The Legacy of Earth (Mandate Book 2) (27 page)

“Not necessarily,” Prime said. “The infrared could be part of the ruse, if Mr. Grant’s suggestion is correct.”

“But, we come to this again: why hide your homeworld?” Jack said, sounding like a teacher questioning his class.

“Why, indeed. Which leads us to the next set of recordings. Forgive me, but I wanted your honest opinions before revealing this next evidence,” Prime said in an apologetic tone.

“Oh?” several people said.

Prime brought up a video recording made, apparently, from a ship, the side of which took up the left side of the video feed.

“Is that a starfield?” Jolene said.

“Uh, hard to tell, it’s fuzzy,” Andy said.

“It is not a starfield,” Prime clarified.

“Oh, my God!” someone said. “Those are . . .
cities!
”

“Cities on the inside shell of an inverted world,” Jack said.

The view brightened for a few minutes, from white to yellow to orange, and then suddenly, clouds filled the scene.

“Clouds!” someone shouted.

The ship continued to descend, and cities came into view in daylight.

While the video continued to play, Prime said, “Obviously, this is an advanced civilization. We have already perused their entire techsystem. All of their research data. Their construction techniques are similar to ours, but refined through long and arduous trial-and-error. Which is to be commended, for their tenacity and patience. But, they have no AI nor VI technology, so they are not even aware of our presence.”

“What are the people called?” Jolene asked.

“The Ock,” Prime said.

“
Ock
?” Jack grunted.

“Yes, Ock is their racial and cultural name. Their homeworld is Ock’tck,” Prime said while bringing up images of the aliens.

“They have a . . . bird-like quality, don’t you think?” Megumi said.

“We have yet to meet an advanced civilization derived from hominids, like yourselves,” Prime explained. “Our sample is limited to only three species, so far. But, all three seem to have been derived from a reptilian origin.”

“That’s kind of a disturbing thought,” Emma said, “we’re surrounded by lizard people and none of them seem to like us.”

“Reptilians favor warm climates with more oxygen than Earth has at present,” Tom lectured. “It is possible that the earliest, hardiest forms of life include reptilians. During the post-primordial bombardment—the cooldown era—of most worlds. It’s just not very likely for mammals to thrive in the earliest millennia of a planet’s life-sustaining period.”

“So, what you’re saying is, reptilians are first on the scene on
other
planets, too?” Andy said.

Tom nodded, “Exactly. Well, it’s just a theory, but aren’t we getting confirmation now?”

“The system has been triangulated,” Prime said. “It is called Wolf 1061, by your astronomical records. It is located 13.82 light years away.”

“Retrieving the Webb images,” Isabella said.

A red dwarf star system appeared on screen with animated planetary orbits.

“It’s the third planet,” Isabella said. The scene zoomed in on the fuzzy but identifiable image of Wolf 1061-d.

“Here’s a live view from one of their own satellites,” Prime said, putting the live view side-by-side with the Webb image. On the left was a dark sphere with an infrared signature. On the right, a brown dwarf star, faintly glowing due to image enhancements.

“Astonishing,” Deeptimoy said. “No sphere.”

“We might assume from this image that the sphere was built within the last thirteen years,” Prime said.

“That fast?” Jack said.

“That is a mystery,” Prime said. “If they haven’t developed augmented manufacturing yet, an object of that size should take decades to construct.”

“How then?” Jack asked.

“The image is fuzzy,” Prime said. “Even with enhancements, we can’t bring it into clear focus at such range. We’re at Webb’s resolution limit. I propose that the sphere was, in fact, under construction longer than we assume.”

“Fair enough,” Jack shrugged.

“Which leads me to the next point,” Prime said. “The Ock civilization has unwittingly provided us with their contact list.”

“How many?” Daniel asked.

“Eighty-seven,” Prime said. “We have already sent VIs to each target, with negligible results. We see a recurring theme in these systems—in the hypercomm network. The device we reach in most cases is an outlier in the system. An outpost or a ship. Not an industrialized city on their homeworld, as you would expect.”

“Theories?” Jack asked.

“There’s a minimal network in most of these systems, just the outlier facilities. Now, either that’s intentional—fogging the system with outlying hypercomm nodes, like a firewall—or these outliers are—”

“—all that’s left?” Andy suggested.

