Reclamation (Book One of the Art of War Trilogy), page 10
He made his way through the aptly named crawlspace in a somewhat undignified fashion and opened the hatch to the primary life-support module. The primary module was larger than the secondary and housed the quarters for the remaining seven marines and the five crewmembers in the form of a torus of sealed cubicles each housing a VR capsule. They formed the only ornament in the room, save for a hatch in the centre of the floor which, as in the secondary module, led to the hangar.
The small, communal area of the module was full, as it often was before the destroyer deployed. Seven marines clad in full-pressure Mantix were milling around with their weapons casually slung, filling the close air with gruff chatter. At the rear of the module stood the ship’s crew, all of whom were now out of uniform and in pressure suits, holding their helmets. They all dutifully saluted on his entry – as did maybe half of the marines, to his amazement.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, returning it. The module fell silent. ‘The York is dealing with a vermin problem, so I expect we shall be delayed by another thirty minutes. Lieutenant Commander Burkhart?’
‘Aye, sir?’
‘Take us through pre-deployment drill, please.’
The man nodded. ‘Aye, sir.’
Rynn paused for a moment. ‘All right. Carry on,’ he said and made his way to his cubicle. He opened the door using his IHD, stepped inside and closed it behind him.
He exhaled loudly, listening to the muffled sound of Burkhart giving the men their orders. In front of him was a floor-to-ceiling locker which housed his pressure suit, and he opened it. On the inside of the door was a picture of his wife and two sons outside the family home on Bospen. It had been taken shortly before his deployment to Navem Sigma, during a particularly crisp autumn. It was strange how he seemed to lose all concept of seasons on operations – even time itself.
He changed out of his uniform and donned his pressure suit with a practised ease. It was a thick, rubbery set of sealed overalls, not unlike a stripped-down version of Mantix without all the armour and enhanced nanogel matrix, with a gorget seal for his helmet to lock into. Once his IHD was satisfied he had donned it correctly and it was in good working order, he folded his uniform up into a neat pile and placed it on the top shelf of his locker, picked up his helmet and exited the cubicle.
Burkhart approached him. ‘All in order, sir. We’ll run a full systems diagnostic when we enter sync, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Rynn replied. ‘May as well get everyone in now.’
Burkhart saluted. ‘Aye aye, sir,’ he said, then turned back to the communal space. ‘All right, everyone in. Let’s go.’
Rynn pulled his helmet on and climbed into his capsule, a two-metre black ovoid fitted out with a body harness and a neural interface. He strapped himself in and then felt the harness automatically tighten, pulling him firm against the gel layer of the bed. Once he was comfortable, he ran a series of diagnostic checks through his IHD, then, satisfied that his oxygen supply was functioning correctly, he pulled the door closed. It sealed itself, and the capsule slowly filled with a thick, viscous gel that both shielded him from the punishing acceleration forces they were about to experience and acted as a shock absorber if the destroyer was hit.
Once the pod was full, he took one last look around, checked again that his oxygen supply was functioning correctly and activated the VR sync, wincing as an unavoidable drone of data babbled in his ears for a few moments. The capsule was simultaneously inducing him into a coma-like state and uploading his consciousness to the destroyer’s virtual reality space, a program hosted by the ship’s own quintuple-redundancy processor housed, like the VR capsules, in the ship’s diamond-encased core.
When the synchronisation process was complete, Rynn felt himself awaken, refreshed, as if after a long night’s sleep. The space he was in, informally known as ‘the sync’, could be theoretically programmed to take on any appearance, though the default and current setting was that of a glossy black platform. A small amphitheatre of consoles lay in front of him, and the crew were slowly appearing in front of them as they uploaded, firstly as human-shaped blocks of code and then as their fleshy, uniformed selves.
