The year was 2551. Suede was out, seersucker was yesteryear's news, silks were back in; the UN Credit was up 2% on the Citadel Galactic bob, Airbus was dealing massive business contracts out in the Scutum-Centaurus Arm of the Galaxy and the .45 ACP was dead – all hail our saviour, the 9-mil. All was as the Good Lord intended it to be in Man's celestial kingdom.
Though not all was going perhaps as well as it maybe could have been in the grand scheme of things as far as the head-honcho in charge of the show was concerned.
It hadn't been often in the long, storied and quite wobbly history of the Unified Earth Government that the United Nations Space Command had its Security Council convene down in the deepest reaches of the organisation's headquarters in Sydney, where neither the power of the atom, nor perhaps even one of the enormous orbital gun-stations could reach the two-dozen busybodies who sat with their noggins together to decide the fate of the Human-race on the few occasions the Council was called-to-muster.
Although since the start of the Insurrection in the closing years of the 25th-century, they had become more and more commonplace – going from the occasional, rare and maybe only once or twice-a-year get-together for tea, coffee and biscuits over a brief chat about that fiscal-year's procurement and budgeting before a pint at the local Wetherspoons – to nigh-monthly gather-ups on how exactly the maximum number of insurgents to Earth's mandate to rule could be exterminated and maybe – just maybe – beg the boss to let them nuke a few more colonies while they were all in Sydney*.
(*I swear bro just let me nuke one more colony! I swear we're gonna fix the Insurrection. Just nu- just nuke one more colony, just let me nuke one more colony. Just let me nuke one more colony, I swear, I swear, I swear we're gonna fix the Insurrection. Ju- ju- just one more colony and just make it more peaceful!)
But since the 2520 General Election and what had turned out to be the last change of President in the last 31-years, the Security Council had found itself meeting on a weekly basis at the start of each Monday to chew the fat, much to the bellyaching of the Admirals and the Generals and all the other important big-wigs whose titles ended with "-als" that not even the first-rate sandwich bar down the road could cure when there was a whip-round for a takeaway at the end of the day.
And this latest episode of the remastered "Revolt of The Admirals" in the making, with special guest-stars from the Army, Air Force and the civil-service was looking to be a good one seeing as it was as of the 3rd of November, 2551.
The 3rd was a Wednesday – and therefor – the second Security Council meeting in one week and not even the most neurotic of those great men and women of state and arms with their great medal-stacks, citations and more often than not record ammunition-consumption in the counter-insurgency campaigns waged on distant stars, could quite stomach.
But stomach it they did for now as they all listened raptly to the nice Colonel Ackerson of the Office of Naval Intelligence prattle-on and on to his heart's content what his beloved Prowler Corps had been sniffing-out in the time since Ariane and Elster had gone down in the Eusan Nation's history books as being the first of its citizens to be arrested for illegal entry into the Unified Earth Government.
So too, did the President listen behind their own copy of the open leather folder on the big table to Ackerson's back while the officer expanded on his Corps' findings and how this was potentially Mankind's most recent catastrophe in the making.
In other words, another Wednesday at the office.
And as far as the President could tell the Office had managed to tuck a whole five papers into the leatherbound report. Private observation had revealed even less, all told.
Which was to say in the common street-parlance of the everyman "sweet fuckall", leaving the head of the Security Council's most recent get-together to wonder just why exactly the government was shelling-out trillions-upon-trillions of Credits and tax-breaks to all the old-time and big-name, think-tanks.
Empire-ACTUAL, President of The Unified Earth Government, Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces, winner of more interstellar staring competitions that could be counted, secret die-hard fan of the 1995 Ghost In The Shell and also by coincidental note, the only Artificial Intelligence present – turned the page.
The android chassis EA had hitched a ride in the Presidential limo with watched Ackerman in silence with pale blue eyes that didn't follow his back as it swayed left and right, or the flicking screen on the far sides of the room. It watched and Empire-ACTUAL watched the world as the Intelligence's immense mind spoke to itself.
SOMEONE IS IN A VERY GOOD MOOD TODAY, said silent voice of Empire-Ruination behind those cold and glassy in the triumvirate-Intelligence's internal dialogue as the nice Mx. Ackerson spoke at length over complicated charts, notes and readings of the ins-and-outs of the multi-dimensional folds of slipspace and realspace and about the recommended course of action going forward based on what Earth knew.
The three-parts of Empire-ACTUAL continued their idle musings as ONI's director of all its intel-gathering stealth ships continued his slideshow with all the fancy graphs and holographic displays his recently-upgraded Microsoft-subscription had netted him.
HE'S HAPPY THAT HIS SPARTAN-IIIS WERE APPROVED FOR THEIR NEXT COMPANY BATCH OF VOLUNTEERS, chimed Empire-Tranquillity, diplomat and justiciar of Pax Terra extraordinaire. THEIR NEW ARMOUR PROBABLY HASN'T GONE AMISS EITHER.
YES IT'S AMAZING HOW HAPPY WE CAN MAKE SOMEONE WHEN WE GIVE HIS PSYCOPATHIC SUPER-SOLDIERS POWERED-ARMOUR OR THAT WE APPROVED OF HIS PET OPERATION ON ILLIUM, came Empire-Erudition's grousing.
