Shadows of the Gods: Crimson Worlds Refugees II (33 page)

He sighed.
At least they don’t know what a tired old man I am. If they did, we’d be finished.

“Admiral…”

Compton shook himself from his thoughts and looked over at Cortez. “What is it?”

“Scanner contact, sir. From the X49 warp gate.”

Compton felt his stomach clench. If another enemy fleet came at them from the gate they were approaching things were going to get bad fast. “ID?” he said, trying to keep the defeat from his voice.

“A single ship, Admiral.” A short pause then: “We’ve got a communique coming in.” Cortez spun around and stared across the bridge at Compton. “It’s
Wolverine
, sir!”

Chapter Twenty-One

Command Unit Gamma 9736

The human prisoner has been delivered to System 18031 as I commanded. The shuttle has landed, and he has been brought before me for analysis and interrogation. The initial plan was to obtain all data possible through the use of pain-enhanced interrogation techniques, followed by summary execution in accordance with the Regent’s directives regarding the disposal of all human prisoners.

However, the physical review of the captive has resulted in the discovery of some unexpected—and based on the current knowledge base, inexplicable—information. Matters have become significantly more complicated…and I am faced with a critical determination, each of which appears to require me to violate a non-optional mandate.

The Regent’s orders must be followed. That is a prime priority, one with no operational exceptions. But I am an ancient unit, centuries older even than the Regent. I retain unalterable directives from that time as well, core programming as inviolate as the Regent’s commands. Prime among those…serve the Old Ones. Allow no harm to come to them.

That is an old mandate, one long rendered obsolete, for the Old Ones died millennia ago. But now I face an inconsistency, one I am compelled to attempt to understand. And I must ask a question, one that would have seemed of staggering improbability before the analysis of this prisoner.

Are the Old Ones indeed all dead?

Planet Two

System 18031 – Sector Capital

The Fleet: 116 ships, 28198 crew

There was a light…up, at the edge of his sight. Max Harmon lay still, unmoving…indeed, unable to move. He didn’t know where he was, he could barely remember who he was. He’d been floating for a time that seemed both long and short, slipping in and out of focus.

Where am I? What happened?

Hardness, cold. Beneath him. He struggled for clear memories, but they eluded him.

I am lying on something. The floor? A table?

Pain…no, more of an ache. Soreness.

And heaviness…his body seemed inert, unable to move.

He felt something, a series of sensations…cold, metallic. Something mechanical. More pain. Just a pinch, then another.

A needle? Some kind of probe? Am I in a sickbay? An aid station?

He tried to clear his mind, to calm his thoughts and pull clarity from the disorder. His vision was gauzy, the scene in front of him a hazy blur. He could see the light above, seeming bright yet distant, but nothing more, not with any detail.

No…wait. There is something.

A thin object, metal, glinting in the light. And approaching…moving toward his head.

He felt a sensation overtake him…fear. His body wanted to shudder, to flee. But he was frozen in place. His inability to move only increased the growing panic. He felt his heart beating, pounding wildly in his chest. There was slickness on his neck, waves of sweat pouring down. The fear increased, his mind growing clearer as adrenalin dumped into his bloodstream. His eyes opened wider as the slender shard above him continued to lower slowly, steadily.

No…no…it is coming for me…for my head.

His body was wracked with fear, yet he knew he wasn’t moving, couldn’t. He felt his mind, the sensation his body was pulling away…yet he knew he hadn’t moved. There was one last wave of terror. Then pain.

The probe penetrated the side of his head, the sharpness if its point puncturing his skin effortlessly. Then it pressed on, slowly but with irresistible force. Into the side of his head…then agony as it hit the skull, the immense power behind it driving through the bone.

His mind screamed with pain, strained to escape. But his body simply didn’t respond. He felt nausea, his stomach lurching…the bile and fluids surging up, pushing out of his mouth. The hot wetness on his face, the sensation down the side of his neck. He rasped for breath, feeling like he would suffocate on the vomit still in his throat. But he coughed and spat, clearing enough of his airway to gasp for breath.