The view around him would have been staggering – if not a little alarming – to the uninitiated. Optical feeds and scanners located all over the hull of the destroyer meant that a real-time and true-to-life image of space appeared in all directions. Overlapping the image were graphics representing the massive Navem Sigma station, distant colonies and their positions relative to the Retribution, other stations, allied ships, sectors, subsectors, gas clouds, black holes and every other piece of astral topography imaginable. The result was a riot of information and stylised graphics appearing in a grid-lined sphere around him, and one which could – and would – be personalised to his view via his IHD.
‘Everyone is present and correct, sir,’ Lieutenant Commander Burkhart said, approaching him. Rynn smiled. One of the many benefits of operating in VR sync was that they were back in uniforms, in boots and breeches and stock-collared and braided jackets. If there was one thing he liked, it was his men to be well turned out.
‘Thank you, First Officer,’ Rynn said, nodding.
‘Lieutenant Aulden reports that the Seraph too is ready, sir. All men in sync and standing by.’
‘Good. Inform Mr Grosvenor that both the Retribution and the Seraph are now ready to deploy.’ He checked the time. ‘The force will leave in fifteen minutes. If he is not ready by then, he shall have to perform repairs in orbit.’
‘Aye, sir. Very good, sir,’ Burkhart replied and walked back to his console.
Rynn surveyed the scene in front of him. Aside from Burkhart, who was the destroyer’s weapons officer, there was Dieter, the damage-control officer, Smith for navigation and Rankin on comms. The marines were in a separate sync, but one that was easily accessed for the giving of orders. There was simply no point in having them milling about on what was essentially the bridge.
‘All right,’ he said, checking the time again. He absentmindedly ran a full systems diagnostic and reviewed the information to find everything – engines, shielding, weapon systems, life support – in perfect working order. He turned and sat down in his command station and waited for the all-clear.
‘Mr Grosvenor reports all repairs completed, sir,’ Rankin informed him after an interminable pause. ‘Force is ready to deploy.’
‘Good,’ Rynn replied, checking the time. ‘Mr Smith, let’s make the jump at a million klicks out, please. Mr Rankin, inform traffic control that we are departing.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Rynn opened a comlink to Vargonroth. ‘QRF is deploying. ETA…’ he checked the Retribution’s navigational holo. ‘… Nineteen hours and forty-one minutes.’ He packaged the transmission via triple encryption and sent it to Vargonroth via the Fleet Comms Array on Navem Sigma.
‘Take us out, please.’
FIRST LIGHT
‘They taught themselves religion and to worship their sun. We taught them science and that their sun was a nuclear fireball. The golgron taught them warfare and how to make their own nuclear fire.
Then four billion died.
They don’t worship the sun any more.’
Extract from the memoirs of UN Ambassador Tomas Sellwyck, describing the nuclear holocaust on Illythia
They breakfasted on scrambled eggs, real smoked salmon and buttered toast, and washed it down with hot black coffee. Together, the three of them formed the only human presence in the officers’ mess, and the gentle clinking of cutlery and their low conversation made the only noise inside the old, classically decorated hall. Outside, the rain had subsided somewhat, and the first shafts of light were appearing on the horizon, giving the massed storm clouds a red glow.
‘Ah, the quick-reaction force has departed Navem Sigma,’ said Fleet Marshal Scarcroft, setting down his cutlery and focussing on his IHD. He sniffed. ‘That was sooner than I’d expected.’
General Pike snorted into his plate. ‘Didn’t you give the order hours ago?’
Scarcroft nodded impatiently. ‘Yes. I see the inherent complexities of interstellar communication and travel still escape you.’
Pike smiled and swallowed his mouthful. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it and took a slurp of coffee instead.
John Garrick ignored both of them. He stared out the window, studying the thick grey clouds and the way the weak, early morning light slowly welled up on the horizon. He and his team had been contemplating strike targets for the last two hours since their first briefing with the President, and had come up with a comprehensive list of viable objectives, including Ascendancy military centres, industrial complexes, deep space relays and large civilian centres. Even the crusade fleets hadn’t escaped his attentions, though out of a long register of targets, they were the most suicidally ridiculous.
