Oblivion (16 page)

The Elder was taking Cicoi to a part of the planet Cicoi had never been in before. Actually, it was a part of the South Cicoi had never been in before. When he had inspected this area before he became Commander, he had seen the solar panels laying dark on the planet’s surface, as they did over most of the planet, and believed what he was told.

That this part of the South was empty land—once farmland, generations ago, under a different sun. Now abandoned and left, empty and resting, until, perhaps, that day came in Far Beyond, when life grew on Malmur again. When the solar panels could be removed and light actually allowed to reach the surface.

Sometimes Cicoi did not believe in the Far Beyond.

The glide paths leading to this region confused him. He knew that workers had once been here—as evidenced by the solar panels’ existence over them—and he knew that workers occasionally had to come effect repairs, but he did not expect someone—even long ago—to have gone to the expense of a glide path.

It had been built properly, too, with the right downsloping trajectory so that travel on a glide platform required only a single puff of energy at the start, and the rider would use slope and momentum to maintain speed. Cicoi felt rather guilty that he had had to restart his platform six times already, but the Elder didn’t seem irritated by it. He seemed more irritated by Cicoi’s slow progress down the glide path.

It was almost as if the Elder wanted to pick him up and drag him toward whatever it was the Elder wanted to show him.

As Cicoi went farther down the glide path, he began to wonder about the return trip. Sometimes, glide paths had a wide slingshot angle, so that he would have to go far out of his way in order to rise high enough to find the return down-slope. He saw no return slope on either side, and that made him worry that it was either too far above him or too far away for him to see.

The Elder had said nothing during this long trip. He had to know that Cicoi was worried about everything, from the return glide path to the amount of time he was taking away from his post. Right now his Second was running too much of the planning. His Second was ambitious and sometimes short-sighted. He might be planning for glory rather than for the future.

Cicoi had been spending too much time with the Elder to double-check on his Second.

The time with the Elder was, to Cicoi’s mind, wasted time. The Elder wanted to relive the First Pass, to see what exactly the creatures on the third planet had done. Then the Elder wanted to see Cicoi’s plans for the Second Pass. When Cicoi had showed him, the Elder had grunted and flown off. Later, Cicoi had learned that the Elder had joined the other Elders, and they had had some sort of conference.

Cicoi had a blessed two days without the Elder, and then he returned, along with his cryptic message.
You shall come with me.

And Cicoi had. The deeper he went along this glide path, the colder he got. His upper tentacles wrapped around his torso in an effort to keep warm. Cicoi was used to cold temperatures; he had grown up in them. But these were uncomfortable and—he worried—maybe even dangerously cold.

He only had two eyestalks up, but he might have to send up more just to see. Even though the solar panels above him were collecting the light, they weren’t funneling it this deep. The brownish half-light down here did come from the surface, but Cicoi knew the farther he went, the dimmer it would get.

Then he would have to choose between insulting the Elder
and seeing better. Cicoi had lost some of his awe of the Great Ones. He would insult the Elder and see what happened.

Suddenly, the glide path veered to the right. Cicoi went with it, into an even darker area. He was about to unpocket three eyestalks when the Elder waved his tentacles at the far rock wall.

Lights flashed on beneath the solar panels. Lights, clearly being fed by the panels. Lights, whose energy hadn’t been used in hundreds of Passes.

Cicoi felt a shudder run through him at the thought of all the wasted energy. He personally knew of several lives that might have been saved if he had simply known this energy existed.

You would have used it unwisely,
the Elder said to him.

Cicoi didn’t argue, at least out loud. But if the Elder could read his thoughts, as it seemed he could, then the Elder would know that Cicoi was losing his patience for all this mystery.

The Elder flattened himself to fit on the glide path and placed himself in front of Cicoi.

Come with me.

Cicoi had no choice but to follow.

The glide path led inside a massive cavern, carved out of rock. Lights went on in here, as well, flooding the cavern with light.

Cicoi’s tentacles waved slightly, mourning the waste of energy. And then he let his tentacles drop.

Before him were a hundred ships. Bullet-shaped in the front, like a torso with no tentacles, swept back and expanded in the rear. Clear black reflecting material over the nose, and propulsion at the base.

Cicoi had never seen anything like these.

As you stand here,
the Elder said,
your companions to the North and Center stand in similar caverns.

“These aren’t harvester ships,” Cicoi said. That was obvious. They were too small and sleek. They were shaped like Malmuria with their tentacles pointed downward and their eyestalks pocketed. Poised to move as swiftly as possible.

No, they are not,
the Elder said.

“You built them, obviously,” Cicoi said. “But how come we didn’t know about them?”

There has been no need for them. We have had no enemies. Until now.

Cicoi shuddered. He did not think of the creatures on the third planet as enemies. They were obstacles.

Or they had been.

The Elder was right. “Enemy” was the better word.

“If these aren’t harvester ships, what are they for?” Cicoi asked, fearing the answer.

The Elder spun toward him, tentacles flowing freely, as if his answer gave him great joy.

They are for war,
the Elder said.

“War?” Cicoi repeated. He shuddered. He had heard stories of great wars, but had never lived through them. “Surely we don’t have enough energy to run a war.”

We have stored it,
the Elder said. His tentacles were still waving.
We are prepared.
He waved two tentacles toward the ships.
These are more powerful than our harvesters. They are the best ships we have ever built.