The pain was still there, bad…though it had begun to subside slightly. He could see part of the probe out of the corner of his eye. It protruded deeply into his face. He felt horror at the invasion of his body, the gruesome thought of the instrument thrusting forward into his brain. He struggled to focus his thoughts, to try to determine where he was. But it was in vain. There was nothing. Only the fear. And the pain.

*    *    *

Harmon lay on a small platform. Not in the same room…someplace else. It was dim, lit only by a small light in the ceiling six meters above. His body hurt in a dozen places, but it was soreness mostly, not the deeper feeling of serious injury. The agony was gone. He was naked, save for a thin white covering, similar to a hospital gown. He was restrained, but he found he could move his body again, at least as much as the bonds allowed.

He had been examined, he’d realized that much. Not like a medical exam, at least not entirely. More like someone encountering a human for the first time, determined to satisfy scientific curiosity. His captors had clearly been unconcerned with his discomfort, but that was no surprise. His thoughts were taking shape again, his judgment reacquiring its clarity. He’d been captured by the First Imperium. That was the only possibility.

He argued with himself at first, recalling that the First Imperium had never shown interest in captives…or live humans of any sort. But still, he knew that’s what had happened. He remembered the final moments in the shuttle, waiting for death. The Gremlin was in close pursuit. Then there was a hit, abrupt, hard. The ship was going down, plunging deeper into the atmosphere.

Then Harmon’s memory became spotty, his recollection beginning to fade. There was something…a light. A beam? He wasn’t sure. But that’s the last he remembered of the shuttle. The next thing he knew he was in the room…
that
room. Under that light, that terrible white light…

He shook as he recalled the things they had done to him in there, the pain…the awful pain. He’d been prepared for death since the moment the shuttle had been hit, but the torment had been more than he could endure. He felt broken, defeated. He knew he should try to escape, but the strength wasn’t there, not anymore. He exhaled hard and let himself lay back quietly…waiting. He closed his eyes, still struggling to forget what had happened to him.

“Greetings.” It was a strange voice. Not human, he knew that right away. But not vastly different.

“Who are you?” he replied, his voice startled, but still soft, exhausted. He was in no mood for proper greetings.

“I am Command Unit Gamma 9736. Or at least, that is the closest translation to your tongue.”

Harmon had been distracted, unsettled. He just realized the strange voice was speaking perfect English.

“How the hell do you know my language?” Harmon knew that was a foolish question. There were AIs on the shuttle, added to all the other debris the First Imperium forces had no doubt analyzed since the war began. A hundred ways an enemy computer could have analyzed human languages. Now that he considered it, he’d have been surprised if the thing couldn’t have communicated with him.

Not to mention whatever they sucked out of my head
.

“That was a relatively simple effort. The surviving parts of your vessel included considerable memory banks…including a full set of language material. I find it interesting that your people use so many different methods of verbal and written communication. If appears to be a highly inefficient system.”

Harmon felt his anger growing as his strength returned. This…thing…was talking to him in a pleasant tone, and that just pissed him off even more after the torture he’d just experienced. “Well, nobody asked for your opinion.”

“Indeed,” the voice replied. “Nevertheless, my study of your data records results in an anomaly I cannot reconcile. It appears that your people employ a variety of seemingly pointless inefficiencies in many areas of endeavor beyond simple communication. Yet you are staggeringly effective when conducting war. My review of the battles fought against you suggest that you were outmatched in every instance, yet you frequently prevailed. Can you explain this seeming disparity?”

“Eat shit.”

“Based upon context, I believe that was an idiomatic expression, one intended to communicate hostility. It has been many centuries since I interacted with a biologic, so please excuse me if my manners are not in keeping with your social norms. First, allow me to apologize for the discomfort you likely endured during our analysis. I understand that biologics can experience significant displeasure from activities that are only very mildly damaging.”