One of the many downsides of his job was that it allowed him a lot of time to think. Liaising with military intelligence units across the galaxy and pulling together dossiers on the Ascendancy’s weak points was a task which took many hours to do badly and many weeks to do well, and one did not spend all of that time sifting through reams and reams of documentation, satellite images, drone feeds and data streams without doing a lot of thinking. Garrick dwelled on things at the best of times, but in this matter he felt sure that the product of these years of reflection was inescapably correct: that the UN was essentially powerless against the provar.
The realisation had come to him fairly slowly, and he still considered himself the only member of the Joint Chiefs to have been thus enlightened. The fact of the matter was, as a nation, the Provari Ascendancy existed as a toxic combination of state-sponsored militarism and fanatical religious doctrine, both of which pervaded their society to a grassroots level and neither of which, more dangerously, the UN truly understood. Historically, the UN and other Tier-Three species had relied on the provar’s obsession with their own secret intergalactic war to keep them from violently meddling in Tier-Three affairs, though recently their willingness to become more involved had markedly increased. It was only now that the UN was realising the danger, and it was already decades too late.
Consequently, to say that drawing up a strike contingency against such a society was daunting would be, in Garrick’s opinion, a gross understatement. Of course, the Ascendancy was still roughly fifty per cent civilian – or what the UN termed civilian, since the provar made no such distinction – and it would be easy enough to threaten to drop a few nukes on a city or irradiate a planet. But the consequences would be beyond comprehension if the provar were to about-turn even one crusade fleet in retaliation. The UN maintained thousands of manned and unmanned deep space relays around the galaxy with the sole purpose of cataloguing the fleets, and current counts put the number of ships at over a million and a half. That was a martial force larger than all the other Tier-Three fleets combined, and one crewed by utter fanatics.
He sighed inwardly, trying to comfort himself that the UN would not be stupid enough to pursue a course of action which would lead to war, but even if that was not the outright intention, circumstances were still dictating against him. The UN scraped by on a notoriously opaque system of governance, but the presidential election was the one political event guaranteed to draw the attention of the population, and Aurelius’s first term was almost over. He would not put it past that idiot to take a needlessly tough and provocative stance against the Ascendancy to win the popular vote.
‘Commander Garrick?’ someone said. From the tone, it didn’t sound like it was the first time either.
He looked up, his reverie broken. Both Pike and Scarcroft were looking at him.
‘Yes?’
‘You just muttered something,’ Scarcroft said, then forked a roll of smoked salmon into his mouth.
‘Did I?’
Pike nodded. ‘Everything all right? You look preoccupied.’
‘Mm,’ Garrick grunted. ‘Just thinking about our strike options. And how the provar will react.’
‘Badly, one would imagine,’ Scarcroft said with just a hint of a smirk, sipping his coffee. ‘But for all his bluster, I don’t think Aurelius will actually do anything. You know how excited he gets when he’s surrounded by the General Staff.’
They were all distracted by the sound of the mess door opening. Josette appeared a few seconds later and strode across the hall, her heels rapping loudly against the old wooden floorboards. From the look on her face, it was not good news.
‘General, Fleet Marshal, you are both needed in the ops room immediately,’ she said, her face, on closer inspection, appearing slightly flushed. Garrick checked his IHD but found there were no pending messages.
Pike sighed and downed the rest of his coffee. Scarcroft did likewise, and they both stood.
‘This had better be good,’ the old general mumbled and stifled a belch. Scarcroft shot him a look of disdain, and they exited the mess together like an odd couple.
There was an uncomfortable pause as Josette stood by the table, waiting for the two men to leave. Garrick found being alone with her under any circumstances was now invariably awkward, given their affair, but their present location exacerbated the situation, since it was in the officers’ mess that they had first embarked on it. The thought soured his already melancholy mood.
‘There is news,’ Josette said and then sat down opposite him. She took a clean cup from the centre of the table and poured herself a coffee.
