Anna cinched the straps tight around her shoulders as the Crow rocketed skyward. Beside her Kristoff was doing the same, and handful of other ships were draining the last of the fuel from the reserves buried beneath the Fracture installation. Behind her she could hear the subtle whine of a jump drive spooling up, and a familiar tingle ran down her spine as the world blanked in white haze. Something slammed into the dropship with enough force to send it spinning sideways through the void. Heavy impacts rattled the hull as the pilot fought to regain control over the tumbling ship. Something punched through the deck and out the upper bulkhead, atmosphere starting to vent.
Kristoff had already unstrapped himself and lunged for a patch kit, his war clone's enhanced reflexes allowing him to unseal the kit and prep a full patch in less than three seconds, already pressing it against the upper bulkhead. Anna had launched herself towards the hole in the deck, scooping up a second patch as she passed the kit, her own reflexes similarly enhanced. In less than five seconds the Crow was fully patched. Something struck a glancing blow against her helmet, and Anna winced in pain. The ship was still tumbling, thrusters making the whole ship shake as it tried to escape the debris field. Something slammed into the port wing, but even as the ship slewed round Anna could tell they were clear. The tumble settled to a slow roll, and out the porthole she could see the full extent of the debris field.
Only then did Anna realise what was missing. Her voice was barely a whisper as she finally managed to put the pieces together.
"No…"
"The Redeye." Kristoff's voice had a dangerous edge to it.
Another voice cut across the tactical channel. "All dropships, this is Bish, we're sending out probes to record what just happened. The IMC won't get away with this."
"Freedom's coming up," the pilot spoke over the intercom. "We're clear in."
As the Crow slipped towards the massive bulk of the Freedom, Anna called up a secondary window in her AR display, playing back the feed from the fleet's probes in realtime. Blackness filled the window, the occasional star a static point in the background. Cherenkov photons backscattered from tachyons, lighting up the window. Anna pulled it into full mode, ignoring the dropship around her as she watched the event unfold. A blue-white haze filled the void, and then, undergoing rapid deceleration, the Redeye hove into view.
Around the Militia ship was the wreckage of the fuelling gantry, treetop canopy, and a single bird—flash frozen. Something flared on the Redeye's port quarter, a blue-white flare washing out the observing optics even at several light minutes. More impacts flared against the ship's hull, and the old colony ship began to break apart. A second later, one final flare—much brighter, and much more destructive. Anna rewound the feed, switching viewpoints to another drone. Something had caused those flares.
Torpedoes.
Launched by the IMC bombers, and close enough to have been caught in the Redeye's jump field. Nothing could have saved the ship, or the fuel it was carrying. The massive explosion played again as the final torpedo, a second late, slammed into the main fuel hold. Bish spoke over the fleet channel, obviously having watched the exact same scene unfold.
"Listen up, people. The good news is that we're still alive. The majority of our fleet survived the raid with enough fuel to run for another month. According to the tactical computers the operation was a success, but we cannot continue to trade human lives for fuel. If anything, we need to recruit more people to our cause, wherever we can find them…"
Anna slammed her fist against the seat. The sudden pain, the anger, she needed an outlet. She activated her Ripcord for a manual Pull, awakening in her normal body. Still in her bunk, and stripped to the waist. Also, cold. Engineering must have taken EC power for the Titan fabricators again. Rolling out of the bunk, Anna reached down and pulled on a tight t-shirt. Then she commed Kristoff to meet her in the gym. Fists clenched, she studied her cabin. The kitbag was there, with the change there, rations there, and water… extra water… Fuck it. Gym's got dispensers. Doesn't matter if it tastes a million times recycled.
Elsa looked around her cabin, wishing desperately she could be somewhere—anywhere—else. Especially anywhere not sharing a cabin with Duke Laski. She cursed, sotto voce, and retreated into the shower. If nothing else, she'd bought some time to think—and right now she had a lot of thinking to do. About the war. About the Frontier. About choosing sides. About betraying her friends—or her humanity. And if she did go so far… how? How could she escape? Death would only bring her straight back to the Sentinel, and the IMC.
She reached out to turn the shower on, her fingers slipping against the mixer. Her hands were shaking. Can I really do this? It wasn't just about trying to do the right thing. It was about having to make a choice. She could stay, with everything she knew, and with what small comfort she might have. She clenched her fists, lips set in a grim line. She couldn't stay. Not with what she'd discovered—not with what they weren't letting her discover. There were only so many reasons to hide the data she'd been attempting to access before the battle, and none of them were good.
The shower didn't help, calming neither her nerves or her mind. Her hands still shook slightly as she opened the hatch back into her shared cabin. Laski was gone. She sighed in relief, climbing into the top bunk, retrieving her tablet from its alcove against the wall. Any plan she made would have to be in her mind, no chance to record anything. No chances that they might revive another, earlier, Pull either. So on top of breaking free from the IMC, she also had to sabotage something buried deep within its datasphere. Something supposedly inviolable. Her fingers flew across the screen of her tablet, bringing up tab after tab of information and schematics on a single system.
