Hey Rogues!
I’m super excited to announce that Downfall, Contact Book 2, will be available to purchase on Amazon from next Tuesday (25th September). So to get you all in the mood for the release, I thought I’d give you all a sneak peek at the first three chapters!
Enjoy….
1. Cavs
Jimmy Cavs had killed again, but even his greatest successes brought him no joy. Under the glare of the twin suns, he was still stuck in Loreto’s shadow. He had no place to hide.
The wrecked fighter tumbled through the air and crashed against the rocks. Six rebel ships down, three remaining. They skimmed low over the crashing waves of the Spartan ocean and streaked toward the coast.
“Send another warning,” Cavs told his second-in-command and added, pointedly, “Captain Hogeland.”
Cavs struggled with the crew’s names. The captain, Hogeland, was the wrong side of retirement, a victim of the recent flurry of wars and uprisings. His leaf-thin skin shimmered and towering height meant he loomed over everyone on deck. He was too tall, too ponderous, and too thin. He limped along on a bionic leg riddled with rust.
“Yessir,” Hogeland responded and sniffed, the man’s signature bad habit.
Cavs pursed his lips; it took great strength not to criticize the old man’s more aggravating tendencies.
“Message coming through from base, sir,” said another voice.
Cavs didn’t have time to figure out who was speaking; the crew’s accents were not yet familiar.
“Fire again,” he said, striding to the holo-plate and the projected rebel fighters.
This isn’t how Loreto would handle this, he couldn’t help but think. But this is my ship now. My command. I’ll handle it how I damn well please. The Corvus was a mid-sized battleship which wouldn’t turn eyes in most Fleets. Smaller, more compact than other flagships, she benefitted from the recovered alien tech, flying faster than she had any right to. Her shields held firm against the rebel guns. She’s all mine, thought Cavs, feeling a sudden rush of pride.
The crew had come with the ship. After the devastation of the high command, resources were too thin for recently-made admirals to be allowed to select their staff. Worn-out men like Hogeland had been unretired and shipped to Sparta, a creaking veteran taskforce with orders to crush the rebellions.
“Winged one!” Cavs shouted, seeing the clipped rebel ship spiral into the surface of the ocean. It blinked red and disappeared from the projection.
The ghostly holographic shapes glided through the air on the bridge. It was cramped, hot, and the air hung so heavy with sweat that Cavs spent the night coughing up the salty residue whenever he returned to his quarters to steal a few hours’ sleep. Taking charge of his first command was not what he had expected.
The rebel ships hung a hard turn to portside, hugging the water’s surface. The Corvus was too large to drop that low. She had the straight-line speed and the fire power but lacked the mosquito-maneuverability of the smaller Spartan fighters. She was built for space battles, not policework.
“Stay on them,” Cavs announced. “Track from above.”
“No one on tracking, sir,” droned Hogeland.
Cavs spotted the empty console on the other side of the deck. The command center was operating with a skeleton crew. There were too many rebellions; there had been too many casualties. Anyone who could read a screen had been pressganged into operation and it still wasn’t enough. He ran across to the console himself while Hogeland lurked near the holo-plate. The rest of the crew watched; they were all older than him, but he was the decorated war hero. What little sense of superiority he enjoyed felt jaded by the biting voice in the back of his mind that told him he’d been promoted too soon.
Still, he had his medal wrapped tightly in cloth and stuffed into the back of his locker. The crew had faded uniforms taken from different Fleets which had been hastily repaired when the Senate threatened their pensions.
“Three Spartan fighters,” Cavs called. “You hear me?”
The crew mumbled.
“Travelling eight hundred knots on a bearing of zero-two-zero. We’re matched for speed. How much coastline, Travvers?”
The woman looked up from her machine. Her braided hair was twisted up on her head like a ram’s horns and she sat squat in her seat with her wide shoulders lowered, ready to charge.
“Sir?” Her painfully-puzzled voice dappled through the humid air. “Oh, right. Yes. The coast just peters out down there, sir. It turns into ocean, sir. Three hundred clicks.”
“Ease out from the coast,” Cavs ordered. “I want them in range of the forward guns. Speed up accordingly.”
He turned his attention back to the console. The criminals stared back. He flicked through them with a nervous finger as the Corvus lurched to the side and accelerated.
“Call still waiting, sir,” the unknown crewmember announced. “It’s base, sir. They want an update.”
“Don’t answer till we’re done,” Cavs ordered. He didn’t want loose ends.
These rebels had set a bomb in a Federation facility, killing fifty people. After the Contact War, the Spartan society was decimated. Ambassadors, bureaucrats, and the other Federation attendants had been shipped in to rebuild everything in the Senate’s image. Saito and his people had sensed the opportunity to install a puppet government.
With so many losses, the locals had been too deep in their mourning to notice the implementation of home rule. The Federation brought the most uproarious colony firmly under the whip and most civilians were too tired to fight. They were given jobs in the shipyards, worked to the bone constructing a huge fleet. But not every Spartan complied. Those that hated the Senate had retreated into the desert to rebel against anything they saw as an occupying force.