Prime nodded. “Seldom do we have access to data. The outliers are just nodes. But in 34 of the systems, the VI found archived data.”

Prime brought up data and images. “These were highly industrious civilizations with wide-open networks—from our point of view. The outlier nodes should be buzzing with activity. There should be far more than just archives available. If the VIs can get to an archive in the system, then they should be able to get to the homeworld. But there are no other nodes. The networks are dead.”

“Then we can only assume—” Megumi said.

“—that these entire civilizations have been destroyed—” Prime added.

“—not just the networks,” Vendetta said.

“What does this mean? What are we going to do?” Jack asked.

“It means that someone . . . or some
thing
. . . destroyed them,” Prime said.

Chapter 27
Skydock Station

“My word, would you
look at that!” Captain Hugo Stevens said from the observation lounge on Skydock Station.

Cmdr. Zara Davies was standing nearby, speaking softly to Mrs. Isla Stevens, the captain’s wife. They both turned to him and followed his glance out of the station’s large windows.

“Oh my, that’s just terrible,” Mrs. Stevens said in a low-key voice.

“It’s the Lexington,” Cmdr. Davies offered, not sure what to say.

“That son-of-a-gun, Captain Long. Hell of a captain, that man! I’m telling you. And you can bet the other guy is worse off.”

Outside the station window, the UNS Lexington crept into the docking bay with her starboard side facing them. A huge black score marked the point of impact in the middle section of the ship, while a similar black splash marked an impact near the aft. She glided slowly into the dock, maneuvering only with thrusters. Soon, the space around Captain Stevens was full of officers, enlisted spacers, and civilians, staring out at the battle-damaged cruiser.

“What in the world could have caused so much damage?” someone asked.

“That’s the Lexington! Oh no, Thomas! Is the crew alright? Were there any injuries?” a young woman in the crowd said anxiously, looking to those in uniform for answers.

* * * *

Captain Long watched the right bridge screen as they approached Skydock. The space station was just as new and unproven as the fledgling fleet it serviced, but additions were being made, continuous improvements.

Everything changed when Seerva astounded the world by licensing their patents to the corporate world and donating most of the tech to the UN. Tech that made marvels like the station and the fleet possible.

Long recalled the violence with a sober expression. The violent tempers, that is, at the perceived violations of national security. The United States hordes tech. When Seerva basically donated it all to the UNSC, someone’s head was going to roll. The president at the time was short-sighted, short-tempered, pandering, and as corrupt as they come. Then, suddenly, in the midst of investigations, courts-martial, and resignations, the president suddenly changed his position and called it all off.

Behind the scenes, that was Vendetta at work, smoothing the transition and protecting the remnants of Seerva Inc.

When the White House called off its investigations, the House of Representatives continued theirs. The House Committee on Armed Services wanted to know how a US corporation was capable of developing such high technology without the knowledge of the government. But, since the founder had fled the planet, the warrant was undeliverable. And, once the tech was released, there was no stuffing it back into the genie’s lamp.

“Easy does it, Williamson. Nice and slow,” Captain Long said.

“Aye, sir,” CPO Doug Williamson said at the helm console.

Port and starboard were meaningless in space. The Lexington’s starboard side faced the station proper, which might be considered
the
land
at an Earthside harbor. Traditionally, a ship would dock at the port side.

On the left bridge screen was the unfinished Aurora, under construction out in the shipyard section of the station. The front half of the ship appeared nearly complete while the aft was surrounded by scaffolding, suited figures, and robots.

“Wonder if they’ll loan us some of their maintenance crew for a while?” the XO said jovially.

“I intend to argue for a priority team! With the Illustrious also in port, we’re vulnerable out here,” Captain Long said soberly.

The Illustrious was facing them on the central bridge screen, looking menacing.

“Captain, the admiral sends his regards and requests a debrief at your earliest opportunity,” the comm officer reported.

“He doesn’t waste any time, that Admiral Reynolds,” the XO said.

“I’m glad he’s here,” Captain Long said. “He’s going to want to clean up the piracy and we need to review the sensor logs to identify the bogie that hit us.”

* * * *

“Captain?” Cmdr. Davies said.

“Yes?
Yes
, commander?” Captain Stevens said.