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Every known article involving the Ripcord system.
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»I thought I heard something.
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Your cabin is clean. Duke Laski is in the officers' wardroom. Maintenance teams are currently six decks below, replacing old trunking.
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»During my last Pull.
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Query: Possible relation to 'nightmare' incident; Relation to Outpost 084 incident; relation to Rip/C/756/Awakening?
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»I'm unsure, Spyglass. Is /C/756 when I had to be restored from an off-site backup?
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Affirmative. A datastream malfunction resulted in the incomplete personality upload into your cosmetic clone.
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»Spyglass, cross reference 'voices' and 'Pull' with Ripcord incident logs.
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»You are searching for non-existent correlations, Pilot Stroud.
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»No such incidents, at all, since the inception of the Ripcord?
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Records held by the Sentinel are notably incomplete. I can request further data after alert status is cleared.
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»I'll continue my research. Perhaps I can find a connection you missed.
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Unlikely, Pilot Stroud. Logic dictates that any such connections have already been made.
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»Then show me.
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»The Sentinel's records are incomplete.
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»Then I'll have to figure it out myself, won't I?
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Such conclusions may well be erroneous. The human mind is not reliably logical.
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»And machines lack intuition.
Elsa closed the messaging window, muting the feed for the next five minutes. The AI would get the message. Intuition it might not have, but Spyglass had at least come to understand certain idiosyncrasies of human behaviour through repeated exposure. Putting those thoughts aside, Elsa continued her research. The Ripcord truly was a revolutionary system, in every sense of the word. More recent even than the Titan Wars; and with an impact no one yet fully understood. After all, it made Pilots functionally immortal. Dependent on special clones, and databanks to ensure integrity, but still, to all intents and purposes, immortal.
It was what made Pilots fearless in battle. It was what made them reckless. It was the very thing made them more than human. A handful of articles speculated about the Ripcord—and Pilots—being not just a technical revolution, but an evolutionary leap for all mankind, taking them into the territory of post-humanism. After all, if war clones could be improved so much, and cosmetic clones made the pinnacle of beauty, how much further could they be pushed before they sought newer bodies. Bodies beyond mere flesh and bone.
For Elsa, it was all too heavy, and none of it was pointing in the direction she needed. At least, not obviously enough. And with Spyglass likely tracking every article she was reading it would be hard to hide such specific searches. Smiling suddenly, Elsa called up the one piece of information freely available to every Pilot—her own Ripcord incident logs. A handful, maybe as many as a dozen. Various reasons noted, but one in particular stood out—EM-disrupted Pull; Full Backup initiated.
Keeping up the charade she called up the remaining incident logs, then threw the tablet down in frustration. I know what to do. It was risky—so much so that she would be risking suffering true death, with no backups or second chances. She couldn't hack worth a damn, but she could upload a subtly corrupted Pull. Something that wouldn't be detected until far too late. She smiled, then slid Marshmallow's chip into her tablet, calling up the simple command AI.
TTN/MMLW»Pilot mode engaged.
PLT/Stroud»Heh.
TTN/MMLW»… … …
PLT/Stroud»Report status.
TTN/MMLW»Titan system functionality at 98%. Physical chassis not detected.
PLT/Stroud»Virtual environment. AI targeting exercise. CQC focus.
TTN/MMLW»Simulation running. Co-opting bandwidth. Simulation complete. Combat profile updated.
PLT/Stroud»Upload BattleROM data, Militia Combat Profiles, Yuma Engagement.
TTN/MMLW»Upload complete. Integrating combat profile data. Further updates?
PLT/Stroud»Personal Logfile.
TTN/MMLW»Active.
"We'll make a difference. Even if I'm dead, you'll find a way. Check the combat logs for the usual suspects."
Sighing, Elsa closed the file. This was insurance. In case her plan failed. In case the IMC detected the corrupt Pull. In case she suffered a true death. In case the only thing left behind was Marshmallow's guardian chip. She hated having to be so obscure, but this way Spyglass wouldn't be able to read anything untoward into her statements. It would still look like jitters from the night before. There were so many ways she could fail, and yet…
She looked at her hands. They were still.
Anna grimaced, her whole back flaring with pain. She was willing to grudgingly admit that Kristoff's throw-slam combo was actually pretty good. She wasn't willing to admit defeat, rolling and squirming to break free before Kristoff could finish a three count. Her rising kick caught him in the stomach, winding him. He staggered back against the ropes, rebounding into a powerful haymaker with all his impressive weight behind it. Anna ducked inside the blow, spinning around and landing an elbow strike against his back.
Then, as he stumbled, she sat on him. He didn't even try to stop her. She sighed, helping him up off the mat.
