Vertigo: Aurora Rising Book Two (49 page)

“You’re defying your kind to help us. Why?”

The alien didn’t answer at first and projected an aura of being deep in thought. Always judging how much to reveal and what to conceal. For all it shared, Caleb did not doubt the secrets Mnemosyne kept would fill a hundred novels.

The others believe we—those of us who frequent this place—have developed too much fondness for humanity. We have explained to them that Aurora displays the potential to deliver the very answers we seek, but they are no longer listening.

“I’m sorry, ‘Aurora’?”

It is our name for your universe.

“Our universe—to be distinguished from yours?”

A valid question, but he was more interested in the details Mnemosyne had, intentionally or not, revealed in its answers. Most interested.

To be distinguished from countless other universes.

The alien paused, regarding them as if to make certain it had their full attention.

Understand you are but a glint, a faint spark in the sea of stars of the true cosmos. Aurora was born but yesterday. Your species only moments ago. Yet in those brief moments of observing you, I have come to believe there may be value in your continued survival, and so have offered you a chance. It is only a chance. Your rise or fall will be of your own making.

Alex was already on to the next question. “And if we succeed? What then?”

Mnemosyne didn’t even pretend to answer this question.

The others know you came through the portal. Machines will be waiting for you on your arrival in the Metis Nebula. Should you survive the initial gauntlet, you will be hunted.

Caleb gestured dismissively. “We were hunted before we came through the portal. We’re used to it.”

You have never been hunted like this. The forces arrayed against you now constitute a legion. Human agents working on their behalf multiply each day. Most know not the nature of their true master, but they will kill you just the same.

“With respect, Mnemosyne, they will not.”

The alien turned away rather than deliver a rebuttal, and he discovered Alex regarding him with this exquisite look in her eyes and in the set of her lovely mouth. Trust, he thought. Real trust, and respect accompanying it. He decided right then and there he’d happily spend the rest of his life making sure he always deserved to receive such a look from her.

Hyperion approaches. I will return you to your ship.

His form began dissolving into a shroud to surround them.

“No—we need the shield technology!” Alex took off sprinting down the path to the lake.

The alien swirled hesitantly, as if not knowing what to do now.

Caleb gave it a shrug. “She wants the shield tech.”

Then he was running after her.

“Alex!”

She threw a haphazard wave over her shoulder but didn’t slow. And she was unexpectedly fast. Long, graceful strides suggested running was something she did. It was a small reminder that for all he believed he knew her intimately, there were a thousand details about her life he did not.

As she cleared the shelter of the mountain and arced away from the lake toward the dome, a shadow grew over the lake. He didn’t glance to see what it was. Instead he ran faster.

By the time he reached the dome she had thrust her palm into the ball of energy. Her glyphs burst to life, blazing a luminous white pattern from her fingertips to her shoulder then vanishing beneath her hairline. If she got herself electrocuted or overloaded her cybernetics he was going to kill her.

He took up a defense posture outside the frame and faced outward.

Above the lake two aliens floated. Each bore the whimsical, winged appearance Mnemosyne had borne when they had arrived. He assumed one of the aliens was Mnemosyne and the other presumably this ‘Hyperion,’ but his untrained eye could not yet tell them apart.

A tremor reverberated along his skin. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation, buzzing in agitation like a deliberately discordant refrain.

Were the aliens talking to each other? No sounds were audible, nor were any voices in his head.

But the interplay was without a doubt a confrontation. One soared forward to invade the other’s personal space, if it possessed such a thing. The second alien flared, growing in size, and the dissonant sensation spiked to set the hairs along his arm quivering.

Alex materialized at his side, grasping his elbow. “What is this?”

He kept his focus on the ongoing conflict and urged her back another step. “Nothing good, I expect.”

The reverberation increased to the point of pain. Abruptly the more aggressive alien flared a brilliant white and sped away over the rise of the mountain.

Mnemosyne—hopefully this was who remained—floated above the lake for several seconds before turning and sweeping down toward them, once more morphing into a humanoid shape as its feet alighted upon the grass.

“Care to enlighten us?”

It is not your concern.

Not an acceptable answer; not this time. “A number of things here you’ve deemed not our concern. I submit your little disagreement most decidedly is our concern.”

Mnemosyne’s form rippled in a manner he had come to identify as an irritated sigh.

As I indicated before, Hyperion does not agree with my decision to allow you to be here. My associate believes empowering humanity will lead to complications.

“Has Hyperion studied us as well?”

Yes. Now please, you must depart. I have stalled Hyperion but it will not last.

He pulled Alex close—because he wanted to, and to ensure she didn’t run off again—as Mnemosyne engulfed them in light.

52

EARTH

W
ASHINGTON

R
ICHARD SETTLED INTO A WINDOW SEAT
and opened the suicide note Aguirre had left behind.

It consisted of a full confession and a detailed retelling of the events leading up to today, insofar as they concerned the aliens, the conspiracy and the war. On a skim it largely matched the information Olivia Montegreu provided, albeit with more details, more names and more evidence for the judicial system some of the parties involved would eventually traverse.

