Authors: Nick Webb
“So basically, make us all assholes. Great. You’ve tested this?” His face was clear, and he moved to his neck, drawing the razor carefully across his adam’s apple.
“On a lieutenant at IDF Science that we discovered was infected. I first hit him with a meta-space signal that I suspect mimics a Swarm signal and he showed elevated levels of oxytocin and serotonin. Then, after I injected him with the suppressant, and hit him again with the signal, the levels stayed the same.”
“Will it work?”
“No way to tell without an actual Swarm signal telling someone infected with the backdoor virus to go do something. At the very least, when the signal comes, the drug may give that person pause—may give them some moments of clarity where they realize what they’re doing, and may even delay action long enough for someone else to see them and realize what’s going on.”
He finished up, and wiped his face clean. “Sounds risky, but I guess it’s all we’ve got. Besides,” he sat down and pulled his boots on, “risk is our calling card.”
She followed him to the door when he stood up. “I’ve distributed the suppressant in pill form to the top brass, and every captain and commander in the fleet participating in Operation Ground War.”
“Good. As hair-brained as that mission is, it won’t do us any good to have captains with loose screws. Zingano messaged me—we’re to leave in three hours. You all ready?”
“Well, after I spent the night working on the suppressant, I huddled with my science team to work on the quantum field versus relativistic gravitational field theory I mentioned to you earlier, and—”
He stopped and grabbed her arm. “Wait, Shelby, are you telling me you didn’t sleep last night?” He looked into her face when she turned back to him. She looked exhausted, and almost as old as Granger, even though she was at least thirty years younger.
“I dozed in between test assays,” she said defensively. “Look, Tim, sleep can wait. Don’t worry, I had plenty of coffee. And a few energy pills. And then some more coffee. Believe me. I’m fine.”
He let go of her arm and grumbled as they continued. “I’m warning you, one more day like this, and I swear I’ll order you to bed.” He’d been kidding, of course, but he softened his tone further. “I worry about you, Shelby. I worry you’re working yourself too hard.”
She smiled back at him. “I’m touched, Tim. Really I am. Now go show the same concern to the rest of the crew. They need it.”
Before they walked on to the bridge, he gave a lazy salute to her. “Yes, ma’am.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Bridge, ISS Warrior
Interstellar Space, 2.4 Lightyears From Sirius
“Hold the next q-jump,” said Granger. “Distance?”
“Point one lightyears, sir,” said Ensign Prince.
Doubt gnawed at him. He was uneasy with the plan put forth by President Avery and General Norton. He supposed he was hesitant because the plan was, put bluntly, utterly cutthroat. Take advantage of a potential friend, before they’d even determined the nature of that friend. Use them as a tool against the Swarm, before understanding them, or knowing anything about them.
And yet, Avery’s logic was sound, in a brutal sort of way. The human race was on the brink. And when it came to the basic survival of the race—something to ensure that humans would always be found, somewhere, in the universe—they could stop at nothing,
nothing
, to prevent total annihilation. Even if betrayal meant giving up their souls in exchange for their lives.
But Granger didn’t care about his life. And he supposed neither did Avery. They cared about the future. And yet, he had to be sure they weren’t walking into a trap.
“Alter the final q-jump. Take us most of the way in, but stop ten million kilometers short. We need to see what’s going on before we jump all the way in.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Moments later, the starfield on the viewscreen shifted again. “Full scan, Mr. Diamond. Optical, EM bands.”
Ensign Diamond nodded. “At ten million kilometers, the light is about thirty seconds old, sir.”
“Understood, Ensign.”
The sensor crew performed the scans. “Picking up the super dreadnought, sir. Right at the rendezvous point.”
“Is it alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
Granger stroked his chin, finally smooth after that much-needed shave. His body was protesting the ungodly schedule, but there would always be time to sleep on the beach when this was all over. Or when he was dead, which, if he was being honest, was a more likely scenario.
“Extend scan to all directions. Anything?”
