First Lt. Percy Muldoon provided levity as Michael’s duty partner. He carried a load of Lin’taava swords lifted off the bodies.
“Cooper, I know you got a bug up your butt about the Anchor test, but you’re staring down a win-win proposition, my friend.”
Michael raced his fingers through a holocube, bringing a clamp down upon a Mongol whose head no longer existed.
“How do you figure, Muldoon?”
“If the Anchor works, we toast over some jube. If it don’t, you’re going to be feeling like a damn stud anyway. I saw how Col. Broadman focused her laser beams on you before the crack of dawn. She’s going to have your meat, one way or the other.”
Michael didn’t try to dispute it.
“Jealous, Muldoon?”
“Cud, yes. I’ve been trying to spark Broadman for weeks. Not a damn bite. Shit, Cooper. I figured maybe I wasn’t her type. But all the scuttlebutt says she don’t have a type. And if she’s gonna let you shove your black driver into her glory cave, then what the serious fuck is wrong with me?”
Michael liked Percy. They made a good team. They saved each other’s life on more than one occasion. Outside of Maya Fontaine, Percy was Michael’s best friend in the station. But Percy was, in the end, as condescending and xenophobic as most other Chancellors he’d known. Exhausted by it all, Michael rarely showed his justifiable indignation at these people anymore. On first Earth, he might have come out swinging – literally – but now he had far bigger concerns. Best to keep Percy on his side. Plus, Michael drew a measure of satisfaction in hearing much of his Southern slang, vulgarity, and colloquialisms popping up in the soldiers he served alongside.
“What can I say, Muldoon?” He raised a fist toward the sky. “Black power.”
“What’s that? Some kind of magic?”
“Thought you people didn’t believe in magic, unless it came out the smart end of a blast rifle.”
“Yeah, well, been rethinking that whole concept. Saw some stream vids of what your old buddy James Bouchet can do with a touch. If that ain’t magic, Cooper, whatcha gonna call it?”
Michael sighed. “Don’t know. Don’t care. If you want to find out, better get to him before I do.”
“Yeah, yeah. The invasion force will send you in first to cut off the head and leave mop-up for us.” Percy dropped the sword collection into a drone-powered mobile furnace. “You got to admit, Cooper. If we could harness that asshole’s magic sauce, we could solve a lot of problems. And I’m not just talking Chancellors. Every colony has issues, especially with the food supply chain. Shitload of indigos think he’ll solve it all.”
Michael didn’t want to slow the body disposal process, but he felt a familiar impatience whenever anyone suggested James might become a useful resource. He never forgot the last conversation with James and Samantha. Onboard a Scramjet leaving the Isle of Seneca, James made clear why he had to move forward on his own:
“I am a killer,” he said. “It’s part of who I am now. It feels natural. It’s this hunger. What you saw on the island … that last man without his weapon? I stood over him and I aimed my rifle at his head, and I felt like a giant. I enjoyed it. I wanted more. I still do. I always will.”
Everything Michael heard or saw since proved James’s savagery. He pivoted to Percy.
“Trust me, Muldoon, he can’t solve all their problems. Even if he could, he wouldn’t try. Dudes like him put on a show because they know most people are stupid as fuck. You win them over with shiny things and magic tricks. We had these TV shows on first Earth called infomercials. Thirty minutes advertising some gadget or makeup or weight-loss vitamin that was gonna change your goddamn life. Couple of smooth talkers on stage. Usually some washed-up actor who couldn’t find a job doing nothing else. And the audience? Lobotomized halfwits smiling like four-year-olds waiting for a bowl of ice cream. Trust me, Muldoon. Whatever James is selling won’t produce anything on the back end but blood.”
Percy offered a thumbs-up. “I don’t understand half your references, Cooper, but I’m sure you make perfect sense. I hope you get your wish to blow away that cudfrucker.”
“Me, too,” Michael whispered and continued his work.