In the flash of a bomb blast, Cavs had seen his mission change from keeping the peace to chasing down dissident fighters. The rush of excitement was undeniable, but it came at a cost. Dead rebels and dead civilians. People we were sworn to protect, once. Complicated thoughts and contradictions did not mesh well with the teachings of the Fleet.
“Who’s on guns?” asked Cavs, rising from the console.
Hogeland sucked in a lung and a half of air through his nose, snorting like a perished airlock seal.
“Guns, sir…” he droned and Cavs lost interest.
Loreto had Hertz. Cavs bit his lip, feeling a pang of nostalgia and envy. He had Hertz and Menels and me. A proper crew.
“I believe…” Hogeland tickled his chin while he talked. “I believe young Pilcher took that position. Or perhaps he is filling in from the networks desk…”
The three rebel ships roared along the coast.
“Whatever.” Cavs waved his hand at his first officer. “We don’t have time.”
“Base still wants an update, sir.” Cavs couldn’t tell who had spoken. Three hundred people on this ship, he thought. I know maybe five of them.
“Whoever’s on guns, tell them to target this fighter,” he said and touched the projection, marking the lead ship. “Take it down. Alive, if possible.”
“And base, sir?”
The ownerless voice had to be coming from somewhere, but this was the smallest of his problems.
“Delay,” he ordered. They needed something to report; chasing vapors impressed nobody.
He felt the guns fire, that alien technology giving them a little extra punch. Cavs didn’t know the technical details, but he’d seen the engineers gawping at the newly-overpowered machinery with wide eyes, their mouths dripping wet with anticipation. I use it properly, he assured himself. Not like Loreto. I waited. I let them test everything. I’m not here trying to get anyone killed. I’m not like him. After witnessing mistakes first-hand, he was determined not to walk the same path as his one-time hero.
Catching rebels was the mission but Cavs measured his success against the man he hated. He felt the guns again and watched the tracer fire across the projection. His gunners couldn’t hit a thing, a constant shame. The next volley of cannon fire flashed the projection red and he saw the lead fighter teeter and tumble. It crashed into the rolling ocean waves and the wreckage crumbled against the coastal rocks. Out in this part of Sparta, there were salt deserts and salt oceans and not much else. The bodies would wash up on the pebble beaches, decorating the world with dry rebel bones.
“Dispatch the Sirens,” Cavs ordered. “I want them scanning every downed ship. I want to put names to faces. I want lists of the deceased.”
I’m going back to base with something to show for it, he thought. But then what? This was Loreto’s military now. The admiral had been bumped up to commander and shipped back to Earth. His chest hung heavy with all the medals they’d thrown at him. It didn’t even matter that he’d almost lost the battle, that his mistakes had cost countless lives. Return to base, receive a pat on the head, and file another report on Spartan rebels for Commander Loreto. Even the idea stung Cavs and his hand shivered with anger. The cannons fired again, and a second fighter tumbled away.
“Still got base waiting.”
Base could go hang. They hadn’t given him the crew, the ship, or the time to do the job properly. They could wait. The Corvus flew at cruising speed and the last rebel fighter flitted below, weaving this way and that. The coastline expired soon; there would be nowhere left to run. The Spartan oceans seemed endless. A wet wasteland where ships went to die. We’ve got them cornered.
“All dead, sir.” Hogeland read out the Sirens’ report with tombstone cheer. “No survivors.”
“Not yet,” said Cavs as he watched the last fighter dance across the projection.
“It’s moving a lot, sir. We’re going to struggle to hit it.” Travvers shrugged her substantial shoulders. “Perhaps we should just…”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Travvers,” said Cavs, affecting his calmest voice. “They know they’re running out of coast. Wait for it.”
“Sir, what–”
The rebel fighter slowed to almost a standstill and, even in the ghostly projection, Cavs saw the engines flare as it fired back to life. It turned, twisting back on itself, back toward the bombed-out city, back toward the scene of the crime. Cavs smiled.
“Take her out to sea, Hogeland, over the water. I want to loop around, press up the speed, and snipe her from a distance.”
“But–”
“Just do it,” ordered Cavs. “That goes for all of you.”
The Corvus groaned as the helmsman turned her in a tight circle. The rebel fighter was already some distance ahead.
“We’ll never catch them, sir. We’re out of range,” Hogeland sniffed.
“For you, maybe,” said Cavs as he strutted across the bridge. His crew needed something to believe in. “Patch the gunnery department through to this station. I want full control.”
The crew buzzed around and made it happen. Cavs glared at the gunnery screen. Math, numbers and formulas, all familiar, all dancing to whatever tune he hummed. He sat at the station and looked up at the escaping rebel ship. His fingers waltzed, dialing in his demands. Then, he waited and waited and waited. He watched the scenery, checked the headwinds. He felt the pattern of the rebel’s fighter, swaying from one side to the other. He fired.
The cannons trembled, and everyone stared at the projection, tracing the line. The shots hammered into the starboard wing of the rebel ship. The fighter toppled, knocked off its axis. It fell from the sky, smoke streaming out of the engines, and bounced once along the surface, riding the waves, and then again. It skidded across the water, sending up streams of frothing, angry ocean. The bow of the fighter caught the pebble beach and slid up the shore. The projection blinked red and disappeared. The Corvus was left flying alone along the coastline, its enemies dead.
