SPIN HABITAT SEVEN

NEW AMERICA PROJECT

CENTRAL BELT, ALLIANCE INTERDICTED ZONE

BETWEEN THE ORBITS OF MARS AND JUPITER

JANUARY 8, 1991

Habitat Seven was the largest of the Project's constructs, half a kilometer across and two long; nickel-iron was cheap, and easy to work with big enough mirrors. The former lump of metal-rich rock was a spinning tube, closed at either end, with a glowing cylinder of woven glass filament running down its center. There was atmosphere inside, and the inner surface had been transformed; gravity was .5 G, as much as was practical or necessary. Grass grew in squares of nutrient-rich dust, and hopeful flowers. Individual houses - foamed rock poured into molds - formed neighborhoods; there were dozens of different floor plans.

Cindy Lefarge gathered the last of the dinner dishes and loaded them into the washer set into the countertop. She touched a control and the cylindrical hopper sank back down. A quiet hum sounded through the serving window. The Lefarge living-dining area was open-plan in the manner that had become fashionable in the '70s, when the price of live-in help rose beyond the budgets of the upper middle class. It always was, here in the Belt, she thought with slight cynicism. Amazing how fast domestic gadgets got invented when it was really necessary. She picked up the tray with the coffee and carried it around to set on the table.

There were four other dining at Brigadier Lefarge's house that night, three men and one woman, all department heads. Scientists for the most part, or scientific administrators at least, engineers, used to hard-material problems and juggling workers and resources. The work they had been involved with dealt with far more theory than any major scientific project since the Eurasian War. Their goals had dealt with immediate problems, mostly engineering work. Dealing with Prothean technology required real ingenuity.

"All right," Fred said abruptly. Cindy could feel a harshness behind the tone, the same force that had been hag-riding him since he heard of Uncle Nate's forced retirement, and the news of Marya's death on Mars before that. There were lines graven in the heavy-boned face, down from nose to mouth. "It's going on two years since we... obtained," - a short savage smile - "the Prothean technology and data from the Snakes. What have we got?"

There was a period of silence as the department heads marshaled their thoughts and gauged each other to see who would go first. It was a silence possible only because the Lefarges' twin teenage daughters were out with their friends from school, along with a bunch from Habitat Three. Fred preferred to keep the meetings like this, with the small-town atmosphere that had been created among those involved in the Project: an after dinner meeting over coffee.

"Well," began Pedro de Ribeiro as he stroked his salt-and-pepper Imperial Brazilian goatee, "we have not fully translated the Prothean language in the data core, but we estimate full understanding within weeks." Every aspect of the Prothean project had become easier in recent months with the influx of new settlement in the Belt, spurred by official encouragement back dirtside and tales of the fleet that had defeated the Draka convoy.

"What we have translated," the professor continued, "has given us some very interesting roads to follow. What is most interesting to me, however, is the very architecture of the data core itself." His eyes lit as he sat forward, looking across the table to Fred. "Do you recall the conversation we had when we were establishing the infrastructure of this habitat?"

Lefarge frowned as he considered the question, then his face cleared as he remembered. "Back in '83," he nodded. That conversation had involved some circuitous talk about the most secretive of the New America Project's enterprises, the data plague they were developing to infect the embedded compinstruction sets of the Domination's mainbrain computers, the cores.

De Ribeiro beamed, as if proud at the recall of a pupil. "Exactly. Then I was worried that we would have to practically reinvent the art of information systems. Laid out before us in the architecture of this data core is a road map for a far more open system, one in which we can write compinstruction procedures on a perscomp, instead of manufacturing them into analog components at secure facilities and then transported them to the computers that will use them."

"But that would mean... Jesus!" That was Henry Wasser, head of the antimatter drive systems for the New America and her auxiliaries and of late studying the mass effect drives of the two Prothean spaceships that had been included in the convoy. He was the one who worked most closely with the Infosystems Division de Ribeiro directed. "You could copy embedded corepaths and instruction sets over the wires between perscomps! It would be a security nightmare."

The Brazilian nodded. "Exactly! Free flow of information, of ideas, of concepts. Here we are relatively free of the security restrictions – if only because we are already imprisoned, in a sense!

"Think also, my colleagues," he continued, "Who would find it more difficult to adjust to such a world where such technology were widespread, us or them?"