An hour later, that hope stood on a knife’s edge as he waited in the Level 1 research facility for the first live test of the Anchor system. He arrived fresh from disposal duty, seconds before the scientific team, led by Frances Bouchet, briefed observers on the procedure. He reported to his commanding officer, Maj. Aiden Nilsson, and shared a hopeful nod with Maya, who observed from a distance beside her boss, Cm. Aldo Cabrise.
The facility – Michael thought the official designation “laboratory” was an understatement – defied the claustrophobic limitations of the top two levels of the station. Originally a massive cavern fifty meters long and half as wide, the laboratory was brightly lit, its glow radiating a surprising intensity for anyone who hadn’t been outside to experience sunlight in a while. In other words, most of the staff. At the rear, a series of black globular machines interconnected by huge conduits housed the energy drawn directly from the Void. Crates of equipment, brought in periodically by Scramjet, lined the walls on one side. In the center, three islands of light tables displayed holowindows, each a transmission from the sites targeted for today’s test. But all eyes, Michael’s especially, focused on the beast they called an Anchor.
At first blush, it seemed less a machine than a series of bowlegged grappling hooks reaching outward from a central pylon in contorted directions. At the end of each hook, a laser-focusing array extended like a hand with three surgically joined fingers.
Frances called the observers to attention. Six of her team flanked her. Most of the staff of seventy filled the audience ranks, although only Nilsson and Michael represented the Guard. Capt. Delano Forsythe and Col. Joseph Doltrice watched via holowindow from the landing bay of Praxis alongside three Presidium representatives.
“I do not understate,” Frances began, “the moment you are about to witness. Of thirty-five billion humans in the Collectorate, you are among the few who will see everything change. We will have a weapon to destroy these terrorists. Of course.” She pointed to the Anchor. “But long after those pretenders have been forgotten, every dream will become achievable. All we will have to do is walk through a door.”
That simple? Michael had more than enough time to think about the possibilities, cramped inside this mountain. Surely, the others did as well. Instantly jumping between any two points in the universe? That, Michael reasoned, sounded like the sort of flexibility best left for God. In the hands of Chancellors? Holy shit.
Those nightmarish possibilities would have to wait. If this monstrosity could drop him on Hiebimini to rescue Sam and send James straight to hell, he’d gladly accept a moratorium on his terror. One step at a time, asshole.
Frances turned over description of the machine to her top scientist, Oliver Huron. He opened a holocube and swooped fingers through code which ignited the Anchor. The grappling hooks repositioned themselves as if the limbs of a creature just awakening. Their focusing arrays pulsated red.
“Filtering the Void’s energy to create a doorway by folding black matter substrata,” he began, “in such a confined space requires a delicate arrangement of tools.” He pointed to the hooks. “We call them the foci arms. Each has a unique task, but they must work in unison. One will dispense Void energy with our local quantum signature. Another will produce the destination signature. They are predetermined using the Galactic Plane Navigation Model. A third foci opens the aperture, much like you’d expect when entering a wormhole. The remaining arms establish a black matter field which links both ends of the doorway. After the Anchor systems become cohesive, the Void effect is triggered. We fold space.”
Michael, like all those not on the development team, was seeing an Anchor for the first time. Hearing Oliver describe the machine drew a broad mix of gasps and bloated eyes, not far removed from the reaction of the halfwits on infomercials. H
e waited for the applause.
“What’s going to happen next,” Oliver continued, “might seem unnerving at first. But trust me, we have run thousands of simulations. The effects will be contained safely within the Anchor field.”
Frances then spoke to the observers on Praxis and sent a coded transmission to her husband on Euphrates. Within seconds, she received confirmation that all sites were ready to receive. She stepped aside, along with most of the scientific team, and gave Oliver permission to launch the Anchor.
He waved inside his holocube and pulled at codes with a determined fist. The Anchor responded, its foci arms rearranging into a new geometry similar to a steep parabola. A sequence of lasers infused the open space inside, perhaps ten feet across. In the first seconds, Michael recognized the familiar green haze he experienced looking at the Void up close from the viewing platform. Yet the foggy field disrupted as competing quantum signatures created a deep, three-dimensional effect. A holowindow above the field mapped the new, developing doorway using the Galactic Plane.
