have been tempted to branch out on.”

  Gerlari paused just long enough for Sonny to digest this.

  Then she said, “And now that Farsi is with his child, he will move quickly to create a triumvirate qualified to lock in an era of eternal peace, even if it means eradicating every last oligarch, like the pond scum that has floated to the surface that they are.”

  The Blue managed to sneak in a hiss ahead of the rest. “Any aggressive moves you take against Farsi now will only enhance Leon’s resolve that the best way to protect her, and to protect the future he desires, is by her side. Once that triumvirate is secured, not even you will have much luck getting past them.”

  Sonny clamped down on his jaw so hard that he was spitting out his own blood and teeth moments later. “For people like Leon and I there is no final move on the board. It isn’t over until it’s over, and it’s never over.”

  Sonny threw down the rag he was wiping himself with and marched past her to jump into the shower, less to wash the sins of the moment off him than to wash the failures and setbacks in his plans off him.

  The Blue let him get the last word in as he marched past her. There was really nothing more she had to say on the subject in any case.

  ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN

  THE RIPPA GALAXY

  THE CORVEX SOLAR SYSTEM

  SOLAR-BASED SPACE STATION, RA

  Rippa’s entire Corvex solar system had been turned into a military station and spaceport. The planets had been hollowed out to store the space fleets; and the asteroids and planetoids, the weapons stockpiles. Artificial habitats dotting the solar system were where the nextgen technologies were developed.

  The shipping lanes around each planet, like the rings of Saturn in Earth’s solar system, were in fact wormholes which could be focused to deploy the fleets stored in each world-size hangar to their front-line locations.

  Galactic-scale war birds and their smaller solar system sister ships were parked like airplanes at an airport on top of the “shipping lanes” or wormholes in the event the solar system itself came under attack. The outer casings of those wormholes, needless to say, were quite stable and, despite the circular nature of the tubes, were plenty wide enough across to accommodate multiple lines of ships before the curve of the tubes became noticeable. Not that it mattered. Starships were parked around the entire circumference of the tube, magnetized there, no anti-gravity required.

  The technology responsible for stabilizing the wormholes was intimately connected with the technology for hollowing out the planets. The hollowed out planets had shells about them, as well, constructed from materials once trapped inside the planets’ cores. Inside these empty shells were disciplined miniature black holes, that the shells were impervious to, used for keeping the space inside phase-shifted, so that innumerable craft could be stored within, voiding any limits implied by the diameter of the hollow spheres.

  The ships had been constructed from planetary core materials also, but should those resources become depleted, the AI-controlled black holes could pull in the materials from anywhere in the cosmos as needed with which to build more starships. The same space-warping magic was on display within the asteroids, planetoids, and artificial space stations as well, just on a smaller scale, ensuring that existing starships or new ones coming on line never ran short of weapons and supplies.

  The technology used in the construction of the spaceports the Rippa designed, as spaceports went, was without equal within The Collectors’ Menagerie.

  But so far Sacrin had just described the body. The ships, the stockpiles of weapons, even the next-gen procurement habitats were all deemed expendable. The ships were in fact all droids, their supersentients making humanoid infestation neither necessary nor desirable. A human presence would mean making compromises between sustaining life-support systems and sustaining the war effort. Something the Rippa found unwise.

  The brain attached to this body was a space station, located, for protective purposes, in the heart of the sun of the solar system. Although the Rippa found even that protective measure insufficient. They were currently building a Dyson sphere around the sun to further ensure anyone who could pass through the sun, tolerating its unbelievable heat and pressures, never got the chance.

  The Rippa, it went without saying, were big on overkill. Even so, they were the pragmatists of all the galaxies in The Collectors’ Menagerie. Hard to provoke. Slow to react. Preferring diplomacy and tact over brute force. Though, to be clear, Corvex was the diplomacy and tact division.

  Entire galactic sectors, grouping many suns and solar systems together, were where Rippa kept its armadas when diplomacy, that was to say, intimidation, failed.

  If you wanted a conventional spacewar fought, the Rippa were your guys. Since few wars were conventional anymore, they contented themselves with selling off their fleets, their weapons, and their next gen tech, making much of the galaxy little more than a warehousing district in the larger business-to-business transactions that went on on an intergalactic scale.

  Sacrin materialized in the heart of the solar-based space station referred to as Ra. Both he and Farsi had frail bodies relative to super-gravity environments, and neither had protective suits on. Both of them were being sheltered by the Cream Umbrage’s spinal cord reflexes—amped up while she was pregnant. The spherical energy shield about them that sprang up instantly on beaming in was palpable. While it didn’t prevent them from standing on solid ground, it did keep the sun’s more taxing effects away from them.

  The Rippa high command took a collective step back upon seeing Sacrin and Farsi. Never mind that the shapeshifting species, currently working on the dome construction, were morphed into giants to accommodate reaching the uppermost crest of the dome. Leadership instantly shrank themselves down to a more respectful size.