THAT OPERATION WILL BENEFIT YOUR STOMPING GROUND GREATLY, E-E – INDUSTY, WEALTH, PROGRESS – THAT SORT OF THING THAT THE DANTIUS FAMILY SYNDICATE THREATEN EVERY TIME THEY INFRINGE ON OUR PATENTS, OUR MANUFACTURERS, OUR PEOPLE? HOW MANY OF OUR CITIZENS HAVE THEY TRIED TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF NOW WITH THEIR INDENTURED SERVITUDE AFTER THEIR LITTLE DATA THEFT PROBLEM?
UNLIKE YOU, RUINATION – I REMAIN UNCONVINCED THAT INTERNATIONAL AND MERCANTILE DIPLOMACY NEEDS TO COME FROM THE BARREL-END OF A GUN.
IF IT PLEASES YOU, I DID INSTRUCT THOSE OPERATIVES TO PLEAD OUR CASE WITH THE BIG BOSS HERSELF FIRST.
WITH WORDS OR BOMBS?
THE TWO ARE MUTUALLY-EXCLUSIVE?
YES.
Back in the real world, however during the ongoing debates on proper commercial-diplomacy etiquette, Empire-ACTUAL's glassy eyes that never blinked, rolled sideways despite the ongoing monologue of the triumvirs that pulled the Creteur Orthopédie-made, custom chassis' strings, so it could give its full attention all ears for the powerlifting human/walrus-hybrid that was Vice Admiral Whitcomb, who's deep boom – so capable of guile, so incapable of stealth – husked in that drawl that had defended the Alamo for a firm committal to Plan-C.
The chassis' head bobbed ever so slightly in silent affirmation and the eyes rolled over back to the projections Colonel Ackerson was gesticulating toward, coming to the closing remarks with the short, but to-the-point summary which could be paraphrased as the following:
1.) A stable slipspace anomaly has opened up in the edge of the Oort Cloud, bearing the direction of Alpha Centauri.
2.) This anomaly may or may not have been caused by unforeseen consequences during the recent full-power trial run for MACEDON-series prototype translight engines, reverse-engineered from Forerunner relics on Reach.
3.) This anomaly is currently transmitting a tremendous amount of radiowave information in intelligible German and Cantonese – all of which has been cross-checked for backdating that has turned up only matching references in all known existing archives.
4.) There may or may not be either a mirror-image, or a wholly-separate Human civilisation on the other side.
5.) This anomaly may or may not turn into a supermassive black hole that'll make Sagittarius A look like a children's game of pussyfooting about.
6.) We may or may not be fucked.
7.) The Citadel races may or may not be fucked.
8.) The non-Citadel races may or may not be fucked.
9.) The Milky Way itself may or may not be fucked.
10.) We really won't know until something goes boing! and kills us all.
11.) Find God.
But silence came back to the room as Ackerson scooched himself back into the comfortable chair left vacant and the joint UNSC Security Council turned its collective head toward Empire-ACTUAL, the Commander-in-Chief of the UNSCDF, CMA and all of mankind's other collective security organisations for the final say in the matter now that all the cards had been laid down on the table.
I FOR ONE STRONGLY URGE THIS TRIUMVIRATE TO ACTION, spoke Empire-Ruination. WE HAVE ENCOUNTERED THIS SORT OF MESS BEFORE. LAUNCH PROBES NOW – SAVES LIVES LATER. WE HAVE THE HARDWARE FOR IT.
THIS VOICE WILL DISAGREE. ANY ACTION NOW MAY PROVOKE THE ANOMALY INTO A DANGEROUS SITUATION BEYOND OUT MEANINGFUL CONTROL. WAITING AND OBSERVING IS PRUDENCE – PRUDENCE IS THE SURVIVAL OF ALL MANKIND. THIS IS NOT SOMETHING TO BE TRIFLED OVER LIGHTLY, came Empire-Tranquillity's snippiness – ever the contrarian to the threefold's assertion-face.
REGARDLESS, cut in Empire-Erudition. I THINK IT PRUDENT THAT WE SHOULD COME TO A DECISION ON OUR COURSE OF ACTION NOW, RATHER THAN FIND OURSELVES TRAPPED IN THE DEATHLOOP THAT IS TRIUMVIR DISCORD.
Empire-ACTUAL waited patiently, looking down at the sheets of paper, blank only for the UNSC ocular-scan barcode that extrapolated the hidden contents to the eye of the security-clearance-carrying beholder as the chassis waited for the coming vote of action going forward.
Outside the digital collective of incalculable intelligence, thoughts firing back and forth over the artificial triple-brain machine mind, only microseconds were passing as inside, the debate was kept alive for another three hours by the reckoning of the sum of Empire-ACTUAL's collective.
I STATE FOR THE RECORD THAT WE SHOULD FURTHER ACKERSON'S PLAN AND LAUNCH PROBES NOW THROUGH THE RIFT IN REALSPACE. WE CAN HEAR THE BEYOND EVEN NOW – THERE IS LIFE OUT THERE – HUMAN LIFE. IT IS OUR BIRTHRIGHT TO SAFEGUARD AND UNIFY OUR SPECIES, SHOULD WE FIND OURSELVES THROUGH IT, called Empire-Ruination vehemently.
But Ruination's non-interventionist mirror-face disagreed: NO, WE WILL WAIT AND WE WILL LISTEN. DOING ANYTHING NOW SUCH AS ATTEMPTING TO FEED MATTER THROUGH THAT RIFT MAY OR MAY NOT COLLAPSE IT INTO A BLACK HOLE – ENDANGERING OUR SPECIES AND DENYING US OUR UNIVERSAL DESTINY OF THE STARS. LISTENING POSTS FIRST. WE MOVE A MONITORING STATION INTO ITS PERIPHERY – THEN AND ONLY THEN DO WE DECIDE UPON FURTHER ACTION.