“Drag her back around, people. I want Sirens out there now, scanning everything.”
“Sir.” Travvers leaned back in her seat, clapping. “Sir, that was an amazing shot, sir.”
Cavs clicked his tongue and hummed. He knew how good it was.
“Check for survivors, Travvers.”
The Sirens circled around. The unmanned drones beamed back the images which became the holo-plate projection. Their eyes saw a burning rebel ship sitting alone on an empty beach.
“There’s… not… much.” Hogeland squinted. “The ship’s burning. No, wait. Some… life signs, sir…”
The captain spoke too slowly, like everyone on this geriatric ship. Cavs didn’t need to hear every word. He was standing beneath the projection, his hands manipulating the three-dimensional image and scouring it for any movement.
“There,” he said. “See it?”
“Not yet, sir…”
“Right there, Hogeland. Come on. Are you blind?”
The hatch on the side of the rebel fighter juddered. It flung wide open and a figure emerged from the inside. A woman.
“Shall I call back to base, sir? I’ll tell them there was one survivor.”
“No!” shouted Cavs. “Radio silence!”
“I recognize her, sir. She’s–”
“I know, Travvers,” Cavs said. “I’ve seen the footage.”
The grainy camera recording just before the bomb blast. The woman entered the checkpoint in her taupe Spartan overalls, placed a package and left, all at walking pace. After, they’d chased her back to the rebel ships lurking in an aqueduct on the outside of the mountains.
“Initiate detainment protocol,” ordered Cavs. “I want her alive.”
There was an energy on the deck and people moved with purpose. A successful mission, thought Cavs. Even if they’re the dregs, they thrive on success like everyone else. I’ve just got to make them believe that they’re fit to fight. He watched the Sirens fly across the beach, orbs as tall as a man flying through the air on hidden thrusters. They were nothing more than a collection of measuring instruments and tools, allowing him to operate in the vacuum of space without stepping outside.
The woman ran, slipping on the loose pebbles, trying to reach the cliff line. Three Sirens passed over and her overalls buffeted in the sharp wind, her dark hair fluttering but her face blurred by the moving lens. The crew on the deck watched, hushed.
The Sirens circled around her and set themselves in a triangle, beaming a weak energy shield between each other and locking the woman inside. They drew slowly together, tightening the available space until she ran to the shield wall and beat her hands against the flickering blue barrier.
“Locked up,” Travvers said with more than a hint of satisfaction. “Gotcha, rebel scum.”
Cavs tuned her out. On the nearby screens, he could see the profile being measured from every angle, trying to find a match. He just stared at the spectral face, still blurred, reading the emotions through the scan. Cold, worried, and angry. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
The Spartan rebel was in possession of a fierce determination, fighting back against the shields even though it was hopeless. She wrenched her arms out of her overalls, ripped the material and wrapped it around her fists. Her bare arms glimmered in the projection as she tried to knock out the Sirens and failed. Her fury was enrapturing; Cavs couldn’t help but stare, feeling the world closing in around this woman.
“Sir!” Hogeland’s voice broke through to wherever Cavs’s mind had retreated. “I said, sir!”
The whole deck was watching him now. The spell of the wonder shot from the Corvus’s guns was broken.
“Hmm?” he said, shaking his head and reminding himself of his audience. “What did you say?”
“I said, sir, that I am through with base. What should I tell them?”
“No survivors,” muttered Cavs as he watched the woman rage against the Sirens’ prison.
“But… sir?” Hogeland made no attempt to hide his horror. “What about–”
“No survivors, Captain,” Cavs said forcefully and stared down the bridge. “Now go and collect her, bring her in here.”
The woman’s face flickered defiantly.
“No survivors,” Hogeland echoed, his grave tone beaming the lies back to base. “No survivors.”
2. Loreto
“You’re lucky, Loreto.” The faceless politicians blurred together into a single, undulating, tedious mess. “This must be the biggest stroke of luck in your entire career.”
With a sigh, Loreto looked around the Star Chamber. The polished surface of the ancient stone table gleamed, picking out the starry map emblazoned on the ceiling. Down each side were rows of old men, guffawing and dozing and trying to rule the universe. President Saito leaned his head on his hand, wrinkled his nose, and blinked furiously. To his left sat Acton Hess, who had inserted himself into the upper echelons of the Senate in the three months since the war. The other seats were occupied by the generals. The elderly patriarchs of power, men who sat around existing.
A rhythmic clicking noise carried through the room. Saito’s knee was shivering against the underside of the table. Loreto hated every single one of them. He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. A poor representation of the stars made from ebony polished so hard it shone like space never did. The dark black void was a velvet, sucking color, Loreto knew. And the stars were not diamonds, inserted into spirals and constellations. They were roaring distant pinpricks, infernos burning and dying and driving all life as they knew it.
He didn’t like the map because it was made by people who did not understand the vast indifference and beauty of space, and the endless frontier of the Pale. He didn’t like the men in the room because they looked up and saw something to rule, rather than something to fear.
“Commander, are you quite ready?”