Ali Harahap nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed so," he said in his singsong Sumatran accent, taking a drag from a cigarette that smelled sharply of cloves and exhaling. "Their Security Directorate would have nightmares about such an open system, a... network of perscomps."

Lefarge rapped the table. "Gentlemen, please. Let's try to keep the extrapolation to a minimum, shall we?" His tone was both amused and resigned; he was used to herding their more fanciful flights during these meetings. "Doctor Wasser, how are things on your end?"

Wasser cleared his throat and took a quick drink of his coffee, then leaned back in his chair, holding the ceramic cup's handle with one hand. "The stockpile of that alien element is obviously the secret behind how the mass effect core works. As far as we can tell, it defies conventional measurement on the periodic table. It has no protons in the nucleus of it's atoms, and therefore no atomic number. Because of this we've been informally calling it 'element zero'."

The propulsion drive expert set his coffee down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "This stuff is amazing, really. Running an electrical current through it causes it to release dark energy which can then be manipulated by the core into a mass effect field. A positively charged current increases mass within the field, while a negatively charged one decreases it. The only downside is that the stockpile we seized from the Draka convoy is all we have. It doesn't appear to be a widely occurring element, and the Protheans apparently refined it into the pure state the Snakes found it in."

Lefarge frowned. "So it has a finite fuel source that we have very little of?"

Wasser nodded. "As it is, yes. San Francisco is moving to give our prospecting ships some compinstruction 'upgrades' that we're saying increases their sensitivity, but will allow for them to detect element zero wherever it might be in our solar system. It isn't a complete loss as it is, anyway. Even without a large stockpile, we can do some critical research into a faster-than-light drive, maybe even build our own mass effect core to retrofit into one of New America's auxiliaries."

Lefarge felt a pain building in the back of his neck, spreading up into his skull. "Wait. We have a small amount of this element zero from the convoy. Does this mean the Snakes have more of it?"

Wasser frowned and clasped his hands together. "Unfortunately, yes."

"Then that means they could develop a faster-than-light mass effect drive as well," Lefarge said, and closed his eyes as he felt his stomach lurch. "That means... Alpha Centauri won't be as out of reach as we thought it would be. New America is now essentially useless as originally planned."

There was a discomfited shuffling around the table as that implication sunk in. Wasser, however, shot de Ribeiro a questioning look and, after a moment, the Brazilian professor nodded.

"We've found references to something else in the Prothean data cache," de Ribeiro began. "Another way to travel faster-than-light besides a mass effect drive. They speak of a network of devices called mass relays..."

CENTRAL OFFICE, ARCHONAL PALACE

ARCHONA

DOMINATION OF THE DRAKA

NOVEMBER 10, 1991

"Five minutes," the desk said.

Eric von Shrakenberg sighed and seated himself, feeling a little out of place. This shape of carved yellowwood and Zambezi teak... how many Occupation Day addresses had he seen it in, from the other side? On film back during the Eurasian War, on screens of gradually increasing clarity since. Wotan, fifty years! he thought, looking around the big room. Not overwhelming, although the view was spectacular, when the curtains were open; the dome of the House of Assembly was about half a kilometer away. History-drenched enough for anybody, he supposed, thinking of the decisions made here.

"Incoming signal," the speaker said.

"Receive."

A spot of light appeared at head-height beyond the desk. A line framed it, expanding outward until it outlined a rectangle three meters by three; the central spot faded, and then the rectangle blinked out of existence. Replacing it was a slightly transparent holographic window into the interior of Command Central in Nova Virconium, the primary Draka settlement on Mars. Genuine progress, for a change, Eric thought. It was, ironically, the very system that had been proposed for the connection to the American President in Donovan House, now used as a direct communication between the Archon and the Commandant-Governor of Mars, the second most important position in the Domination since the discovery of the Prothean bunker.

"Service to the State," Beauregard Rohm said, bringing his right fist to chest in a formal military salute.

"Glory to the Race," he replied, inclining his head. The new Commandant-Governor was a 'native' Martian, someone elevated from the ranks of the War Directorate personnel already there rather than someone appointed from Earth. He had the usual leopard-gracefulness of a Draka Citizen, close-cropped hair bright copper and pale skin highlighting the level blue-eyed gaze.

"Excellence," the broad-built man in front of the desk said in his turn, also with a formal salute.

"Strategos-Professor Snappdove. Always good to see you," Eric replied, a smile lighting his features.