“I’m on my way back to the Illustrious, and—”

“
Admiral!
” Cmdr. Davies announced, startled. She snapped to attention.

“Thank you, Cmdr. Davies. That’s quite alright. As you were,” the man said, returning her salute and nodding with a smile.

“Sir!” Cmdr. Davies said. “Right. Captain, I’ll be on the ship.” She turned on her heel and walked quickly out of the observation room.

“Admiral,” Captain Stevens said, nodding as the distinguished man appeared beside him. He was wearing a sharp black dress uniform with gold buttons and gold bands on the sleeves. His dress hat was black-rimmed, white on top, with gold leaves on the duckbill. He removed the hat and held it under his arm as he looked out the window.

“Captain,” he said. “Would you believe me if I told you a mercenary did that to our cruiser?”

Captain Stevens turned to face Admiral Max Reynolds with a horrified look on his face. “You don’t say? A bloody rogue ship? Where did they. . . .”

“Get their armaments?”

Captain Stevens nodded.

The admiral smiled knowingly but then shook his head. “Unknown. Obviously, we can’t afford this level of operational liability in open space. We don’t have the situational awareness or, apparently, the means to respond with decisive force. That will have to be addressed. No one would dare attack a warship down on the seas. They’re not properly
afraid
of us up here!”

“Understood, admiral,” Captain Stevens said. His voice wavered slightly in a way only his wife noticed. She looked over at him.

“Ah, where are my manners? Forgive the interruption, Mrs. Stevens,” the admiral said graciously. “I did not mean to disregard you.”

“Not at all, Admiral Reynolds,” she said with a slight bow.

“Right, then. Captain Stevens, I’ve called a debrief with Captain Long and would like you to be present.”

“Of course, admiral.”

Chapter 28
Shipping Out

I realized too late
that I was still wearing my freshly-sewn blue-camo uniform in line at the departure gate, feeling like a greenhorn while absently rubbing the “D. Garner” patch on my left breast. The civilians at the airport couldn’t tell my rank from old MacArthur’s but I still felt self-conscious one day out of boot. Civs see a military uniform, most of them assume you’ve seen action, that you might have PTSD, and might need
sympathy.
Some well-meaning idiots will offer to shake your hand, thank you for serving.

Serving?

The uniform is a symbol. Their brain shuts off and the soldier is a
hero
. I didn’t storm the beaches at Normandy. I didn’t hunt Ho Chi Minh. That was a century ago.

One family came up to me at the terminal while I was looking at the screens for my flight number. The father was wearing a black suit and red tie and introduced his wife and daughter like we were old friends.

Idiot
.

His daughter smiled shyly.

Do you realize the kind of shit soldiers get away with? What’s with the idol worship in America? I thought we’d left that behind ages ago but there are still pockets of stupidity in the world. While this good-old-boy and his wife were chatting me up, their daughter was giving me the eye behind them. Not very subtle about it, either. Poor kid, growing up with these people. . . .

“. . . know that we must protect American borders from illegals and terrorists. . . .”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Is this guy serious? No one has talked like that in decades. . . .

Back to their daughter—can’t be more than eighteen. As I nod to Jesus’s favorite couple to keep them talking, their girl is alternating between giggling into her phone and looking me up and down.

“. . . and the Lord knows we do our best, supporting missionaries to those backward nations who never hear the gospel. . . .”

My phone vibrated. “Pardon me, one second,” I said, raising a finger to the adoring odd couple, but he doesn’t miss a beat. Not very perceptive. Seems to like the sound of his own voice.

“. . . military clears the way for missions to open up in those nations, so we’re all for you boys. . . .”

It’s a file transfer from their daughter, Ashley. I looked up at her, and she was wearing a dangerous smile. Where did she learn that sultry smirk? I’ll bet she’s been manipulating boys for
years
already.

Okay, Ashley, what’s this?

I quickly raised the phone to my face so her parents couldn’t see her satellite selfie.
Topless
. Phone number included. I looked at her again with a new appreciation and replied with a grin and nod, which seemed to give her a thrill. She’s hiding some sweet, supple curves beneath that shapeless dress, and she’s getting off knowing that I’ve seen her naked.

Poor kid
. Cute, though!