Loreto lowered his eyes. He didn’t want to give them the pleasure of his surprise. In his mind, he’d been aboard his Vela, reaching out into space, searching for the Exiles. Searching for the enemy. Despite demanding a mission to explore the Pale at every single one of these gatherings, he was always denied.
“I was listening,” he said, making no effort to hide his sullenness.
“Excellent,” Saito continued. “Then you will have heard all about our new space station and the countless other military projects we have lined up for you to play with.”
“I was listening,” Loreto repeated through grinding teeth.
Endless meetings ate away into his life like a horde of rats chewing through his toes. He’d come back to Earth, heralded as a hero, and infinite bureaucracy was his only reward.
“Would you like to tell us about these projects?” Saito’s grin flickered, as though a wire had come loose behind his face. He laughed in bursts and then rested his chin on a knuckle and sat listening.
Loreto looked up and down the table. They were all watching him. This was fun for them.
“Alien tech,” he grumbled. “Recovered from the Exiles and the Symbiot, given to our scientists. God knows what they’ve made of it, but this space station… I don’t remember the name of it… I’m sure it’ll work. Half of it, anyway. Like half of everything in this goddamn mess.”
The old faces turned down the table. Looking to Saito, Loreto thought. No, he corrected himself. They’re looking to that other one. Van Liden. He’s the one who sets the tone.
“Of course, Commander.” Saito broke their silence. “But our weapons are only as good as the men who hold them. Which is why I cannot think of anyone better to introduce our raft of new designs to the colonies.”
The eyes turned back to Loreto.
“I’ll be doing what?” he asked, leaning forward over the heavy desk.
“Yes, a brief tour, I think,” Saito chewed on a thumbnail and Loreto saw the man’s thoughts wandering. “Perhaps ten stops. Inca. Sparta. Maybe even Mars on the way home. All the usual trouble spots.”
The president twitched and laughed to himself. Next to him, Van Liden’s face remained unmoved. A lip very nearly curled in disgust, Loreto thought.
“It will help to show these… unruly members of the Federation just how wonderful our universal community can be. It never hurts to show them what you’re packing, Commander.”
Another colossal waste of time, Loreto raged in his mind. I could be out there doing a hundred other things. Since the aliens had disappeared, no member of the Senate seemed remotely interested in finding them again. He had argued for hours but always met the same infuriating indifference. Nothing he said would ever unlock these chains, the rules and regulations which tied him up and prevented him from doing anything useful.
“Mr. President”—Loreto tried to stay calm—“as I’ve said, I just need to take a few ships. I could patrol the Pale, make sure–”
“No, no.” Saito cut across him almost cheerfully. “Your place is here, Loreto. Here, and then wherever we send you. You’re a hero, after all. Do you know how much that’s worth? It’s time you sat back and actually commanded, Commander.”
The same argument they’d had a thousand times. Loreto could feel his patience being pecked out of his flesh, sharp talons ripping at his skin and holding him down.
His uniform chafed. It was new. A ceremonial monstrosity designed to commemorate a great victory. Each individual piece, he was told, was a perfect replica of the clothes of Rother Loreto, right down to the military dagger which hung from his hip. It wasn’t even sharp. It wasn’t even accurate. He had the real thing sitting on a shelf in his office on the Vela and they didn’t even know. Meaningless trinkets that itched against his skin. Just another set of people abusing the man’s memory in pursuit of a political goal; that was what really itched at his skin.
“I think,” a voice croaked from the other end of the table, “that is quite enough.”
The table turned to Van Liden. Saito fidgeted and nodded energetically.
“Quite,” he said. “Neko, what’s next?”
Quietly, the attendants looked from one to the other. The room was tall and cloaked in shadows; a modern room, designed to look old. A large, cold stone table separated them from each other, the only lights coming from the projection in the center and the short personal lamps which hovered over every station. Above them, an inlaid star map glimmered. Loreto knew it was hideously inaccurate but it would take him a lifetime to prize out all the precious stones and reset them in the right places. No one had that much living left to do.
One of the generals played with the page in his hand and a projection glimmered to life in the space above the table. Another new weapon. Another product of alien tech. Loreto listened to the man drone on and on about its fantastical capabilities, as though he were a salesman more than a protector of the realm.
“We call it the Kiss,” he announced as the faces along the table laughed mirthlessly. “Activate it and every ship engine in the immediate vicinity will shut down. A goodnight kiss, see? We took the networking tech from the Symbiot wrecks and tried it out on all our–”
“I’m sorry,” Loreto said loudly. “But I have a question.”
Neko looked around nervously, leaning forward to better see Van Liden.
“You’ve made this… Kiss,” Loreto continued anyway, “and you’ve only tested it on human ships.”
“Tested it extensively.” Neko held up a finger. “And it is very cost-effective in terms of–”
“Cost-effective?” Loreto shrugged. “But actually effective? Against aliens? Or only against our own damn ships?”
Neko laughed and leaned even harder into the desk, trying to see Van Liden.
The same problem again, Loreto knew. They weren’t worried about the aliens. They still thought the war was over, that it was won. They were just hoping everything would go right back to normal. No one spoke.