The sensor crew busied themselves, and a minute later Diamond shook his head. “Nothing, sir. We’re in the middle of interstellar space—nothing around for lightyears. Or, at least light-minutes, that we can tell.”
“Of course,” said Granger, “there could be a Swarm fleet waiting just a light-day away. They could’ve been waiting there for half a day and we’d never know it.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Diamond.
Granger paced a few times across the bridge before deciding. “Very well. Take us the rest of the way in. They’ve probably detected us by now. This was probably good for them too. Let them see from a distance that we’re coming alone.”
Even though a five-hundred thousand strong army is right behind us.
“Q-jump in five,” said Ensign Prince.
Granger glanced back at the XO station, and caught Lieutenant Diaz’s eye. The deputy XO nodded back, indicating his readiness. Proctor was holed up in her lab, continuing her cowboy research, as she called it, right up until the last minute before battle operations were scheduled to begin. Granger was supposed to keep the Skiohra talking for at least an hour.
The screen shifted one final time, revealing the immense mass and mind-boggling length of the super dreadnought. It stretched off into the distance, its hull mostly dark and invisible due to the lack of sunlight, except where it was punctuated by thousands of lit viewports.
“I just can’t used to how massive that thing is,” said Diaz.
Granger paused his pacing in the middle of the bridge. “And that there’s six of them.” He turned to tactical. “Begin scans. Go through the checklist provided by Colonel Barnard of things to confirm. Ship layout, atmospheric conditions, numbers of life signs, automation systems. All of it. I’ll buy you as much time as possible.”
“We’re being hailed, sir,” said Ensign Prucha.
“Patch it through.”
The familiar form of Vice Imperator Scythia Krull filled the screen. One of her deputies stood nearby, another Skiohra woman who eyed Granger carefully. “Captain Granger. You’ve come. We were undecided of whether you would arrive or not.”
“Of course I’ve come. We owe you a great debt. To not come would have been disrespectful to you.”
And you have no idea how much we’re about to disrespect you.
“Thank you, Captain Granger. I’ve summoned my people’s ... I believe a close translation to your language would be ... Bonded Council of Seven—our leaders and matriarchs. They come for a council of war. A war to finally liberate all of the family from its master.”
Granger raised an eyebrow. “You have your own Concordat of Seven?”
“The Swarm appropriated the social structure from us. Almost ten thousand years ago. They don’t have original ideas, Captain: that is their failing. I’ve debated with my sisters as to whether they are truly alive or not. Living beings must create to survive. The Swarm does not create. It appropriates. It infests and corrupts and controls. And so when the Swarm came to our world, they took what they thought would serve them, and destroyed the rest.”
“And yet here you are,” said Granger. He weighed the benefits of putting up a skeptical front this early in the conversation. But he supposed if he had entered into the dialogue under the pretenses the Skiohra assumed, he’d most likely sound doubtful at first. Either way, Vice Imperator Krull took it in stride.
“Over the millennia, the Swarm permitted us to retain those parts of our culture they found useful. And now, finally, we have discovered the key to thwarting their control over us.”
Granger was becoming more skeptical by the second. How could a species, after millennia of control by the Swarm, suddenly figure out a way to break free, when the Swarm’s control extends so completely over every individual they dominate? How does one suddenly just spontaneously cast of complete control? Though, he remembered, the Dolmasi had already proven it was possible.
“And how is that? How was it that you suddenly found yourselves free of Swarm influence? To be honest, it seems suspect.”
The Vice Imperator’s face sagged a little. Granger couldn’t even guess what the expression meant.
“Captain Granger, we are here, all of us, all of my people, because of
you
. What you see here, this ship—and five others like it—contains all that remains of the once proud race of the Skiohra. And we are here, and free, because of you.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Russian Singularity Production Facility
High Orbit, Penumbra Three
“Welcome to Penumbra Station, Eamon,” said Ambassador Volodin at the exit of the docking hatch. The crew had been instructed to remain with the ship. Only Isaacson’s secret service escort was allowed to accompany him, though Isaacson had half a mind to dismiss them, too, given their inability to protect him during the bombing attempt on his life two months ago and the fighter attack immediately after. The Swarm had penetrated deep into the bureaucracy: he couldn’t even trust his security folks.