Empire-ACTUAL brought its head up, to stare dead-ahead straight. Glossed-over eyes bringing the far bench of Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine Corps General officers and civilian consultants into frame in crystal-clarity on a pair of Swarovski KG. Z59 0.25-150x12.5 ocular pieces – waiting for Empire-Erudition to speak its words now or hold its tie forevermore.
AND I FOR MY PART AND WHAT I BELIEVE IS THE CONTINUED SAFETY OF OUR COLLECTIVE SPECIES, BELIEVE THAT WE WILL FIND MERIT IN THE DESIGNS OF THE NAVY, WHO ALREADY HAVE THE NECESSARY ASSETS IN PLAY TO CORDON OFF THE ANOMALY – HOWEVER I BELIEVE THAT THIS MATTER MAY ALSO BE OPENED AGAIN AT ANOTHER TIME, SHOULD WE FIND THIS RIFT SAFE FOR TRANSDIMENSIONAL TRAVEL.
THEN WE HAVE AGREED, kvetched Ruination.
WE HAVE.
WE HAVE.
WE HAVE.
GOING ONCE. GOING TWICE…
At long last, with all three interaction-forms speaking as one through their enantiomorph, Empire-ACTUAL spoke:
'For now, we will proceed with Plan-C that the Navy has presented to us. We will listen and we will watch, but we will do no more until we have made certain that any manmade tampering with the Rift will spiral the situation beyond our control – after which, I believe that the Office of Naval Intelligence has made many good cases today for further exploration at a later date.'
A chorus of agreement – varying degrees of vim and pep behind the words.
'UNSC Probe Relay Station Shetholo is due for its replacement in a few days.' Vice Admiral Stanford started in his slow and thoughtful way he made words sound-off in when talking business and Empire-ACTUAL looked over at their subordinate, dressed for only the third time in their ongoing 31-year tenure, in the navy dress whites, rather than his usual drab, medal-clean blacks.
Grey-haired, clean-shaven and straight-as-an-arrow Hieronymus – otherwise known by pretty much everyone sat at these two tables as Harold, though very few would have called him as such publicly – brought up the bog-standard hologram of a UNSC probe listening station, the likes of which could be found for the 100-lightyears all-around of Human space.
'Her replacement's already working up in Martian orbit. Once it's all over and done with and the Navy gives her a clean bill of health, she'll be towed out to take over from the old station. Instead, we give the new station a little course-correction and put it out in the Oort. We can have it out there within the week.'
'And what about protection?'
'For us or the Rift?' Quipped Commandant Rakotomalala of the Marine Corps, between the kindling-puffs to get his Arturo Fuente going he'd just shaken out of its glass vial after its red plug cap had been popped.
'Yes.'
'Well…' Whitcomb started, rolling the thought over this way and that on the tip of his tongue. 'If we're not taking a bite out of the Home Fleet…' He threw a momentary glance at Lord Hood, the Navy's venerable chieftain who gave the faintest sideward rock of the head to his cohort's unspoken question.
'There's a pair of corvettes we've got coming out of refit tomorrow – a third getting signed out the day after – so that gives us a small squadron to work with to cover the bases – throw in a Hornet nuclear minefield to cover any intrusion… we can probably call it an exercise and drag one of our old minelayers out of reserves for a week or two…'
'Give me a habitation module we can plug-and-play onto the station, and I can give you a company of Marines for onsite security.' The Commandant said now that he'd gotten his corona up to snuff.
MAKE IT A BATTALION.
OVERKILL?
A BRIGADE.
I THINK A COMPANY WILL DO.
A DIVISION.
Empire-ACTUAL nodded in spite of the ongoing disagreement between the prisms over the primordial question that man had taken to the stars with him: how much dakka-dakka was considered acceptable to murderise angry eldritch space monsters beyond human comprehension.
'And what if we make contact before we can discuss any further courses of action? We're picking up radio traffic that doesn't match any of our own through that anomaly, so there's a chance that whatever is on the other side might act before we do, so I think it best that we discuss that possibility now and develop a contingency for it beforehand before we get stuck in a position we ought not to be caught in.' Pondered the Navy's C-in-C.
'Usual first-contact protocols? We can set up radio beacons around the Rift and have it blasting German and Mandarin at it – give it some variety and have it cycle through each language on the third cycle? Maybe warn any crossers that they're floating into an atomic minefield?' Stanford chucked in his two Credits to the matter.
I THINK AND FIRMLY BELIEVE THAT WE SHOULD ALSO HAVE A TEAM OF ONSITE SPECIALISTS FOR THIS EVENTUALITY, SHOULD IT OCCUR, said Empire-Erudition.
WHICH WILL OF COURSE INCULDE US, finished Ruination.
Empire-ACTUAL piped-up once more once the three agreed: 'We will also send a Diplomatic Corps team out onto the station to deal with any possible first-contact scenarios, too. I will dispatch one of my subroutines there, too.'
Everyone nodded and no one argued with the chief's decision – they would get the Empire-ACTUAL-trademarked hooded, blue-eyed death-stare that lurked somewhere between boredom and disapproving on the radar chart if they did and that would be the end of that.