"Thank you, Excellence," Snappdove replied as the two men on Mars took their seats.

"Gentlemen," the Archon said, "apprise me of yo' progress regardin' the Prothean technology."

"Excellence, we have made great strides in understandin' the mass effect drive. The element that fuels the mass effect core-"

An hour into the briefing, Eric frowned as he leaned back. "This computer architecture sounds troublin'. The Yankees have always excelled over us at electronics. If'n I understand this right this is not only another leg up fo' them, but a significant paradigm shift in their favor."

"I'm afraid so, Excellence," Snappdove replied. "Security is already complainin' that too many serfs have access to computers. If we had them networked together like the Prothean architecture points to..."

Eric felt a chill run down his spine. Serf revolts were bad enough as localized events. If they were able to dupe Security and organize on a Domination-wide level using such a network...

"Not t'mention the espionage opportunities this would afford the Yankees," Rohm put in. "As you say, Excellence, they're better at that side of things than we are."

The Archon sighed and shook his head. "Give me some good news, gentlemen."

"My colleagues in the weapons division have been brainstormin' some interestin' ideas." Snappdove smiled in enthusiasm as he leaned forward in his seat. "They're lookin' at mass accelerator technology to create better firearms of all sizes. We're lookin' at a possible T-8 model for the Holbars assault rifle.

"A mass accelerator," be continued, "propels a solid metal slug usin' precisely controlled electromagnetic attraction and repulsion. Fo' example, they're lookin' at an assault rifle storin' a dense block of metal which would have bullets the size of a grain of sand shaved off, decrease its mass with a mass effect field, and fire it at supersonic velocities. This would give it a near limitless amount of ammunition compared to the T-7's prefragmented caseless variety. They also lookin' at a cannon-sized version fo' fighting vehicles."

"Sounds too good to be true," Eric replied. He'd heard others in TechSec promise the moon and the stars to the soldiers who actually had to put their boots on the battlefield. "What're the drawbacks?"

"Well," Snappdove replied reluctantly, "models show there are goin' to be some overheatin' problems. However, that's the case with all firearms. With fire discipline I shouldn't foresee any real problems. Maybe throw in an automatic cool off brake if someone sprays they bullets around too much."

The professor scooted forward slightly in his chair as he continued. "There's another interestin' concept they're comin' up with on the defensive side of things as well. Defensive shields fo' everythin' from spaceships to a soldier's armor."

Eric's eyebrows rose sharply. "How in Wotan's name are you gonna manage that?"

The strategos smiled. "To use the technically correct term, they'd be mo' like kinetic barriers. Repulsive mass effect fields projected from emitters that could deflect small objects travelin' at rapid velocities. This would afford protection from bullets and other dangerous projectiles, but still allow someone to sit down without knockin' away they chair."

"That would prove embarrassing," Eric replied dryly, to a general round of chuckles. "Now," he continued, his expression becoming serious, "what have you uncovered about the murder of my niece?"

An uneasy look passed between the two men on the other side of the holographic window. The murder of Yolande Ingolfsson by her Yankee-born serf hadn't been widely reported and quickly hushed up by the Security Directorate. Despite that, the Archon's late niece's image had been tarnished by the event, and by extension some of it had rubbed off onto him as well. It was one reason why the last Archonal election had been far closer than Eric had found comfortable.

"Actually, Excellence," Rohm slowly began, "we made a breakthrough on that. The serf, Marya E77A1422, had some social contacts among the Command Central office workers. Security discovered that she'd had regular, if sparse, contact with a priest." A hesitation. "Excellence... it's lookin' like he was reportin' to an OSS frequency."

Eric von Shrakenberg's face became unreadable. After a long moment of silence, he spoke. "Are you tellin' me, Commandant-Governor, that the Yankees killed my niece?"

"It, ah, it appears so," Rohm replied, a dew of sweat on his brow.

"I see. Thank you, gentlemen. We shall speak again at the usual time." The window blinked out immediately after the parting salutes and pleasantries.

Eric stared out the window at the Archona skyline. It was bad enough with the Alliance poised to overtake the Domination in understanding the Protheans' technology. That's enough to pursue... drastic measures to preserve mah nation and mah people. But killin' my niece, my blood...

The Final War was going to happen. He had his duty as Archon of the Domination of the Draka. But now it was more than that. Whatever else he might be, he was a von Shrakenberg.