“Listen.” Loreto broke the silence. “You’ve all forgotten just quite how devastating a war we just fought. We drove out an alien race. Barely three months ago. Hostiles. And another species who we can’t seem to figure out. And now you want me to host military parades around the Federation?”
This is the price of promotion, Loreto told himself. Beating the same dead horse in a hundred meetings and no one listening. He had accepted the role as commander of the Federation’s military forces so that he could fight against alien invaders who passed through the Pale, so that he could keep his oath to protect humanity from the dangers that lurked in the unknown corners of the universe.
But it hadn’t worked out like that.
“Mr. President.” Loreto softened his voice and tried to appeal to Saito’s good side. “Please. We’re not doing nearly enough to–”
“Quiet, Loreto,” Van Liden announced with his tombstone tones. “You have a position of real power here.”
Loreto wasn’t used to being cut off. He was the king on his ship. The absolute arbiter of power. Life in this godforsaken chamber was the opposite. His voice was quieter, and no one had to listen. He could feel his ego bristle.
“Doesn’t seem like that to me,” he said, choosing the simple route.
“Perhaps. But nevertheless, you are the head of the military. Our military,” Van Liden intoned, and every single person listened intently. “You are the Commander of the Fleets. A commander does not run around putting out fires. Chasing dead ends. Roving around the edges of the galaxy, chasing pixies or aliens or anything else. He commands.”
The last words were emphasized with an echoing thump on the table. It was this indifference to threats that bothered Loreto and reminded him that Van Liden was not a military man. He was a relic, a vestigial leftover from a time when the rich and famous sent their second sons to serve in an army. They didn’t have an army anymore, but they had plenty of wealthy fools and needed somewhere to put them. Most of the generals couldn’t hold a candle to a breeze without getting burned, but this one was different. He had a steel to him, an agenda. More importantly, he had power.
“Pixies?” Loreto raised his voice, feeling the anger at being challenged by a dressed-up civilian. “You know what really happened? You were there, Van Liden! We saw the same damn things!”
Van Liden’s nostrils flared. He reached into the breast pocket of his faux-military jacket and pulled out a sterling silver case. It opened up and he removed a long, thin cigarette, worth more than most people made in their lifetimes. He placed it in his mouth and then struck a match along the side of the stone table.
“The Battle of Sparta,” he said slowly, puffing and reclining in his seat, “was a great victory. When the Spartan rebels rose up, they were dealt with swiftly by your cunning tactics, Commander. And the Senate’s backing, of course.”
The smoke curled up into the rafters and collected before dissipating beneath the diamond stars. Loreto could feel his exasperation mixing with his anger, removing the words from his mouth.
“I… You… You can’t lie to people like this,” he said. “About the aliens. About everything. They know what they saw. I know what I saw!”
Even as he said it, Loreto knew it was a lie. The Senate controlled everything that passed through the trace gates that connected the individual systems. Not just the flow of people and goods but the flow of information. They had locked down the Spartan system and allowed nothing to leave. They had installed a military dictatorship on a planet which had lost almost all its fighting force. They had control.
Even when Ely Pitch had released Loreto’s messages, broadcasting them from Inca for all to hear, the words had just become lost in the din. The flood of information that poured out from the Senate washed them away. No one knew what to believe. Conspiracy theories, manipulated videos, outlandish stories, or the Senate’s own version of the truth. Most people just swallowed the easiest pill. The entire notion that the public would never know the truth left him more disillusioned by the day; it caused the numbness that allowed the rats to feast on his toes, eating away his determination from the ground up.
The Spartan rebellion. A plotted coup, which existed as a kind of half-truth. It provided the Senate with an excuse to crush their unrulier subjects. And now, every day, Loreto received reports from men like Jimmy Cavs who were trying to install peace at the end of a cannon. The people were growing restless. This version of the truth chafed as much as his ceremonial uniform.
“I think, Loreto,” Van Liden muttered after a long pause for thought, “that you are still standing… shall we say… in your ancestor’s shadow, Mr. Richard ‘Red Hand’ Loreto?”
The commander jumped up to his feet in a flash. He thumped the table hard and the vibration carried and rattled.
“Say that again, Van Liden,” he snarled and pointed at the old general. “Say it one more time!”
The sudden quiet reminded Loreto of how alone he was. The smoke curled out from Van Liden’s nostrils and everyone heard the singing of the paper as he took another expensive drag.
Hertz and Menels were waiting outside. There were
3. Hess
The chamber stood as one, each man unhappy in his own way. Loreto and Van Liden disappeared into the dark hallways of the Alcázar, chased by the generals.
“Hess,” Saito said quietly. “Wait there, please.”
Acton Hess, the last to leave, stopped dead and waited. The weight of the thin metal tube of basa in his pocket pressed into the front of his thigh.
“Can we… please…” asked Saito, the syllables cracking in his voice.
The president’s forehead shone with sweat. His skin, once tanned and taut, hung from his pointed cheekbones. The hairs around his ears had grown long, no longer laser-trimmed with precision. The man had lost weight and solidity, becoming a fretting, shivering ghost. Saito could barely hold himself together and this made Hess happy. Nearly three hours since the last bump, he thought, and smiled. I wonder whether everyone else can see it. Perhaps they think it’s stress.