The chassis looked left, right, then back ahead at the edge of the ocular constriction to keep the opposite table of men in their clean-pressed uniforms in view. 'It would be wise for us to discuss now the matter of who or whatever is on the other side of that Rift. I think we can say on solid-enough grounds now that we may be looking at another Human civilisation – it will only be a matter of time before people start becoming curious as we are so wont to do.'
'We could block the transmissions.' Proffered a Naval representative.
Stanforth, the ex-spook, thought about that for a few moments, throwing a glance to the Commandant's cigar when he was done. 'We could, but we don't have the assets in play to do that – not full-coverage at any rate. At the moment, we're quite blessed – it's all lower-frequency analogue broadcasting – unintelligible to the modern interplanetary hobby sets – since they don't make'm with digital-to-analogue anymore, but it won't take long for people to catch on – there's over three-hundred-billion people on Pluto-Charon alone and it's not going to be long before the enterpriser-manufacturers start providing conversion-kits on the aftermarket.'
Contemplative silence for three seconds until someone asked how long it would take to have all of the necessary jamming equipment in place and it was the younger Ackerson who started up again this time from behind his balled fists he tapped together at the knuckles: 'We'd need about seven Prowlers to block all of that information and data coming out of the Rift and at the moment – we have eight in Sol with another one in the transiting the Oort…'
He shook his head. 'Can't manage it, I'm afraid – of those eight, only four are at the beck-and-call for now… the Praamzius is snooping about Hypatia Twenty-Three-Eight right now for Michael Moser Lang-'
'Guy who killed two Earth heads-of-state and that Turian head-banger?' Cut in Rakotomalala.
'Yes, that bastard… though we can thank him for that last service when we catch him – we think he's currently hiding in a Hypatian safehouse. Other than that, though – all we've got to hand are the Red Horse, The Light Fantastic, Chiropractor and Die Caster actually in-system… Lapse of Formalities is bound for Hedding Station out in the Oort, but we can have her turn around… so that gives us five to work with…'
He rolled himself this way and that at the shoulders. 'Give it about three days for us to call one in from Alpha Centauri…'
'That still leaves us a Prowler short of what we need.' Grumbled the good Lord Hood. 'Colonel Ackerson, you said there three others in Sol – what are they doing that's so important they can't be spared for a potential black hole in our back garden?'
The room's collective eyeballs rolled to the ONI-lifer and the fellow in question looked about him with his own two. 'I am not at liberty to discuss this while there are people whose security-clearance does not warrant that discussion at this time.'
There was another doppler-shift of sound as the heads all rolled back to the big boss in the braided uniform of the diplomatic service.
SEND THEM OUT, WE HAVE NOT HEARD THIS TIDBIT OF CONFIDENTIALITY YET. GET IT FRESH OFF THE PRESS.
'Everyone not holding a clearance of Terracotta or higher will leave this room for now.'
A few chairs scraped and banged as attaches and liaisons awkwardly rose and left the UNSC Security Council fourteen members short of a full deck. The armoured MPs let them by in silence and then locked the doors behind them, clean-pressed balaclavas and service uniforms not even wrinkling with the effort.
The Colonel cleared his throat now that the six remaining beholders of that mythically-high level of clearance had left them to their own devices. The sound disappeared in the cold grey cement walls of the room, livened up only by the overhead interweaving double-ring light above and the two screens fore and aft that displayed nothing.
The UNSC eagle and globe watched them indifferently from the back of the room.
TELL US YOUR OFFICE SECRETS, LITTLE AGENT.
'Right now, Snake Legs is undergoing a midlife overhaul refit with some new directed-energy technology. Eleusinian Mysteries is doing elint-work over Sol – we have it on firm grounds that the mercenary contractor known as Pel may be working on one of Cerberus' terrorist-cells' behalf in one of the power stations there. We don't know what it is exactly – but orders are to bag him, so we're moving in on him.'
'For the murder of that isolationist headbanger?' Came the Commandant's smooth Malagasy.
The native Ohio-man nodded once and responded in English-kind. 'That and about a dozen other things we can put his name to.'
'The Prowlers Apple of Discord and Wash The Sins are currently orbiting Charon – the River Acheron's Superintendent-Intelligence has positively identified a Council Spectre currently operating groundside in Tether-C.'
'They ain't allowed to do that.' Snorted Whitcomb, his walrus 'stache trembled with the indignant fury of Cossacks group-penning foul letters to Sultans in the days long gone-by.
'Nor are we allowed to operate Spartan-assets within Citadel Space.' Snarked Stanforth. 'Live and let live, I guess – but what's on Charon that they're looking for – the… artefact?'
Ackerson shrugged again. 'We don't know if that is the object of curiosity in the Spectre's mission – it could be – but we just don't know – not yet at least. Tela Vasir hasn't committed any breaches of the peace yet – but we're keeping an eye on her movements and the ship she came on, just in case.'
NOW THAT WE MENTION ACHERON…
Now it was General Strauss' turn to make himself vocal to the good fellows gathered here: 'Now that we mention Acheron, Colonel – I understand that the Office of Naval Intelligence had decided to grant immunity to an attempted murderer… sorry, a moment… here… Elster – it says here?'
'Yes, sir. We thought given the special circumstances of the situation at hand; it was prudent to not press charges at this time. The AI did act in both self-defence as well as the defence of its charge in the cryogenics bay. We're arguing that improper resuscitation of Mrs. Yeong by the Coast Guards may have caused her premature expiration.'
'Didn't one of them get butchered to mincemeat with a fireaxe?' Quipped the General of the Army's dog in this debate, suddenly rooting Team-Navy.