I wonder if these church people are
exclusionaries.
It’s hard enough for a teenage girl in a religious community when there aren’t any interesting boys around. Double whammy if they’re in an exclusion group too. But if they were spared—if they’re
organic
humans—then this insulated girl will have a hard time competing if she escapes.

Organic civilians. Gotta love ‘em.

I quickly stuffed the phone back into my front pocket, trying not to smile too much at Ashley’s parents. Teen girls are baffling. I stay away from hormonal
curiosity
.

* * * *

I was grateful that the adoring family hadn’t boarded the same flight. I slid open the window shade to watch during take-off.

Even though Mom was a military pilot, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d flown. This flight would have been novel were it not for the space ops training in that crazy-gee facility. I smiled at the recollection. The time had flown by. Now this passenger airliner was hardly even a ride.

I realized during the last week of training that it had been
perfectly designed
. By the time I was proficient with the maneuvers, I was ready to graduate. Not a day too soon or a day too late. The whole experience was memorable. I was so busy learning new things every day I didn’t have time to mope or argue or feel sorry for myself. The officers were not especially concerned with rubbing our faces in the dirt like the Sarge had been back in basic.

As a Spacer, I would receive my assignment with a built-in promotion. Typically, a recruit entered service after training with a rank of Spacer 2nd Class S-1. That was the lowest of the low. Boot shiners. Landlubbers. An S-1 has not gone through space ops training, so they’re limited to Earth-side duty—like sweeping the floor under the engineers at a launch facility. Since the UNSC Navy did not technically operate on the ground at all, S-1 was unusual. To be stuck at S-1 meant you weren’t good enough for space ops or you were on hold. You might get a temp assignment if Star City is at capacity but that was unlikely. There just weren’t very many of us.

I was glad it was over, even if it had been fun. I’m a Spacer 1st Class S-2 and already have my sights on Senior Spacer S-3. If the rumors are true about the Lexington engaging mercenaries, there was a good chance for promotion out there. That almost never happens during peacetime. Active engagement with a real enemy was a damned exciting prospect. Promotions happened fast during a hot war. A master chief petty officer earned as much as a commander (like Mom).

I was flying commercially out of Kansas City. I felt bad for leaving Dad, but he had his church. I could have taken a military transport out of Atlanta and flown straight to the launch site—some base I’ve never heard of near Las Vegas. But that would’ve meant a bus ride in the opposite direction to Atlanta and then a twelve-hour layover. Going commercial, I would arrive at Las Vegas International and hop a ride to the facility. Come to think of it, what was the name of the base? Was it even a military base? My orders were to report either to a certain master chief petty officer at the recruitment center in Las Vegas for a ride, or report to the Atlanta depot for a direct flight to the base.

The location of the launch site was omitted. Was it some top secret facility?

* * * *

Four hours later, I got my knapsack from luggage, grabbed a cab, and headed for the downtown recruitment office.

Master Chief Williams was an old timer who relayed stories from his childhood in the twentieth century all the way to the launch facility out in the desert. I rode in a van with five other spacers and one officer.

About an hour’s drive out of Las Vegas, Williams pulled the van off the highway onto a private paved road. We went through two checkpoints before arriving at the facility. A large office building jutted into the sky to the south while a rocket sat on a launch pad to the northwest. As we exited the van, I was stunned to see the corporate logo of Seerva Inc on the wall of a squat building facing the parking lot.

“Welcome to Seerva,” a pleasant-looking woman said from the walkway. “Come this way, gentlemen, and we’ll get you checked in.”

MSPO Williams saluted the less-than-friendly officer and shook hands with the rest of us before climbing back into the passenger van and driving away.

What surprised me most was the lack of astronaut training. I’m going into space to serve on board a military spaceship, but space ops training did not involve any space suits or weapons. The Seerva people were no help in that regard, either. To them, we were just passengers on their expensive taxi service into orbit. I learned that Seerva was contracted by the UNSC to transport UNSC personnel to and from orbit, and that this was one of five such facilities operated (under contract) by members of the Security Council. Somewhere in the world, UNSC personnel were boosted into orbit every single day.

We were given rooms in the on-site hotel and a decent meal at the on-site restaurant. The facilities were fantastic! I’d gotten used to military food for the better part of a year and wasn’t prepared for the bevy of flavors in the three-course meal. But, I wasn’t picking up the tab, so I ate my fill, courtesy of the UNSC.