"Giving up already?"
"Anna, we've been sparring for an hour." Kristoff threw his hands up in an exasperated gesture. "How do you still have any energy? I mean seriously, how?"
"Does the word 'Genki' mean anything to you?"
"And this, coming from a woman who refuses to wake up before noon on any day she doesn't have to?"
"Fine," Anna pouted. "Let's get changed then."
"Sure you're not gonna shower first?"
Anna gave her outfit a quick sniff, her nose wrinkling at the smell. She shrugged, heading for the lockers to grab her kitbag before taking a shower. Sitting heavily, finally feeling the toll an hour of sparring had taken on her light frame, Anna reached for her tablet, skimming the latest updates off the net. Nothing spectacular, and their raid in the Yuma system had only just made the news ticker, not even a headline piece. Skirmishes on the Frontier were now so commonplace as to be blasé. With a huff of annoyance she thumbed the tablet off and headed for the showers. Maybe something would change while she was washing her hair.
It didn't. The downtime lasted at least another hour, in which Anna just lay on her bunk, playing mindless games on her tablet. It wasn't even against regs—she couldn't quite summon the energy to rebel against the rules right now. Other things were running through her mind; like how Bish was right about needing more people to support the cause. Or how the IMC had managed to predict so easily that they would hit Yuma—not which planet, but the system in general. There was something unsettling about knowing an AI was in charge on the other side.
All the news reports were fronted by Vice-Admiral Graves, who, Anna had to admit, was fairly charismatic despite being on the wrong side. But the public face of the IMC on the Frontier was not the same as the one that held the power. Almost everyone in the Militia knew that it was Spyglass—Hammond Robotics' fleet AI—that dictated general strategy, and so far the Militia had had to dance to the AI's tune. If there was a way to take the initiative, the Militia hadn't found it. Yet.
Anna powered down her tablet as Sarah's voice cut across the intercom. "Two hours ago, we received this on the distress channel."
A static laced transmission started, with what sounded like muffled gunshots in the background. "What the hell are these things? We're a small colony. We need help."
"Activate the distress beacon now." A second voice.
"They're getting through the door. They're getting through the door!" A different voice again, the final word masked by the shriek of tearing metal. Gunfire echoed through the line, and the transmission cut out.
Sarah spoke again. "The origin of the signal is from a sector which isn't populated. It's not on any chart. There is a chance it could be an IMC trap. That's why we're sending you to check it out first. But if these guys are homesteaders, and we help 'em out, they might just join our cause. Good luck, Pilots. Signing off."
Not on any chart? Anna smiled. Let's see an AI predict that. It didn't occur to her that Spyglass could have been the architect of the attack.
Elsa sat on the top bunk, legs dangling over the edge, deciding whether to head for the ship's gym or the mess hall. She tried to distance herself from the fact she'd been party to the slaughter of hundreds—maybe even thousands—of innocent civilians only hours before. Well done, her thoughts were beyond sarcastic. Make your old man proud by killing half the Frontier. Are you happy now? She frowned. In the IMC she'd never been happy. She was a good Pilot—great, even—but she wasn't happy. It was just another job. Or at least, that's what I kept telling myself. After the first time.
The pain as her spine shattered and her ribs burst outward. The feeling of sudden calm, knowing she was already dead, her organs turned into pulp. The sickening gleam of blood—her blood—dripping from chrome plated knuckles the size of her legs. The rush of darkness. Whispers… whispers in the void that always sounded so much like her father. Light, dislocation, and a sudden drop onto a hard floor, followed by a powerful, retching spasm. The very first time her Ripcord had been activated upon death.
Manual Pulls had nothing on that first, jarring, dislocation; the instants between life and death; the sudden feeling of immortality. Graves's voice sounded over the intercom, breaking Elsa from her sudden recollection.
"All personnel, this is Vice Admiral Graves. As you know, the Militia fleet remains operational in the wake of their refueling raid in the Yuma system, and we have deployed probes to a number of sectors. Spyglass will brief you on the results of the search."
The smooth, artificial tones of Spyglass overlaid the Vice Admiral's final words. "Pilots, I have scanned all possible destinations within jump range of the Yuma system. I have detected life forms in sector Bravo 2-1-7. Militia forces may be hiding there. I recommend an advance team lead by sergeant Blisk investigate with a suitable complement of supporting units."
Graves's response to Spyglass's suggestion was immediate.
"Very well. So ordered. All Pilots, gear up and stand by for deployment. Sergeant Blisk has command on the ground. Good luck, Graves out."
Lying back, hair tied loosely, Elsa wondered if she would ever see the body she was in again. Once she was on the ground there would be no turning back. Can I really do this? She took one last look around her cabin, her thoughts darkly centered on the number of people that might have been in those ships. I have to—I'm fighting for the wrong side.