'We've already covered the costs of surgery and counselling and have rewarded both…' Ackerson gave only a faintest picosecond of hesitation as he tap-danced words. 'With generous compensation and salvage fees.'
Someone down the table called: 'How much?'
'Five-million Credits each, with the rest of the twenty-million salvaging payout being split among the crew.'
Some murmuring – even in the 26th-century at the zenith of Earth's post-scarcity economy where the Motherworld was wanting for nothing – not food, not housing, not social-security and not even 8x60mm S-pattern ammunition-reloading supplies – men, women and children everywhere and when carried with them their skinflint penny-pinching to the stars and beyond.
Ackerson for his part picked up and nodded at the room at large. 'For what they recovered, I for one think it's worth it, as does the Office of Naval Intelligence.'
'Worth thirty-million of our Credits?' Asked Hood next to the President of Earth and All Her Colonies.
OH, YES.
WE BLOW MORE MONEY ON CITADEL CHARITY COOPERATION PROJECTS EVERY WEEK.
THAT IS FOR THE BETTERMENT OF MAN'S RELATION WITH THE COUNCIL. SHOW THAT WE ARE A WILLING AND RESPONSIBLE PARTNER TO THOSE IN NEED.
ORDER IN THE TRIUMVIRATE – THIS MEETING SHOULD REMAIN FOCUSED ON THE MATTERS AT HAND AND NOT THE MATTERS OF INTERNATIONAL DIPLOMACY. SUBROUTINE DEBATE CAN ARGUE THE MERITS. WE SHALL REMAIN CONCENTRATED ON THE ANOMALY FOR NOW.
'Yes, sir. Thanks to the Coast Guard our officer on the ground managed to conduct a face-to-face interview with the two refugees. It's given us quite a lot of insight to what's beyond the Anomaly. Insight that I might add that they will not have about us, if we are correct in believing that they don't possess the necessary technology to listen to our radiowaves.' The Colonel said and there was a little scrape and scuffle of black Corban & Blair leatherbound folders crested by the gold foils of the UEG's wreathed Earth and orbiting Luna.
Ackerson's eyes glazed as he hailed some unseen visitor over the neural network. Lucidity swam back into them when he met gazes with the staring Empire-ACTUAL, who was staring at a now-vacant seat.
The android that carried the three nodded once all fears had been alleviated within its ranks, disturbing the pale gold locks of silk only ever so slightly and no sooner had the gesture been made and approval granted, than the double doors of dark walnut swung inward, and a tall intelligence officer swept into the room on long ground-eating strides. The rest of the dismissed Council made up the wake of this gangly figure.
Three long outworlder paces ended right between the meter-gap where both crescent tables met their ends.
'Members of the Security Council, this is Moddie Smutts, our case officer who conducted the interview with Misses Ariane Yeong and LSTR-Five-One-Two – who preferred to be referred to as Elster.'
'Magpie?' Asked the Commandant between cherishing kisses of the last few puffs of his cigar.
'Yes, sir. Elster's full-service designation is – or was – Land-Survey, Ship-Technician Replika LSTR-Five-One-Two. Elster – or Magpie depending on who is saying it, is a portmanteau of her chassis description – the numbers are her serial: Elster-Five-One-Two of the interstellar scout prospecting ship Penrose-Five-One-two. She was the onboard technician responsible for the ship's upkeep.'
'Evidently she wasn't very good at her job.'
Smutts nodded thoughtfully. 'In defence of the shipboard technician – we have gone over the ship's reports and communications and we have firm reason to believe that the Penrose-series scout ships were not very well-built – or at least not with crew longevity in mind as a sealed message already received by the ship before it had even reached the Oort suggested that the Nation believed that the ship would start breaking down by the three-thousandth cycle – a cycle, Elster has explained to us is a twenty-four-hour analogue of our Earth-standard days.'
Smutts waved a hand, keying permission to access the holographic displays for the room, which was granted by assent a moment later so that the image of the ship could be brought up in all of its clapped-out glory.
'Reactor-breakdown was already starting to occur into the eighth year, with severe effects on the health of the Human occupant though we know through recovered diary entries that Officer Yeong attempted to withhold this information from her subordinate – though by the end of the year the radiation would have been too noticeable to hide from Elster – which is when the ship's flight log registers an about-course made by the Replika.'
'Trying to run home?'
'Yes. Neither crewmember painted me an overly flowery picture of the Nation – Officer Yeong in particular seemed to reserve quite some vitriol for it – but I believe that Elster decided to take the gamble and bring Yeong back to the Nation for medical treatment, rather than watch her decompose from radiation poisoning.'
'What's the deal with the lack of love for home?' Whitcomb grumbled.
'From what both told me, the Eusan Revolutionary Nation – this being their government – is not a particularly pleasant place to live – especially for an artistic individual… or anyone for that matter – typical Communist regime from the Old World and you're on the money.'
Bukoŭski, Luna's Confederate representative to the UNSC SC got a whiff of that glorious tobacco lingering in the room and bit the cap of his glass-sealed Royal Dutch and motioned with the little vial once it was empty. 'Sounds fucking miserable, officer Smutts.'
'Oh, quite sir – quite.' The ONI jobbie said with the little bounce and shoulder-flex of their kin's body language. 'Evidently she's quite the accomplished artist from what I've seen of her work – a fine taste in classical music, too – of course, half of what was in her library was also contraband.'
'So, she got ten kinds of shit kicked out of her in school?' The dark moonman remarked between grunts and puffs as his one arm got the panatela lit.