The next morning, we prepared for launch. This process also surprised me. There was no medical check. No fitting into a space suit. None of that! It was more like taking a commercial flight. The interior of the passenger module was even configured like a passenger aircraft. We boarded like you would at any airport terminal, stored our luggage, and took our seats. But that’s where the similarity ended.

“Passengers, please be advised that rotation and elevation of the passenger module will commence in sixty seconds. Please ensure you are seated and strapped in.”

A stewardess—a
stewardess!
—walked down the aisle to ensure we were all secure in our seats before returning to the rear of the module.

“Rotation begins in ten seconds,” the voice said again.

As promised, the front of the “plane” began to rise. Slowly at first, it picked up speed and before long we were vertical, pressed heavily into the backs of our seats. Next, it felt like the entire passenger cabin was in an elevator—which is exactly what was happening as it was lifted into an open cargo bay on the booster rocket.

It was almost too perfect. They could have told me it was just a Disney ride and I would have believed them. But, before I could think twice about it, we were about to launch.

“Sixty seconds to launch,” the voice said. Instead of a narrated countdown, the display screens on the back of every seat showed the timer counting down. When it reached “10” there was a soft
blip
sound at every one-second interval. When it reached “0” and the engines came on, I began to panic.

Like I said, they didn’t train us for any of this! I had no idea the pressure your body goes through during a rocket launch. It felt like . . . nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I can’t even quite explain it. Hard to breathe. Heart seemed to struggle—if that wasn’t just my imagination. Eyes pushed back into my skull—I
swear
, they moved an inch. Barely able to lift a finger let alone raise a hand.

I gripped both handrests to keep my arms from flying back and whacking myself in the face. All your organs are pushed toward your back, and that’s a creepy feeling. Before this, I’d never felt my own organs in my body.

The boost was a dichotomy of gentle violence. Some sort of dampening was used to keep the passenger compartment from vibrating.
Something
has to vibrate with a million horsepower at your back, but I could have read a book if my head weren’t being pushed back into the seat cushion.

I was surprised more than once on this trip. Weren’t there supposed to be rocket stages? Not according to the info-video playing on the seatback in front of me. Nothing was ejected. This vehicle would re-enter the atmosphere with an Earthbound crew for a powered descent.

* * * *

Guess who was waiting for me when I took my first step onto Skydock Station?

“Mom! What are you doing here?”

She grabbed me in a fierce hug. Normally, being shown affection by one’s mom in front of fellow soldiers would be intolerably humiliating. But what if your mom is the wing commander?

Mom held me at arm’s length, eyes moist. Her stone-cold shark-like features softened so subtly that no one else would have noticed. “Dal! You look
amazing
, son.”

She squeezed my biceps, my forearms, my shoulders, and stopped by cupping my face in her hands. There was nothing I could do. Not that I wanted to, truth be told. Mom had earned the right, both professionally and personally.

I noticed a half-dozen fellow recruits saluting Mom as they passed by. The corridor was not spacious and we’d been instructed to keep moving when saluting an officer. Some officers waved away salutes. I’d started noticing this during space ops training and at the Seerva launch facility. But, I’d also heard there was an
admiral
here. . . .

I snapped a smart salute. Her face broke into a smile as she returned the honor. “Come, spacer. I think you’ll find it convenient to know a full commander around here. I’ll get you through the red tape. But first, let’s eat.”

Cmdr. Marjorie Baldwin-Garner was a respected officer. Back home, I now realize I’d had no idea what her life was like in the Navy. I knew she was a US Navy pilot before joining the UNSC. She’d given us a tour of the USS George Washington during one summer break when Howie and Leslie still lived at home and I was in middle school. I knew she was an officer but had completely taken her rank for granted.

Now I understood the gravitas of a
commander
and I was overflowing with pride as we walked through the halls of Skydock Station. I watched in awe as
officers
saluted my mom and nodded at me in passing.

I did a little math in my head and realized Mom was probably one of the top five highest-ranking officers on this station. Perhaps in the entire theater of Earth orbit.

Part of me wanted to earn my own stripes, but I was still her son, and I was so damned proud of her right now I would have let her hug me in front of the admiral.