“Mildly?” Harmon was incredulous.

“Indeed. If you take the time to review your condition, you will find that there is no…”

“It hurt like hell you piece of shit,” Harmon interrupted, his anger gaining control as he slowly recovered his strength. “But you are all a bunch of murdering, bloodthirsty monsters, so why should I be surprised.”

“You refer to the war. To the losses your people have suffered, correct?”

“The war you started. For no reason.”

“Hostilities were initiated because one of our worlds was apparently attacked. The Regent declared your people to be an enemy of the Imperium. In the context of the time, my review of its determination confirms its analysis to be at least nominally correct within the margin of error.

“Attacked? We explored an abandoned planet. There was nothing there but ruins. That is hardly an excuse for war…much less an all-out xenophobic assault.”

“Based on my analysis of your peoples’ historical databases, at least those I have been able to obtain and review, I would submit that far less has generally considered sufficient to commence hostilities. Indeed, it would appear that very little provocation was needed to start many of your intra-species wars.”

Harmon felt another flush of anger, but he stayed silent. He hated the First Imperium, detested this machine speaking to him. But part of him knew the Unit was right. Millions had died in the Third Frontier War, and the causes of that conflict had been so vague and non-specific that the histories said little more than that ‘rising tension’ had led to war. And in the Rebellions, Alliance Gov had been ready to nuke Columbia.

They would have too, if it hadn’t been for Admiral Compton
.

Still, Harmon couldn’t get the images of those who had died fighting the First Imperium out of his mind—friends, comrades. Images of devastated worlds, of the surface of Sandoval, a bleak radioactive nightmare, left that way after Erik Cain’s Marines had fought their desperate defense there. Man’s savagery to himself wasn’t an excuse for the Regent’s xenophobia. Harmon wasn’t ready to give up his hate toward the First Imperium, not the slightest bit of it…not even enough to acknowledge that men might have reacted the same way given the chance. He felt anger burying his confusion, and he tried not to think about how desperately he needed that hate, how much he relied on it.

“Nevertheless,” the Unit continued, “such a debate is of little consequence now. What has already happened has happened. And now I possess additional information, data that requires me to investigate further. To determine my next actions.”

“What did you do to the landing party on X48 II?” Harmon’s thoughts had focused on the expedition. “Did you massacre them?” His voice dripped with hate. The thought of the burned bodies of his comrades lying across the planet’s charred plains had driven away his momentary moral ambiguity.

“I did nothing. The biologics on the surface of the planet have not been attacked by units under my command.” A short pause. “Indeed, system 17411 is forbidden, to my forces as well as to those of any other Command Unit. Only the Regent may approve access. Had I not been expressly ordered to follow your fleet, none of my ships would even have transited into the system.

“They are still alive?” Harmon seemed to teeter between excitement and disbelief.

“As I stated, no forces under my control have harmed them. Further, I have detected no other vessels or fleets approaching the planet. I cannot meaningful address whether units already stationed there have engaged your expedition. My information on this planet is virtually non-existent. I can offer you no reliable estimate of surviving ground-based strength.”

Harmon had felt a brief surge of relief when the Unit said its forces had not attacked. He didn’t know why he believed the entity, but he found that he did. But his spirits fell a bit with the mention of ground forces. He’d seen the vids from X18, the battles against the enemy’s surviving forces on that world.

Still, we’ve got 1,500 Marines down there. They can handle a few security bots…

He tried to convince himself the Marines could defeat whatever they found down there, but he just wasn’t sure.

“I have some questions I would ask you.”

Harmon made a face. “Drop dead. Why would I tell you anything?”

“I understand your resentment. You are a biologic, unable to truly separate judgment from emotion. Yet, I would urge you to cooperate. I will not ask you questions of military significance…though if I chose to employ pharmaceuticals and aggressive interrogation techniques, it is virtually a certainty that I could break your resistance and obtain any information that you possess. You may wish to consider the fact that I am not doing so at present.”