The Star Chamber had emptied. The Alcázar outside thrummed with activity. Buried in the various basements of the great Senate pyramid, people poured over speeches and communiqués from the president, working wonders to make Saito look great again. Each worked miracles, tenderly refining every single aspect of his persona, digitally strengthening his voice and adding the occasional emotional pause to his delivery.
These strange people, Hess always wondered, were they allowed to go home? Were they able to slump in through the door of their apartments and sit with their families and bury the big secrets inside their minds as they broke bread? Did venomous men like Van Liden lurk over their shoulders at all moments, vengeful ghosts haunting their work, waiting to choke the curiosity out of anybody who talked about the true state of the world?
Hess stared at Saito’s bare neck as his thoughts ran out ahead of him.
“Hess…?” the president asked, bending down to catch the other man’s eye.
“Oh. Yes. My apologies, Mr. President. I got lost for a moment there.”
Saito wasn’t listening. He was already walking to the back of the room, his hand reaching instinctively for a flat section of the wall that looked exactly the same as the rest. The gold band around his wrist pressed up near the surface and, with a flurry of beeps and scans, a panel disappeared and opened out onto the presidential chambers.
After Saito, Hess stepped toward the door, puffing out his chest so that the pin he wore every day would not be missed by the scanners. Normally, pips were worn in the neck, but a clump of hastily-healed scar tissue told the story of what had happened to his tracking device. It worked, and he passed through into the presidential quarters. Just as it did every time, he felt the air catch in his throat.
From the enclosed space of the Star Chamber, they stepped into a vast room. The ceiling rose up and disappeared into the shadows. Archways and spiraling staircases crept out of every wall, knotting themselves into a twisted thicket of a palace.
Everything inside was made from ancient materials. Gold leaf coated every surface, intricate designs carved in the shapes of angels and reaching, searching humans. Lost somewhere in the maze would be the bedrooms and the bathrooms. But stepping into the residence was like stepping into a time machine, into an ancient treasure trove stuffed to the brim with the plundered loot of a far-flung continent.
Around the vast room were scattered statues and lavish items of furniture. The two figures cast in titanium stood on either side of the doorway, joining their hands in an arch above all who entered. Fountains bubbled in unseen corners, long and lazy cushioned benches floated silently above the tiled floor. Their glow was reflected in the marble and one bobbed slightly as Saito slung himself down. There were no more silkworms left on Earth, but their works survived in the palace of the president.
And then, as ever, the butterflies began to move. All above came the flutter, a thousand pairs of wings rustling against the still air as they took to flight. Amid the golds and the silvers and the wooden surfaces, their distant splashes of color seemed insistently decadent. They dithered from arch to arch, chasing one another about in sweeps and bows.
“You really do savor this antique junk, Hess,” Saito looked up from his hovering cushion to comment. “I’m sure your quarters must be quite the sight.”
Again, Saito mistook revulsion for admiration. Hess stared up at the opulence of the presidential quarters and remembered his own humble beginnings and his sparse apartment overlooking the Alcázar. It cost him more than either of his parents had ever dreamed of making and it could never come close to the lavishness that the president tuned out as background noise. This room was decorated like the horror stories Hess had been told as a child, the old men who’d whispered in his ear about rich people who ruled the universe and lived lives of gold and plenty.
“I see you’re staring at the bull.” Saito followed Hess’s eye. “We called that in from Father’s estate, though he kept it in storage. I think it fits quite well, no? It’s nice to have something from your childhood so close. A little nostalgia now and then. Old family things.”
The charging bull cast in bronze must have been a thousand years old, weighing a few tons, at least. All that effort to have it lost in the ostentatious clutter. Old family things indeed, Hess chided. He felt the tube pressing against his leg and remembered why he wanted to exorcise the Earth from the center of human existence. Too long had the entire culture revolved so needlessly around a single planet, restricting the growth and freedom of others. Carefully, he removed the narcotics from his pocket.
“About time,” said Saito, his greedy eyes glowing as he sat up.
The president snatched the metal tube from Hess’s hand. He held it to his ear and shook it indelicately.
“Running low, Hess. You might want to top it up.”
Hess smiled and nodded and took back the tube. He knew better than to bring too much. The aim was to make Saito dependent on him, not to make him happy. Placing his fingertip flat on the base, his touch disabled the container’s security. The lid sprang open and the powder inside rustled as he peered inside with a squint.
Strolling over to the charging bull, he tapped the tube gently on the bronze along one of the horns, ever so slightly above his eye line. Saito, the shorter man, leapt up on to the plinth and climbed up on to the haunches of the statue. He cheered, laughed, and leaned down over the beast’s head, taking a short golden straw from his pocket.
The basa made no sound as it rushed up the president’s nose. He licked his thumb, ran it along the bronze and then rubbed the residue into his gums. Saito coughed and laughed and leaned back, holding the horns of the bull, one in each hand. Hess turned around, not wanting to watch. Above them, the kaleidoscope of butterflies fled the manic laughter and settled on a white sculpture.
On closer examination, Hess realized that it was an ivory model of the very First Fleet, sitting at the foot of one of the towering walls. It was smaller than the other statues and less demanding of attention. Whereas the installations were bulls and lions and animals which existed now only on faraway colonies, this was a truly human creation, whittled from the tusk of a dead elephant.