It would make his job easier, though others’ far harder. People joked the Earth Alliance bureaucracy would keep operating according to the prescribed regulations and procedures should a series of black holes open up and consume everyone at a minister level and above, but in truth the government was reeling and reeling hard.

A war, any war, always exerted a strain on the leadership structure. Two changes at the highest position in less than a month had resulted in confusion and uncertainty. Colonies dropping off the map in the middle of a war and now what was unmistakably a massive offensive by unknown aliens meant entire agencies were scrambling to determine how to begin to react.

Now this. Soon some of the details of the conspiracy were going to start hitting the news feeds, however much one tried to squelch them. He felt sorry for all the ordinary people out there, not being able to get a handle on what was going on in the government and the galaxy and unable to affect any of it.

He was thankful to be on the inside and able to play a small role. Others might say his role hadn’t been so small, but it felt small to him.

He closed the file. Any information it contained which arguably rose to the level of an emergency he already knew; the rest could wait.

Before he realized he was doing it, he had opened a different file. The one he hadn’t tossed in a garbage bin on Krysk or the spaceport or the transport.

Senecan Federation Division of Intelligence Personnel Record: William Sutton, Jr.

The words blurred into a foreign language, strange markings which bore no resemblance to words he recognized. He ordered a bourbon straight up and stared at the title until it arrived. Then he took a long sip and began reading.

Will was born on Elathan—not New Columbia—but moved to Seneca for university, where he received degrees in both civil engineering and political theory followed by a master’s degree in architecture. He worked for a construction business in Cavare for nine years before a friend from the political science department came to him with a proposition.

Once the flames of war and their aftermath finally died down, Senecan Intelligence decided they needed eyes on the ground on Alliance worlds, especially on Earth near the seats of power. Richard understood this, for his civilian counterparts had done much the same.

Will wasn’t military, nor was he a trained killer. But he was well-versed in history and politics and possessed both a keen, analytical mind and an affable, friendly demeanor. After two months of training on the logistics of the spy trade they sent him to Earth with an airtight backstory, made all the better because it differed from reality solely in the locations at which the hallmarks of his life had occurred. An only child whose parents died in a transport accident when he was seventeen, he left behind no family and carried with him no complications.

His mission was to learn what he could where he could and pass it along. Nothing more, nothing less.

He set up a wholly legitimate construction firm in Vancouver. The work he did was real and above-board. But he also became active in the community and cultivated friends among the civilian contractors who worked at EASC and the nearby auxiliary bases.

That was how Richard had met him, three years after Will moved to Vancouver. During a stint at the North Pacific Military Center teaching a course on close surveillance techniques, long before he rose to his current post, he had gone out for drinks with several officers from the base. Will had been at the bar, watching the game with some contractors who knew the officers Richard accompanied. Introductions were made, and they—seemingly—hit it off instantly.

The reports Will filed over the years were not what he had imagined. For one, they were infrequent, often as few as three a year. In most instances they consisted of the kind of background intel which served a vital purpose in the intelligence business but rarely shaped events: who had gained influence and who had lost it, the general mood around EASC on a particular topic or with respect to ‘official’ Alliance positions.

Possibly because until weeks ago there were no active hostilities ongoing between the Alliance and the Federation, Richard was unable to find an instance of Will alerting Senecan Intelligence to an operation targeting them ahead of time. Then again, he’d likely never let such intel slip either. While he’d shared information on rare occasions when it mattered, he’d not made a habit of disclosing the details of his work.

And as he thought about it, he realized Will had never pushed.

Every one of Will’s recommendations, when they were included, advised better relations with the Alliance. He shared misconceptions the Alliance infrastructure and ordinary citizens maintained regarding the Federation and urged steps be taken to correct them. He pointed out opportunities where overtures might be undertaken.

He hadn’t been lying when he said he wanted peace.

Like everything else in the galaxy, Will’s reports increased in frequency with the Atlantis Trade Summit. He had reported on the extent of Alliance surveillance—surveillance Richard oversaw—but honestly the report didn’t include anything Senecan Intelligence wouldn’t have doubtless known. And it was probable Will knew this as well.

The last two reports gained an urgent tone and manner. Will argued Richard’s case vicariously and vigorously that the Alliance did not order the Palluda attack. He argued there existed strong evidence for outside forces being at work and advised further investigation into the causative events. In the end he all but begged his superiors to find a way to end this war and focus on the aliens.

He hadn’t been lying about a lot of things. Merely the most important ones.

Richard conceded he wasn’t objective; the furthest one could be from objective in fact. But he now understood why Delavasi insisted on giving him the file.

Will had, without fail, conducted himself honorably—other than lying to his husband for fifteen years. He’d used his position to repeatedly advocate for improved relations, both to Richard and to Seneca. Richard assumed he did so because he truly believed in it. Beyond filing a report every few months, his life had not constituted a lie.

And in fifteen years of post-marriage reports, he’d never transmitted a single negative, disparaging statement about Richard. So though Richard had been made a fool, at least he hadn’t been made a public fool.

Above all else the content of the file communicated one truth: it wasn’t Richard Navick or Graham Delavasi who cleared the way for the war to end. It was Will Sutton, Jr., at what may or may not have been great personal cost.