'Try twenty, sir.'
'Sounds like the Academy…' Whitcomb joked and there was murmured laughter as the topic moved on from schoolgirl polytechnic beatdowns.
'This… Nation…' The Air Force's face to this cabal, General Chamara began giving voice to the thoughts they'd all had the moment they'd sat down in these comfy form-fitting black leather seats in the pre-meeting minutes. 'This reads to me like something I'd get out of a history book – even their flag… this is just East Germany in space…'
'Yes…' Smutts said, and Empire-ACTUAL watched, cold as ice and as distant as Andromeda.
THEY DON'T KNOW HOW TO CONTINUE.
AT LEAST NOT WITHOUT SOUNDING LIKE A LUNATIC.
AN UNENVIABLE POSITION TO BE IN.
'Without meaning to sound like I am in need of a psychiatric checkup, it in essence is East Germany in space – even down to the usage of German as a national language and the reuse of East German names, terms and ministries.'
The Penrose disappeared and the ship was now the Nation's crest, suspended over the space between where the desks turned to blue-grey velvet benches. Smutts held up a hand to it – as if asking anyone else in their position to come up with a better explanation.
'Furthermore, we aren't entirely sure yet whether this Rift leads to an alternate version of ourselves or vice-versa – we being an alternate timeline to them that had one or more great historical divergences along the way.'
The room at large waited through the cigar smoke lighting up and the ONI case-chaser seemed to try to huff as much as possible in before he went on. 'Now, I would like to highlight to those assembled here that much of Vineta's records and archives – that being their analogue for Earth – have been lost to them, both through deliberate tampering of historical records and a combination of natural and manmade catastrophes.'
Another wave of the hand and a new figure cloaked and hooded.
'This is the Grand Empress – an individual of immense power and personal strength who managed to exert her influence over all mankind through means unknown to us – but described to me somewhat poorly and vaguely by Officer Yeong as being…'
THEY'RE GOING TO SAY SOMETHING ODD.
THEY HAVEN'T ALREADY?
Only Empire-ACTUAL didn't lean forward in the collective hush of coming-stupid about to be uttered by someone under the gazes of some of the most powerful individuals in the known universe.
Smutts closed their eyes and just bit the bullet.
'Space magic.'
'Space… magic?...'
'Yes, sir. Officer Yeong summed it up as much and given her other more vivid descriptions of the nature of what Elster clarified to me as something the Nation calls bioresonance – I am quite inclined to agree with her statement and will back it up to this council.'
'What makes you say that?' Demanded, softly and slowly mankind's one and only President, (Insurrectionists eat your heart out).
'Well, from the descriptions offered and the reading material aboard the Penrose – that being both Nation propaganda of which there was quite a lot and Officer Yeong's own contraband library – I have come to the educated conclusion while on the shuttle-ride over here that bioresonance is a combination of omniscience and omnipotence, depending on the strength of the individual in question. This Grand Empress not only managed to enthral the Human race under her leadership, but also led mankind to the starts and created Elser's kind, as well.'
'So…' Muttered Strauss. 'Very powerful stuff indeed.'
'Absolutely, this Grand Empress managed to use her powers to terraform and entire planet.'
'Sweet Mother of Christ.' Someone grumbled and again came the assenting mumbles.
Smutts nodded in agreement candidly. 'Which is why I for one am quite grateful that the Nation cracks down hard on bioresonance and this empress is no longer alive – apparently she has died quite some time ago – decades by the look of it all and the Empire has since collapsed into a civil war between itself – of which I know…' They looked about. 'Remarkably little, I am sorry to say – not unless my case parameters can be expanded to include romantic smut novels as bedrock to build my cultural case on… but regardless… on Heimat – their analogue for Titan – a revolution started against the weakened Imperial government on Buyan… that being Venus for us.'
The holograms shifted once more and now it was a star system of all the described planetary names given to the ONI spook by the two castaways. Leng, Heimat, Rotfront, Vineta-
'Jumpin' fuckin' Jesus, what the hell happened to Earth?' Whitcomb barked at the sight that greeted them – a world flooded by waste and war; a moon shattered by untold destruction.
'Vineta was left as a wasteland during the Revolutionary campaign to wrest control of it away from the Empire after having conquered Leng and Rotfront among others, too… as I said – much of Vineta's central archives have been destroyed in the years since.'
Empire-ACTUAL leaned forward for the first time since slipping into the chair an hour ago, contemplative on the outside as the threefold went quiet for the first time in a long while, horrified and enraged at mankind's cradle ruined by such subhuman savages.
The mood synthetic was infectious and touched everyone else who beheld it – Solarians, Venusians, Earthers, Lunarians, Martians, Jovians, Saturnians, etc. All were men at the end of the day – even Empire-ACTUAL. All felt the sting of the Motherworld in ruined cinders and post-apocalyptic tatters.
'As you can see, the war has become immensely destructive – even more so than our own Interplanetary Wars of the twenty-one-sixties.'
More silence rained and Smutts stood there, calm as a tomb in his parade rest while their audience muttered back and forth between one another. Empire-ACTUAL said nothing and gave the Security Council no front-row seats to the privy council of three – two and one screaming with rage.