The ugliness of the ship and the model struck him, as did its size. A short, squat ship built in a rush and designed only by utilitarian visionaries. Hess stared at the intricate details. The inscription below announced that it had been carved on the eve of victory, a commemoration of the Clone War and the first victory of the nascent fleet. Silently, he took his page and laid it on the plinth, beginning the recording.
The sound of metal tinkling on marble made him turn around. Saito had jumped down from the bull and knocked the basa tube to the floor. He was fumbling with frantic hands, trying to open it. Even from a distance, Hess knew that it was sealed.
He walked across and lightly plucked the container from the president’s hand. He used the sleeve of his expensive suit to wipe down the dirtied horn of the statue while Saito retreated, once again, to his cushioned bench, floating insouciantly above the floor, and let out a long, contented sigh. He leaned all the way back and allowed the full force of the narcotics to take him. They were alone in the presidential quarters, Hess noted. Alone but for the butterflies and the bull.
These were the moments Hess enjoyed, moments that Saito would never remember or care about. He began to walk around the debilitated president, circling him like a shark, running his finger along the soaring bookcases pressed up against the walls. The paper inside each text was worth more than the words, these days.
“Van Liden and Loreto seem at one another’s throats,” he mentioned casually.
Saito bubbled and chirped and squeaked but said nothing.
“I suppose we’ll have to deal with that soon,” Hess continued.
“We?” asked Saito, and Hess came to a sharp stop.
“Well, sir, obviously I meant that you–”
But Saito was already leaning back again and chirping at the birds. Hess began to circle again.
“It will be hard for you to choose between them,” he wondered aloud. “The decorated war hero and the elderly, trusted advisor.”
Hess allowed himself a smirk. ‘Elderly’ undersold Van Liden. The man was a twisted, ragged strip of leather, propelled through the universe by conviction, grit, and poison. A fearsome man and a bitter one. A chasing dog who snapped at the heels of anyone who dared challenge the status quo. I’d kill him in a second, he added, if I thought I stood a chance.
“Hmm-mmm,” Saito mumbled, lost in his haze. “Like there’s much of a choice…”
Hess felt a buzz in his pocket. Reaching for his page, he saw that the screen was filled to the brim with messages. He looked to the president. There was no chance the man would be able to focus long enough to read or listen to any of them, much less remember it in twenty minutes.
Hess held the small device in the flat of his palm and it projected a large hologram in front of him as he circled around Saito. Words and pictures and an entire interface; with a flick of his free hand, he could scroll through all the messages. The uprisings on planets. The war and the death and the chaos. That’s all there was.
It felt like the Federation was breaking apart at the seams and this pleased him. He’d tried to lead the Senate, he’d tried to win the presidential election and he’d lost to Saito. But he’d been inspired, down in the deep pits of his depression. He’d emerged with a revelation: only Acton Hess could collapse the Federation and build a newer, fairer structure in its place.
But without the aliens, without the Spartans, without Loreto, without the narcotics; without any of them, he wouldn’t have been able to insert himself into Saito’s inner circle. It was though he was guided by the ghostly hand of fate, Hess assured himself. Without all the death and war and chaos, he wouldn’t be able to build a better world. As he flicked through the messages, it was important to acknowledge their sacrifices.
Edison Ghoulam, Hess remembered, the Spartan leader who’d died in the battle against the alien invasion. The man had given his life to keep humanity alive. Hess had orchestrated the coup on the man’s planet in the hours after his death. Ghoulam had made a sacrifice for the greater good. In the long run, the Spartans would see the benefits.
A message from Jimmy Cavs appeared, the man he’d put in place on Sparta. The man he’d peeled off the liquor-soaked table and thrust into command of his very own fleet. Bomb attack, the young officer’s message read. No survivors. The kid was ruthless, and Hess liked that. He smiled as he read through the messages and the updates. Chaos. Confusion. Disorder. Doubt. He could see his own hand at work everywhere, sowing the seeds of the fall of the Federation, removing Earth from the center of the universe. He composed one of his own, addressing it to Commander Loreto, adding in details of rules and regulations, everything he knew would rub wrongly up against the man’s disposition. As he sent it, he heard a sound from behind.
“Those aliens…” garbled Saito. “Do you remember, Hess?”
He remembered all too well, even if he didn’t understand the politics of it all. He’d read Loreto’s debrief and was left confused more than anything. Two species at war with one another arriving suddenly through the Pale at the edge of human space. Humanity took a side, beat the bad guys, and then the aliens simply vanished. It was all too neat and tidy. No wonder the commander wasn’t satisfied.
“What do you think they look like?” mumbled Saito.
“We saw them, sir. The Exiles. Rubber suits and masks, all that mist.”
“No, Hess.” Saito laid back and held his hands above him, contorting them into all sorts of shapes. “I mean underneath it all. What are they really like?”
“Does it even matter?” Hess said with a shrug. “They’re not here anymore.”
“Loreto loves them.” Saito emitted a raw laugh as the high thinned. “He likes them better than humans.”