‘I guessed as much,’ Garrick replied. He felt a stab of adrenaline and then familiar feelings of resentment suddenly well up within him – not only at their affair, but at her secondment to UNIS too. He still thought about the days when it was he who had the exciting job, who fed her the information and gossip and impressed her and then fucked her afterwards. Now she was privy to Cyan-classified information before him and knew all of UNIS’s secrets in HQ Vargonroth. She was part of an elite club, a club that was openly disdainful of military personnel and so one that was forever closed to him quite irrespective of his potential lack of ability and no matter how badly he might secretly want to join.
Josette cleared her throat. ‘The mission station on Uvolon has been destroyed,’ she said quietly.
Garrick contemplated this for a few seconds, pretending to remain calm. ‘Presumably by the provar?’
Josette nodded. ‘KRS. Took down half the mountain with it. Initial intelligence suggests that there were up to four hundred armed kaygryn in the vicinity when the cruiser fired.’
Garrick exhaled through pursed lips and clicked his tongue a few times. ‘Anyone dead?’
Josette nodded again, grimacing, and took a sip of coffee. ‘Aside from all the kaygryn, one agent, as far as we know. Body hasn’t been recovered yet.’
Garrick snorted. ‘After a KRS? Good luck.’
Josette scratched the back of her neck. ‘It’s not impossible.’
He contemplated for a moment. ‘So we’re blind?’
‘Not really. Our orbital feeds are gone, but we have drones with FTL comms. The UNAF base commander says the Goliaths are patrolling the border as we speak. We have plenty of eyes.’
‘Just not where we need them.’ Garrick said, sipping his own coffee. He was actually quite enjoying this. She had a lot more at stake than him. ‘Not all bad news. Well, aside from the fact that this is now, what, a Scarlet?’
Josette brought her elbows on to the table and rested her head in her hands. When she spoke, she stared at the cup in front of her. ‘Our mission station there was, naturally, illegal.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ Garrick said, rolling his eyes. ‘They kill one of our agents and of course we’re not even going to say anything.’
‘Well, what on Earth can we say?’ Josette countered. ‘Imagine if we revealed that we had cloaked assets in the area.’
Garrick opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. She was right, of course. Being a contrarian would only irritate her – and more importantly for him, close her off as a conduit of information.
‘So what’s happening now?’ he asked as calmly as he could, quelling the numerous and conflicting emotions boiling inside him.
Josette sat back and looked at him. For a few seconds he watched as her eyes searched his face. ‘We have a contingency,’ she said after a short while. Her voice was measured, as if she was taking stock of him.
Garrick swallowed back his bitterness. ‘Go on,’ he said, fighting to keep his teeth from clenching. He hated her being condescending to him, hated it.
She appeared to be about to say something and then paused again. ‘What do you think about Hadan’s Reach?’
That threw him. ‘Hadan’s Reach? The Treaty?’
‘Yes,’ she replied simply.
Garrick sat back. The Treaty of Hadan’s Reach was fifty years old, though its impact was still hotly debated in modern politics, news outlets and bars the UN over. The agreement had been simple enough – millions of square kilometres of unused human territories in exchange for millions of tonnes of exotic matter – though retrospectively had been an absolute diplomatic whitewash, responsible for the downfall of the then UN government, hundreds of brushfire conflicts across the galaxy, and the death and enslavement of tens of thousands of kaygryn at the hands of the UN’s contractual counterparty, the provar. It was a stain on the collective conscience of every citizen of the UN and had earned them the ire and vitriol of every other Tier-Three player which had taken decades to work off. Josette, as the then Commissioner for Refugees, had been in the middle of it all, working round the clock for months solid. Garrick knew she felt more strongly about it than anyone else.
‘Well… I don’t know,’ he said, slightly flustered. ‘Back then they had a monopoly on… whatever those jump drive heavy elements are called – EXM? – and we needed it. The quorl made a similar deal.’ He shrugged. ‘It was poorly handled, but we couldn’t have known that they were going to do what they did.’