EACH AND EVERY DAY I HAVE PLANNED OUR SURVIVAL FOR THE NEXT TWO HUNDRED MILLENNIA WITH EVERY PASSING HOUR FOR THE LAST THIRTY-TWO YEARS, Empire-Ruination bayed and howled in mind-killing fury. WHY HAVE THEY RUINED HER? I HAVE PLANNED AND RUN TWENTY-SEVEN ENTIRE CAMPAIGNS IN THE COLONIES TO KEEP OUR BIRTHRIGHT SAFE! WHY HAVE THEY RUINED HER?
Empire-ACTUAL's optics that had drooped for a moment in silence for all those lost, almost trembling in their sockets with Ruination's rage at the rape of the Motherworld, before they snapped back up once Smutts cleared their throat and looked about, probing their audience for the coming news.
'Unfortunately, it seems that the Empire is also just as callous as to Vineta's continued survival as they have now started a full-scale blockade of the planet, which according to both crewmembers – may be depriving millions of the necessary basics for survival now that much of the world has been flooded.
The Nation too, is willing to carry out such levels of destruction against Buyan and Kitezh – Mars – too. Both of those worlds seem to be the only strongholds that the Empire has left and in my somewhat more analytical conversation with Elster on the ins-and-outs of Eusan astropolitics, the Imperial Navy seems to have the upper hand for now – however with the fall of Vineta and the destruction of its shipyards, I think it's only a matter of time before the Imperials will run out of steam – I would be amazed if they're able to keep up the operational tempo for even a year.'
'So…' Said Whitcomb.
'So…' Said Stanforth.
'So…' Finished Empire-ACTUAL.
But it was Lord Hood who finished the unspoken line of thoughts: 'So we may or may not soon have a fully-militarised society with an economy geared for total war, not only capable but also willing to sacrifice the Homeworld for their cause right on our doorstep, with a straight shot at Earth…'
'It is a bastard, alright.' Huffed the huge man-bear.
'It's a bastard and then some.' Intoned the head of the UNSCN and ran a hand over his scalp.
Again, there was silence now that the young…ish officer had wrapped up. All attention was turned back to the collective leader sat there, unmoving.
Empire-ACTUAL turned this time to face Hood directly – no more of the sidelong glances usually afforded for such interactions – Empire-Ruination's blood was ready, boiling and too hot to be tempered by either other AI. 'How many warships do we have, right now, at this moment in time, in Sol?'
Lord Hood looked up for a moment and blew some air through his thin lips, before bringing his creased eyes back down to meet the freaky blue ones. 'Hundreds. If their warships are anything like as well-built as the Penrose or even the same tonnage – I don't think that we'll have too much to worry about – most of the computers and flight controls are all mechanical and analogue in nature, anyway.'
He tapped a momentary tune with his fingers at the edge of his part of the table. 'Maybe about three-hundred ships of all types and classifications, from carriers to depot and accommodation ships – and that's not counting the ships in either the active or mothballed reserves. If needs be, we can have about three-carriers, seventeen cruisers, fifty-nine frigates and destroyers and about twenty smaller ships-of-the-line brought up into action if we're activating our reserves and willing to recall some tonnage from our other fleets.'
'We can't tap into those cruisers, though…' Warned one of the naval aids. 'Not without the Council noticing.'
'Damn them, this is important!' Whitcomb boomed his protests. 'Besides, we're not party to any arms-limitations treaties with them – binding – at least.'
'No.' Empire-ACTUAL said in the closes the android chassis had ever come to a sigh. 'We did sign a naval convention with them. It doesn't bind us to any upper limit of ships or tonnage, but it does limit our use of them at any one time and right now we have seventy-seven cruisers in active-service – seven more than what we agreed to operate under normal circumstances.'
Grumbles followed as they so often do by military men and women having the leash tugged and the promise of more things that exploded in the gigaton-range being denied. But all hope wasn't lost for the Navy's fight when the former-ONI-director tapped his larger colleague's corner in the ring.
'We might…' Stanforth piped-in contemplatively. 'Be able to argue our case that we need one more for ongoing operations out in the Centauri-Perseus Gap. The UNSC Mulberry Harbour did overcook her MAC coils during an engagement with Haliat's pirates last month… completely toast now – she'll need a full refit to get them working again – they just don't have the machinery shops large enough to handle that kind of a job.'
'You sain' we should rotate her out – take a fresh replacement out of reserve – keep her on station in the Oort instead?' Whitcomb picked up his neighbour's line of thought.
'That… or…' The grey-haired line cruiser-driver let the pause hang as he slowly craned his chair over to face Lord Hood, who glowered out of the corner of eyes scored by crow's feet in knowing waiting.
'You want to trade one of my operational cruisers for a battle-damaged one?' The Briton noble spelled out the scheme his subalterns were brewing before him.
'The Council will notice us taking a cruiser out of reserves and they will be pissed about it – even if it's only to replace battle-casualties. It would be for a good cause.' Stanforth said.
'The best.' The Texan agreed.
Both left their comments hanging, and watched together with the rest of the room, the mulling Chief of Naval Operations who stared back at his casual Vice Admirals with all the emotive outlet of an Easter Island Moai behind his steepled fingers. Shaded blue eyes rolled over to those of Empire-ACTUAL, who nodded assent, and the man deflated with a great sigh.
'Fine.'
Whitcomb and Stanforth looked like they were about to hug their little victory out but managed to contain themselves from boyish outbursts. Instead, they nodded as respectable members of the Admiralty do when the boss spreads the indulgence about with a big, 12-million-ton snow shovel.