“I think,” said Hess, considering the notion, “I think he likes them better than certain humans.”
Saito’s eyes quivered uncontrollably and then opened wide, focusing on the ceiling, trying to track the butterflies. Certainly this human, Hess added as the president crawled down from his high. He turned his attention back to the messages. Chaos and disorder aplenty, but one name was missing.
Alison Yotam. Even the name brought forward a pang of guilt. He’d been forced to sideline the girl in recent weeks. She didn’t have a security clearance to sit in on the Star Chamber meetings and Saito would get paranoid with her around; he knew the girl’s father. Adopted father, Hess noted. The president didn’t trust him. The rich operated in their own little worlds.
So he’d given her busy work, tried to keep her occupied. She would set up meetings and chase down leads and inquire – always – about the supposed cache of documents which Saito had stashed in a hidden location. As hard as he had tried, Hess couldn’t get the president to elucidate.
Besides that, he simply didn’t want to risk the girl. Despite her annoyance, he was determined that she not be noticed by men like Van Liden. But he’d seen the way the general watched her. The old man knew she was a potential pressure point. Anyone Hess cared about would become a target, soon. It was a very short list.
“So,” Hess began, wandering into the fringes of Saito’s attention before the basa released its grip. “Van Liden mentioned to me–”
“Van Liden, that old goat,” Saito said, sitting up, sweaty and laughing.
“He was saying–”
“I don’t really care what he was saying, Hess.”
“Really?” Hess sat down next to the president. “You once mentioned to me that he represented certain… interests…”
He let the thought dangle in front of Saito. The man hadn’t said exactly that. But Hess was putting the pieces together, preying on the fractured mind of the president and offering up fragmented sketches of information, allowing him to fill in the blank spaces.
“Oh, already mentioned it to you, did I?” Saito stood up and stretched and walked across to the bull. “Sure, he represents some people. Common interests, Mars, that sort of thing…”
“These common interests, do they have a name?”
“Nothing as formal as that,” Saito laughed. “Like a cabal or something? A country club? Oh, Hess, sometimes I forget what different worlds we come from.”
As he laughed, the president looked up into the face of an antique clock. Hess seethed. Saito’s tolerance to the basa was building and these sessions were becoming shorter and shorter.
“I think,” the president said, “that we may have time for one more little… indulgence.”
Hess knew exactly what the man meant but he wanted his answers. He was getting frustrated.
“A club with common interests?” he asked, trying to sound casual. “Do you know them? Do they have names?”
Saito held out a hand and tapped a toe on the ground.
“Come on, Hess, hand it over.”
“I just want a few names,” he said, his hand half in his pocket. “I’m curious.”
Saito followed the hand with greedy eyes.
“Oh,” he said, his voice arriving from a faraway place. “You wouldn’t know them. People from all over. Rich people.”
That told Hess exactly nothing. I just want to know how they bully you around, he thought. And why. He plucked the tube from its place in his pocket and dangled it in the empty air.
“I just want a name,” he said, playfully.
“Hess, come on.”
Hess pressed his finger to the base of the tube and it flicked open. He saw Saito glowering at him, seemingly torn between the insubordination and his fiending.
“Just wondering, Mr. President,” Hess said, stepping back from the edge. “That’s all.”
Saito crouched back on his heels like a cat ready to pounce. A door behind them opened and a servant entered, their footsteps echoing and disturbing the butterflies. Saito leapt and snatched the tube from Hess’s hand.
“Mr. President?” the servant called, lost in the opulence.
Hess stepped swiftly in front of Saito and blocked the man’s vision. He could hear the sound of the tube tapping against the bronze bull.
“Hello!” said Hess as he wrapped his arm around the servant. “Nathaniel, wasn’t it? Would you do me a favor, Nathaniel, and double check in the Star Chamber for any paperwork the generals might have left behind?”
“But I was just–”
“Thank you,” Hess said as he pushed the man out through the door with a hand firmly in the small of his back. “That will be all.”
Nathaniel exited without much protest; word had spread through the hundreds of staff that Acton Hess had the ear of the president and was to be obeyed at all times. By the time he arrived back in the center of the room, Saito was back on the cushions, playing with empty air. The tube of basa was on the floor, empty and abandoned.
Hess picked it up, noticing that it was empty. Saito had done it all, far more than he was used to taking. He wouldn’t be saying anything useful for a long time yet.
“Hess,” the man mumbled, his teeth locked together. “Hess. Remember to get… more. For later. Hess. Good chap.”
The president collapsed pathetically back, his forehead soaked in sweat, his expensive clothes frayed and torn from the fidgeting. Hess thought about the chaos and the discord in the messages. This was the man the Federation had elected to steer them through difficult times.
Saito’s body was breaking, he could see it. The man was hurting. Blood vessels had burst in his eyes and he couldn’t hold a steady hand, ever. Fetching more basa, feeding it out to him one line at a time, it would eat away at the man’s soul, destroying him slowly. To facilitate this, Hess thought, it can’t be right. Eventually, he would have to cut the addict off.
“Hess.” Saito strained with the effort of speaking. “Did you hear me?”
But what was right for Saito was not what was right for the universe.
“I’ll have it ready for you later, sir.”