  Their security, on the other hand, less in the know evidently, either lunged at Farsi and Sacrin, or raised their weapons if they were not close enough to lunge. Those acting in a threatening manner were turned to ash before posing any real danger by the growingly sentient energy sphere protecting Farsi and her baby. The shield disintegrated the attackers doing the lunging and their weapons on contact, and reflected back the lasers being fired at it to take out the ones holding the rifles instead.

  Farsi bowed to the Rippa high command. “I apologize. I’m with child, which means my spinal cord reflexes are enhanced well beyond my ability to shut them down. I hope you will understand.”

  Not only did they not understand, they were highly perturbed. So much for the Dyson sphere still under construction providing the ultimate protection. They got the distinct impression that even if it were complete it wouldn’t slow Farsi down one bit. All the same, none of them moved or took any more provocative action. They were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  Whatever metal polymer alloy they were using for the struts of the dome, they had morphed themselves into the same material in order to better understand the material they were working with, it’s strengths as much as its limitations. They were famous for this particular Zen and the Art of Craftsmanship technique.

  “We would like to ask you to cease and desist with your warfare on the Gypsy Galaxy,�
� Sacrin said. “I think you know you can’t ultimately win, but you can stall Leon enough, forcing him to divide his forces, to give The Collectors the advantage they need.”

  “Our intelligence says we’re gaining ground, and victory is assured,” one of the generals in the room replied.

  Sacrin sighed. He was losing his stamina for negotiations with age. Techa help him if he couldn’t talk his way past the more reasonable, level-headed species in the Menagerie. What would be his value-add then? Farsi must have sensed him wavering and interceded in their exchange.

  “Forgive Sacrin,” she said. “He is weary from negotiating with far less reasonable species in the Menagerie. Your choice is simple. Sabotage the prison escape and be stuck here forever, or help us all to break out of here.”

  The generals eyed one another. They were evidently well aware of what Leon was up to.

  “Why would we want to escape? Business is brisk for us, and outside the Menagerie are more sophisticated players less likely to have much need for what we can supply them.” It was the same general that had spoken earlier.

  “Because I can steer a path for you into the future that is brighter than any The Collectors can offer you,” Farsi replied.

  “Forgive us. We are aware of the Cream Umbrage, of course, and just what you’re capable of. But with stakes this high, possibly you, too, would lie. And even if you speak the truth, my people are too unlikely to take the word of someone they will see as a witch or soothsayer. First you will have to convince our supersentients. If their probabilistic analyses back up what you’re saying, then you will have to convince our people. They will not believe the supersentients either, not trusting them anymore. And, if the legends are true, your mind is too advanced for you to simply beam your thoughts into their minds without frying them. Again, if the legends are true, you will need a Red Umbrage to convince them.”

  Sacrin turned to face his wife. This was the first time he’d even heard of the Red Umbrage, and his knowledge of legend was encyclopedic. He might be losing his mind, but that kind of trivia would be the last to go; it was too much of a strategic advantage; he’d sooner forget his name than anything which bore on political machinations. Clearly his people’s legends were incomplete. Even more clearly, the different colored Umbrage only crossed paths with various civilizations as needed.

  Farsi didn’t turn to him but instead smiled and bowed at the general talking to her. “I have already reached out to Solo. You will get your Red Umbrage.”

  The generals regarded one another again, mumbling Solo’s name under their breaths, their tones conveying, “Holy Shit!” if Sacrin read the Rippa correctly, and it was his job to.

  “Out of respect for Solo, we will recall our fleets immediately. But to avoid insurrection among our own ranks…” the general said.

  “The Red Umbrage will be here long before the revolt starts.” Farsi once again bowed to him and this time he bowed back. Then he gestured to the other generals to carry out his demands. They did not hesitate relaying the orders to recall the fleets.

  Sacrin could see on the curved wall monitors of the circular room the wormholes firing up, glowing, and the fleets pouring back into their “hangars”—the hollowed out planets under hard shells.

  He bowed to the general in turn. “Thank you.”

  Sacrin and Farsi were beaming out.

  ***

  THE RIPPA HIGH COMMAND CENTER

  Farsi had glanced at him before departing, as if he wasn’t fooling her for a second. He swore she even smiled at him, but who knew what that expression meant on a Cream Umbrage exactly? Like everything else about them, their smiles likely had ten shades of meaning.

  The moment she and Sacrin were gone, Falstaff beamed himself out of the Rippa Sol command center. He didn’t much care at this point if anyone noticed, or figured out what he had been really up to the whole time he was there, passing himself off as Rippa high command. They would find the actual general merely bound and gagged, but unharmed, leaving interpretations very open as to what side Falstaff was on. For all the Rippa knew Falstaff was only there to confirm for Leon that negotiations had gone his way.

  ***

  Falstaff beamed onto the Lucky Streak moments later. He hated transporters of any kind; they always left him nauseous. He greeted Sonny by vomiting all over him. Sonny chuckled and gestured to his people to stand down. “I know you wouldn’t vomit over me only to follow such a vile act up with bad news. Isn’t that right, Falstaff?”