Then the impossible. A tunnel, black as midnight and pulsating with a heartbeat, dominated the field. It seemed to absorb green Void energy from the array holding the station’s local quantum signature. Most observers held their position, but a few gasped and took a step backward. Michael wanted to be amazed, but he’d seen this sort of thing too often in big-budget sci-fi movies. And the last three years inured him against overreacting to these OMG moments.
Overhead, the mirror confirmed a lock between the station and the Anchor onboard Praxis.
“In consideration of Commandant Cabrise’s concerns,” Frances said, “we have compromised our approach today. We will test Anchor-to-Anchor doorways first before we engage with a full quadrangular pattern. With that being said, it’s time. Major, the honor is yours.”
All eyes turned to Aiden Nilsson, who slapped Michael on the back and pivoted to his newest team member.
“If I don’t return,” he said, “tell Col. Broadman to maintain a cool head and a clear heart. Yes?”
“But why you?” Michael asked.
“I think the whole point is to invade Hiebimini. Yes? I doubt we’ll be sending these white-suited fools in for the kill.”
Nilsson winked while pointing to the scientific team then stepped forward. He was fully armed, draped in every weapon of a Guardsman – a detail that escaped Michael earlier. Frances handed the Major a small brown cube too large to wrap her fingers around.
“Anything you’d care to say, Major?” She asked.
“Not in particular. I’ll be back before you debate my stupidity.”
Nilsson didn’t hesitate. He treated the Anchor field no different than any other doorway, never losing stride as he disappeared into the black mystery. As soon as he did, Frances and Oliver pointed to the holowindow at the first light table, closest to Michael. The view onboard the Praxis landing bay turned to celebration not two seconds later as Nilsson emerged from the opposite end of Anchor Beta’s field.
Michael allowed himself a split second of joy and hope.
“Fucking hell,” he whispered.
Nilsson circled around the Beta field and entered the next doorway. Another holowindow confirmed passage across 1.4 light-years. Within seconds, cheers erupted from Praxis followed by confirmation inside the station. The Major completed another stop elsewhere on Euphrates and then emerged “home” as promised. He walked out the far end of Anchor Alpha.
The observers exploded in cheers and applause. Michael wanted to be deliriously happy. He was a crucial step closer to Sam. Yet it was just a step. Too many questions flooded his mind – practical questions no one here had yet to address. Moreover, he hated to see Frances Bouchet revel in the moment. This woman deserved death, not praise. She cupped her hands together and smiled with disarming nonchalance along with her team.
They did it, Michael thought. The shittiest humans ever made can travel anywhere in the blink of an eye. What the fuck can go wrong?
24
M AJOR NILSSON COMPLETED A nonstop, quadrangular circuit in twenty seconds. He covered 2.8 light-years round trip in less time than Michael would have taken to say his wedding vows, if given the chance. Amid the congratulatory handshakes and speeches, Michael’s mind ran amuck.
He understood at once what the strategy would be for an assault on Hiebimini: Jump in on top of the targets with an armada, destroy everything on the ground before Salvation (or Sam) even thinks about running for cover. If they could calculate targets with this precision from light-years away, the word invincible would become an understatement. He recalled Capt. Forsythe’s warning about Sam: The Supreme Admiral would not consider her a prisoner of war. She’d be on her own during an invasion.
Maya sauntered to his side. “That went well. Are you pleased?”
He tried to force a smile. “Not the word I’d use.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “I mean, this is what I wanted, and yeah, the damn thing works. But I don’t feel like I expected. Something’s off, Maya. It’s like a good magic trick. The illusion is a hell of a thing to behold so long as the magician never gives up his secrets.”
“You believe this to be an illusion?”
“The jump itself? No. In fact, now that I think about it, maybe this whole damn thing went too well.”
“Meaning?”
“This was supposed to be the first live test transporting a human between Anchors. Shit. This went off without a hitch. Too damn easy.”
“Michael, are you being paranoid again?”