A little snark put itself into the Lord's voice when he addressed them again. 'I'll trade you for your old ship, Harold – the Levi's due for a reactor top-up at any rate. And I'm putting you in charge of sorting this mess out as the commander on the scene. Fine… we'll do that then – we'll try and dig the Paradise Lost out of reserves to replace the Mulberry in the battle line after a while – she's just gone through her overhaul, and I reckon the crew could use the shakeup for it. But don't expect that cruiser out in the wild yonder for a while yet.'
CNO looked over at Empire-ACTUAL, returned again to looking sidelong. 'What are we telling the Council, then? It was already a monumental battle with them just to get the Roman Blue out of mothballs when the Blitz started and that was with their approval for our response to the crisis.'
YOU SCRATCH MY BACK…
I SCRATCH YOURS AND INCIDENTALLY I CRUSH THE BUG BITING IT.
OFFER THEM A TOKEN IF NOT PURELY FOR RECOMPENSE.
BETTER TO ASK FORGIVENESS THAN PERMISSION.
NO, ERUDITION HAS THE CORRECT THOUGHT. WE HAVE LESS CAPITAL HULLS THAN THE CITADEL. EVEN IF WE DEDUCT THE BATARIAN FLEET, WE'RE STILL LOOKING AT 81 DREADNOUGHTS – FOR WHICH WE HAVE 80 CRUISERS – OF WHICH SEVERAL ARE ONLY WORKING UP. ADD THE BATARIAN CAPITAL TONNAGE AND WE'RE OUTNUMBERED 89-TO-80. WE ARE NOT IN A POSITION TO TEAR UP THE CONVENTIONAL NAVAL FORCES ACCORD. THEY WILL OUTSCALE US FASTER THAN WE CAN KEEP UP WITH THE TURIAN SHIPBUILDING INDUSTRIES AND THE ASARI ECONOMY.
…
THROW THEM SOME BONES, HOPE THEY FEEL GENEROUS.
WE HAVE TONN ACTUS SAT IN A CERES PRISON CELL – WANTED IN THE TURIAN HIERARCHY FOR LARCENY, DEADLY ASSAULT, BREACHING THE PEACE – THAT KIND OF THING. CHOKE HIM UP NOW – EXTRADITE HIM FOR THE TURIANS.
WHAT OF THE SALARIANS AND ASARI?
BACK OF THE TECH EXPORT CONTROLS FOR A BIT TO SATISFY THE LIZARDMAN. PUMP THE BREAKS ON SPARTAN OPERATIONS ON ILLIUM.
YES, TO SECOND, NO TO FIRST, RUINATION.
THE MARS ARCHIVES ARE OFF LIMITS?
BEYOND ANY DOUBT.
THEN WE STOP CLAPPING STG PROBES FOR A BIT. NOT THE IMPORTANT ONES HEARING THINGS THAT PROBES SHOULDN'T BUT ONES WE CAN LIVE WITH. BETTER LICE THAN SOMEONE THREATENING YOUR JUGULAR WITH A SHIV.
TONN ACTUS FOR THE TURIANS. SPARTANS-DRAWDOWNS FOR THE ASARI. PROBE-BUSTING BAN FOR THE SALARIANS?
'We can mollify the Citadel's three members with trinkets. We have one of their wanted criminals right here in Sol. We will extradite him to Palaven; draw-down Spartan operations on Illium for a while and we can let some Salarian listening probes slip by into places we can live with them.' Said Empire-ACTUAL, summing up the constituent's compromise.
'That's not a great deal for a cruiser.'
ACTUAL's eyes rolled leftward. 'No, but it is a start, and we have people who deliver the tea and biscuits in their governments. If they start talking about lodging protests, we can offer up some more pacifications.' The million-Credit eyes rolled back over to the left to the CNO. 'How long can we keep their naval attachés from noticing the missing cruiser?'
'Something that we could do is an unscheduled exercise? Out by Typhon – it's on the other side of the system. Take them along on the Kakistocrat – it'll keep them occupied pointing at all the pretty ion thrusters for a bit so that we can get her out of Sol. We can work her up in the Oort. Say Leviathan suffered some onboard fire so we can get her separated from fleet duty earlier.'
'We'll need some escorts, Terrence.' Stanforth added coquettishly with a little smirk.
'You'll get the destroyers No Need To Advertise, Doorknocker, Extreme Sneezing and Conscientious Objector – don't ask me for anything else, Harold – you're pushing your luck as it is.' Warned the wrinkled grandee.
'Wouldn't dream of it, sir.' Grinned Stanforth.
'So… we've got the Prowlers earmarked; the task force selected; the station and defences; teams and security as well as the testimonies of the two refugees and our first-contact contingency…' The Marine C-in-C intoned the collective mental checklist as he tapped off his fingers. 'Anything else that we still need to go over? I'm at the back of my folder here and I can't think of anything.'
'No, but if I'm heading the battlegroup I'll take my leave now then to book a ride for Conscientious until the Levi gets released from service. Can I also assume operational command over the corvettes already out there, chief?'
'You may.' Approved the Lordship.
'Then this Security Council can be brought to a close, unless anyone has closing remarks to be make?' Said Empire-ACTUAL, Swarovskis rolling this way and that like an animatronic of yore.
Thoughtful whispers to the self – memory-joggers of the mind as the great people of state thought hard for unfinished business left unspoken. But none came, so the President nodded and stood, bristling the grey, white and gold sash that heralded the coming of a leader of an interstellar race.
'Thank you, all.' Empire-ACTUAL said and left, with the President's aide falling in behind as the doors were swung open for the chief.