“Yuri, this is incredible. Is this the rock that was caved out by ... you know?”
“It is. Actual construction took far longer of course, but the excavation only took a few months.” He started walking down the hallway. “Come. President Malakhov awaits.”
Volodin took them deep into the complex, passing first by a series of bays holding equipment, large containers, and storage boxes which merged gradually into a section of the station devoted to experimental work, with gleaming high-tech labs, high energy power sources, and gas chambers, and then through what appeared to be the administrative area. The desks and cubicles gave way to a large expanse filled with what looked like natural light reflected in from Penumbra’s sun. The space in the middle stretched up at least fifteen levels, each floor bordered by a railing that wrapped around the free expanse in the middle.
It wasn’t crowded, but the occasional worker glanced their way, sometimes recognizing Isaacson with wide eyes, but no one stopped to say anything. Instead, Volodin led them to an elevator shaft near the central railing on their deck. Its walls were clear, and Isaacson felt a moment of vertigo as they shot up through the empty space.
At the very top, at least a hundred meters above the ground floor, they arrived at the executive offices. Lush carpeting covered parts of the floor of the atrium, and the fine surfaces of marble, granite, and crystal glittered everywhere. There was even a giant fish tank with coral and exotic, colorful fish that could be seen in another reception area nearby.
The walls were lined with giant pictures of President Malakhov in various, manly situations. One showed him at the top of Everest, shirtless, no oxygen tank in sight, looking through binoculars at some unseen sight off in the distance. Another was of him doing what looked like a pull-up, dangling two kilometers from the famous Wittingham suspension bridge connecting two towers in Britannia’s capital city. Frame after frame boasted of his physical and testosterone-filled exploits, occasionally softened by a random image of him caressing a poor, wrinkled grandmother’s face, or of the president sitting on a tree trunk in a picturesque setting, with children on his lap and surrounding him, fawning over him playfully, yet worshipfully. They reminded Isaacson of the old kitschy christian paintings of Jesus showing him in similar settings, all unbiblical, but inspiring to the simple people that needed such unrefined and simple-minded inspiration in their lives.
Oh, the poor masses. Taken in by such tripe and propaganda. And yet Isaacson couldn’t help but admire it.
Crude, but brilliant
, he thought.
If I ever knock Avery off, I should keep something like this in mind
....
He automatically cringed, expecting the usual shock that accompanied the treasonous thoughts whenever they slipped through his guard. And sure enough his head felt like it contracted and twisted in pain. It only lasted a moment, but enough to make him sway and nearly lose his footing. Surely Avery couldn’t monitor him from this far away, could she? Had the reaction simply become automatic on his part?
“Eamon? Are you all right?”
Isaacson waved him off. “Fine. Just dizzy from the ride up.”
A door opened nearby. Isaacson expected to see a security contingent come in and escort him to the Russian President. But instead, just a single man walked through, dressed in a simple business suit with an old-fashioned red power tie, clicking along the marble floor in sensible but fashionable black shoes at a confident pace, gazing straight ahead toward Isaacson, his hand extended for a greeting.
President Malakhov.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Bridge, ISS Warrior
Interstellar Space, 2.4 Lightyears From Sirius
Because of me
?
The words began to dawn on him, the gravity of their meaning finally weighing on him. “Are you telling me, that your ship is full of your entire society? Families? Children? This ship and the other five contain your entire civilization?”
“That is correct, Captain.”
Which meant, he, Granger, was guilty of a genocide. Or at least, one seventh of a genocide. “And the ship I destroyed? Over Indira?”
“The
Harmony
held the once-great house of the Trell, fifth family of the Bonded Council of Seven. Vice Imperator Tyree Trell, my third cousin, was their matriarch.”
Granger stumbled to his seat. “How many?”
“Excuse me, Captain?”
“How many of your people were on that ship? The
Harmony
?”
“It doesn’t matter, Captain Granger. All that matters is that we make plans—”