“More powerful than the harvesters?” Cicoi asked.

And faster, too.
The Elder’s tentacles flowed toward Cicoi. He had read the emotion right. It was joy.
We shall destroy the creatures on the third planet, and they will never, ever know how we did it.

Or why,
Cicoi thought. But he said nothing. For the first time since the last Pass, he felt hope.

May 6, 2018
22:07 Universal Time

161 Days Until Second Harvest

They were going to fight back.

That was all General Gail Banks kept repeating to herself as she stood inside the small cubicle that had been assigned to her as an office. Initially she had sworn she hadn’t needed one. Now she was glad she had it. The cabin they had given her to bunk in was little more than a closet, even though it was top-grade and private. Here, though—here she had room to think.

And she was thinking about humanity fighting back, destroying the aliens that dared attack Earth. She’d seen pictures of their bodies. Information about their ships. She knew that even though they had the dampening screens, the coming attack would work. Some of the missiles would get through. And all they needed was for some of them to explode. It would be enough, she was sure.

But her job was to make sure the odds were in humanity’s favor.

She moved to the porthole in her office that looked out into space. The plastic porthole wasn’t really a hole at all. Instead it was a long clear section that ran the entire length of the wall. Through it, she could see the missiles that had been launched into orbit, at least part of them.

They glinted against the blackness of space. All had their internal telemetry on, and some had lenses and cameras pointing toward the tenth planet, ready and waiting.

Banks spent a lot of time before this window, just staring. She had gotten the station organized. She had workers on regular schedules, she was monitoring the incoming shuttles, she double-checked the orbits of incoming missiles before they arrived. She dealt with the recalcitrant permanent staff, the hardworking temporary staff, and longed for her own people. She put in requisition orders and sent messages to Earth, demanding more missiles.

About three hundred missiles had arrived and, she was told, that was about all she’d get. A few more here or there might arrive before the fight, but probably not. Maddox had confided that two countries were being “somewhat difficult” but that was it.

After that it was up to her and her people.

From her window, she could see half the missiles at one time, hanging in the blackness of space. They were all cylindrical, but after that, the similarities ended. The most current ones, all of U.S. design, were sleek things that looked like they could respond to a whispered command with complete accuracy. Beside them were some ancient rockets that were so ungainly, they seemed impossible to move, even in space.

Then, of course, there were the handful of missiles that used to belong to the countries that had once formed the Soviet Block. Banks couldn’t believe the organizers let some of those antiques lift off. They’d come from the smaller, less powerful countries of Eastern Europe—Lithuania, Latvia, and a few others whose names she couldn’t remember. Even though the missiles should have been disassembled twenty years ago, they suddenly “reappeared” when they were needed to defend the Earth.

Banks hoped that they wouldn’t explode at the wrong time.

She had workers outside, placing the warheads on top of the missiles. It was precise and difficult work, and she had only her best people on it. But the demands of time made it clear that she had to push them. She didn’t worry about shortcuts— none of the people tethered to those rockets, working on the parts, would ever take shortcuts. But she knew what it was like to work under an impossible deadline, to know that the fate of everything you knew and loved depended on your success.

She knew that fear drove them—fear and panic and anger— and she knew that no matter how hard she tried to reassure them, she wouldn’t be able to cut through that. Especially the anger. All of them wanted this work. All of them wanted to strike back at the aliens.

The best she could do was push them, but be aware of their needs. No one had less than six hours sleep, fewer than two meals. No one worked two shifts in a row, no matter how much their skills were needed.

No one cut corners, even if they were sure the corners could be cut.

She had promised Maddox she’d make the impossible deadline, and she would.

The missiles were here, hanging in space near the station, and everyone said that wouldn’t happen.

The warheads were here, being put on the missiles, and no one believed that would happen, either.

The workers were here, some of them finishing their training in a New York minute, and the entire senior staff said that couldn’t happen.

So far, three small miracles.

She hoped those three miracles would equal one giant miracle: stopping the aliens cold in their tracks.

She folded her hands behind her back and watched. Occasionally she saw movement as one of her workers, in a white environmental suit, slowly moved around the cone of a missile. Dozens of small shuttles floated among and around the missiles, helping with the work. At least thirty people were doing space walks at the moment, and she had thirty more taking their eight-hour break—six hours of sleep, plus two meals—inside.

More people were in space than had ever been here. Ever, in human history.

Once she would have been proud of that. Once she would have been happy to command such a force. Once she would have used that fact as a major point in her military resume, a case to be made for yet another star.

But she wouldn’t speak of it. She had a hunch that fact would be forgotten in a very short time.

Once the missiles were launched.

Once the codes were activated.

Once the warheads exploded.

Right now, this mission was Earth’s best hope.

Earth was fighting back and it was up to her to make sure the attack worked.

May 20, 2018
8:01 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time

147 Days Until Second Harvest

Again, when entering the Oval Office, the first thing Mickelson noted was the faint smell of mold, covered by the cleaning fluids and furniture polish. But it was still there, just under the surface, waiting for the heat of the summer to bring it out into full bloom.

He was the first to arrive. Timeliness, which served him so well overseas, was a curse here. It meant he would have to wait alone, in a room he had never thought he’d find himself in ten years before.