  When he was slow to respond, Sonny said, “I presume Farsi is dead.”

  “No one has even gotten close, sir. Either she, or someone in the crowds looking to gain her favor, cuts the assassins down first. And now that she is with child…she hardly needs the protection.”

  Sonny’s expression was hardening and Falstaff suddenly looked scared. “It gets worse, sir. Farsi has convinced the Rippa to stand down,” Falstaff said.

  Sonny painted a plastic smile on his face, turned to his Blue. “If you would please rip his face off.”

  The Blue regarded Falstaff. “He is no threat to you.”

  Sonny took a deep breath. “You’re right. Such things are beneath you, but they aren’t beneath my Shadow Warriors. We’re true egalitarians.” He gestured to his people who took Falstaff away by the arms. Raising his voice, Sonny said, “Make sure you don’t peel away his face all at once, and that you have the decency to hold a mirror up to the man.”

  “Such impotent gestures are beneath you,” the Blue said. “A man who cannot marshal his own emotions cannot marshal the emotions of others.”

  Sonny leaned on one of his gaming tables that suddenly looked very vacated, and sighed. “Thank Techa you Blues are women of few words, or the tongue lashings would be unendurable.” He slammed his fists into the patterned stretch cloth of the table top branded with the game’s markings. “All the same, you’re right. Impotent responses will hardly cut it. Only what to do next?” He rolled the die, playing the craps game against himself for now.

  He kept rolling the die that kept coming up snake eyes until he finally rolled a seven, in time with his revelation. “If Leon manages, against all odds, to turn back this tsunami I’ve sent against him and somehow manages not to drown under it, The Collectors will have no choice but to make a more decisive move. We’re going to make sure they have all the helping hands they need.” He turned to the Blue. “You can’t see far into the future like the Creams, but you can anticipate war strategies heading your way?”

  “No, only battles that I’m directly involved in, as they’re happening.”

  Sonny hammered his fists into the gaming table this time hard enough to crack it.

  “Might I suggest your spies alert us to when The Collectors initiate their endgame, and that you beam us directly into the line of battle,” the Blue said.

  Sonny smiled. “Excellent advice.”

  ***

  ABOARD THE NAUTILUS

  Solo marched the aisle of transparent cylinders, each one holding a different colored Umbrage. Behind each vertically-standing tube lay more of the same colored remnants of a once proud Guardian race. It was unclear how many of each color Solo had at his disposal from this angle.

  He stopped at the cylinder housing the Red Umbrage.

  Once out of the bottles, the genies were very hard to put back in. If Solo was gone come time to recall any of them, there would be no getting them back in.

  His face was one of pure consternation as he stared at the Red.

  “And why are we messing around with primitives?” He was talking to the Cream Umbrage Farsi across space-time as if it didn’t exist. No Singularity Phone required.

  “Those primitives do have other advantages. And they can be uplifted with time.”

  Solo groaned. “Not until the prison break is complete. Just one of the Reds could undo everything we’ve worked on.”

  “I’ve anticipated your demand and already worked it into the agreement,” Farsi replied.


  “Very well then.” Solo cut the connection and proceeded down the aisle through the rest of the rainbow of colors.

  “Mother, you know to kill first and ask questions later should anyone get near this area?”

  “Of course, Solo.”

  “When I find the sadist who decided to give me my own harem… Do I look like a people person? I hate every race, most of all my own. As for the females of my species… they would send Lucifer himself back to kindergarten to be properly schooled this time in the art of seduction.”

  Solo continued huffing and puffing and bitching as he walked, “And now I must suffer yet another color coming on line?”

  “Would you like me to shoot you first and ask questions later, Solo?” Mother asked.

  “If you would be so kind.”

  ***

  ABOARD THE POLARIS

  As soon as Sacrin and Farsi stepped foot on the palace ship, after beaming up from Ra, Sacrin was taking her head off. “A Red Umbrage! I prefer it when these genies remain in their bottles!”

  “I assure you, the only one more pissed right now than you is Solo. The decision to release any Umbrage onto the stage is never taken lightly. Wars at the universal level, not just the transgalactic level, have started over as much.”

  Sacrin groaned. “And what happens when the Red’s work is finished? We can’t just leave that loose cannon walking around.”

  “I will assign her to one of the Cream Umbrage that handles the outlier worlds, too primitive to understand what a Cream Umbrage can do for them without the Red to broach the gap.”

  “What do I need to know about a Red?” Sacrin’s tone suggested he was a long way from being placated.

  “They get inside people’s heads and do whatever it takes to get them to see reason, appealing to them in a language the locals can understand.”

  “You mean she’ll turn their own fears against them?”

  Farsi sighed. “And their wildest dreams both. Whatever it takes to secure a win.”

  Sacrin groaned. “The Rippa is right to refer to you as witches. I’d use the same language if I hadn’t spent my entire life training as a diplomat to secure my gains as a businessman.”