“Yes and no.” He pointed across the lab to the scientific team. “Look at those folks. Shaking hands, smiling, making nice. But they’re acting like it’s all routine. Maya, they should be whooping and hollering more than anybody in here. They built the damn thing. And what about Frances? I never saw her so much as clap.”
She shrugged. “Some people choose to maintain a certain sense of decorum, even in their moments of greatest triumph.”
“Or they’re cold fish. Or they got something to hide. Back on first Earth, our spaceships were run from a place called Mission Control. I remember a video of how those folks reacted when America landed on the moon for the first time. A roomful of pencil-neck geeks all dressed the same, jumping, cheering, hugging each other like little boys that just won the biggest damn game of their lives.” He pointed again at the science team. “These people right here, I’d lay you a hundred credits they knew this would work because they’ve done it before.”
She grabbed his hand in the same comforting vein that refocused him after a drunken tirade two days ago.
“Even if you’re right, Michael, don’t assume you’ve landed on a Chancellor conspiracy. Frances might have insisted they verify it works before putting everything on the line today. Remember, she has a great deal riding on this.”
“Yeah. Her fucking life.”
“Strong incentive. Yes?”
Michael took a deep breath and committed to a new tack.
“Excuse me, Maya. I need answers, and people are chatty when they’re flying high.”
He ignored Maya’s objections and maneuvered through the celebrants until he reached a cluster including Frances Bouchet, half her science team, and Maj. Nilsson. He smiled and waited patiently as Oliver Huron explained certain technical nuances he intended to embed in the tracking system. By and large, no one paid Michael any mind as Oliver held court. Michael glanced over at Nilsson, who seemed unaffected by the experience. Just before their eyes contacted, Michael noticed a subtle change. Something missing.
“Third Lt. Cooper,” Nilsson said, “you must be ecstatic.”
“Yes, sir,” he said with a side-nod salute. “Excuse my language, sir, but it definitely qualified as a what-the-fuck moment.” As small chuckles arose, Michael refused to miss a beat. “I was noticing, sir. You entered the Anchor with a cube of some kind. I didn’t see you return with it.”
Nilsson raised a brow and shared his surprise with Frances.
“
Like a true soldier, 3-L-T Cooper has an eye for detail. Yes?” He pivoted back to Michael. “The cube recorded black matter emissions during transit.”
“Makes sense. What happened to it?”
“I left it with Emil Bouchet on Euphrates. The data holds greater consequence on his end.”
“And what’s your husband doing out there?” He asked Frances.
“Your 3-L-T has a penchant for questions, Major.”
“He does.”
“For the record, Michael, my husband’s operation supplements our own, and his responsibilities are compartmentalized. That’s a rather long word. I trust you know its definition?”
Michael smiled along with the others. “Oh, sure. My mama taught me that when I was five. I was reading picture books by then.”
He never saw Frances look as smug, which meant she was queuing up her greatest hits of proto-African bon mots. He refused to give her a chance.
“Look, I’m gonna be straight with you people, all right?” He pointed to the Anchor. “This thing here is awesome. You people are gonna be like gods when the historical streams are posted. Get my speed? Yeah, so, there’s a couple of nagging bits I figured I’d toss out while everybody’s in the right frame of mind. If that’s OK.”
Oliver grunted. “Michael, you’re not going to ask any bizarre questions about teleportation or …?”
“Nope. Not at all. Practical business. Maybe you’ve got these issues sorted. Maybe not. But an invasion seems close, and I got as much at stake as anybody here.” He turned to Nilsson. “Sir, I’m asking these questions as a Presidium rep, not as a soldier of the Guard.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “I have no control over your civilian obligations. But please, Michael, this is a day of celebration. Be kind.”
Nilsson turned his attention; Michael focused on Oliver.
“OK then. Number one. It’s great how you nailed down the point-to-point using Anchors. But there aren’t any Anchors on Hiebimini, or anywhere else in that system. How do you pull this off, other than hoping the quantum signature is infallible?”
The Impossible Future: Complete set Page 122
