***
Four hours later, with the framework of the negotiations agreed upon and a participant list drafted, Keera took her leave of the congressman and caught a cab back to her hotel. The Marauder diplomatic office in Hong Kong had booked her into one of the most exclusive hotels in the city, right in the heart of the old downtown area, an establishment that prided itself on providing the ultimate in service and absolute discretion for its patrons. Safely ensconced in the highly secure privacy of her suite, Keera changed into more comfortable clothing and curled up on the bed with her laptop console. She had a few hours to kill before meeting Lawinson again, this time for dinner with his wife and two sons.
She considered taking a walk—she’d done some research on the city on her flight from Geonova, and was looking forward to using what little free time she had to enjoy some of the more famous sights. She could see the ancient monument known as the Brandenburg Gate from her window, and from what she’d read Berlin was a veritable treasure trove with centuries of history to its name. What she’d learned during the meeting, however, was still bothering her. Sightseeing was going to have to wait. Activating her console, she pulled her own copy of the galactic map up, annotating the borders of Terran and Marauder space with the attack coordinates, and marking Shackleton with a note about the fate of the colony.
The geography still didn’t add up, in her mind. Like Lawinson, she was no military strategist, but she was intimately familiar with the tenets of subterfuge, and the situation felt wrong, somehow. For a start, it didn’t seem particularly logical. Like their cyborg brethren in the Synergy, the Reavers adhered to a core set of protocols, and did not deviate from them. Their societal objectives were a mystery to the other races, but they didn’t act on whims or impulse, and while individuals among their number might, on very rare occasions, go rogue, whole battle groups certainly wouldn’t. Which meant that there was a good reason for the choice of targets, and an underlying strategy. A diversion, perhaps? But from what?
Keera’s gaze was drawn to the small patch of purple shading that designated changeling-controlled space lying between the territories belonging to the Reavers and the Terrans. She didn’t know if similar attacks had been taking place in her own people’s space—if there had been activity, it might help everyone to fill in a few more facts. Time to report in.
Opening a new comms protocol, she typed in a long, intricate code string, activating her personal encryption and signal scrambling routines. Ironically enough, public networks like the hotel were actually relatively safe to connect through—the scrambler could route the data trail to another account on the network fairly easily, leaving Keera’s actual correspondence log completely clear.
The connection hooked up with a muted chirp. “Identify yourself,” came to standard sentry challenge.
“Keera Naraymis, identity code one seven four seven two zero eight nine. Operational code four five four five four. Verify me.”
There was a pause as the security system ran its checks, then a second muted electronic beep, and a new connection opened and a familiar voice sounded over the channel. “Naraymis?”
“Estris, hi. How are you?”
“Fantastic.” The response was arid with sarcasm. “It’s summer here now, so my allergies are acting up again. Here’s a tip—never volunteer for service on Nomius. Neomorph adaptation does you more harm than good, let me tell you.”
“I think I might be past the chance for such a radical career shift.”
“Count your blessings. Anyway, you haven’t checked in for a while. How are things?”
“Not too bad. I didn’t think I needed to check in last week—I assume Solta reported back?”
“He did. Nice work with that, very smooth,” Estris congratulated her. “We still don’t have the treaty, though.”
“I know. I think that jackass Mendieta’s sitting on it for some reason.”
“Don’t confuse me with that Terran jargon. Jackass is a derogatory term?”
Keera chuckled. “Yes.”
“Then I have a clear impression of your opinion of this human.”
“Good. At any rate, I’m on Earth at the moment, so I’m a bit constrained, but I’ll call my deputy and get him motivated to get the paperwork over to the Minister.”
“Excellent. What’s going on with the Terrans?”
“The Reavers are starting to penetrate into their territory. They cleaned out a colony in the Shackleton system, on the planet Grytviken. The Terrans have plugged the gap for now, but there’s a parallel with the encroachment along the Marauder border. It seems clear the Reavers are on the move, but as yet it’s not possible to ascertain their intent. There’s not enough data. Are we seeing the same sorts of incursions in our space?”
Estris grunted noncommittally. “That’s not your concern. You leave worrying about that to other people.”
“If they hit Oceanhill, they’ll provoke a crisis,” Keera warned. “It’s a heavily populated system.” Nausea pricked at her stomach as she thought about it. Lawinson’s acute perception had picked up on her genuine emotions earlier—she really had been born and raised on Marinaris. Her upbringing on a Marauder world had been the product of a Consortium scheme to seed potential recruits to the Diplomatic Service in the civilisations they might one day come to infiltrate. The idea that the Reavers might destroy the colony, lay waste to her childhood home, was more than a little distressing.
“Don’t go native on me, Naraymis,” Estris chided. “Keep your focus on the job at hand. Your top priority is getting that treaty enacted.”
“I know,” Keera snapped, then she sucked in an apologetic breath. He was right; she was letting her emotions interfere with her judgement. “Sorry, Estris, that was uncalled for. I just wanted to raise a flag about these attacks—they don’t make sense to me. They’re on the wrong side of Terran space, for a start, and I don’t like the reports that they appear to have been using mixed-species decoys. I’ve never heard of them doing that before.”
“No, that’s very true,” Estris agreed thoughtfully. “What do the Terrans want to do about the situation?”
“Join forces with the Marauders and take the battle to the Reavers.”
“Hmm. Not sure the Assembly will like the idea of the Terran factions uniting in military matters. If for no other reason than it’ll make the Templars nervous. The Assembly won’t want to provoke a confrontation, and the Templars hate the humans badly enough to seize on any excuse.” Estris sighed. “Anyway, that’s not your concern or mine for the moment. I’ll pass your report on, and I’ll fill you in on your next scheduled check-in. Anything else?”
“No, that was all.”
“All right then. Stay safe, and keep your beak hidden. Estris out.”
JENNIFER
Aboard the Bronwen’s Fortune, Korxonthos Approach, Neutral Space
“Incoming Venture-class vessel, this is Korxonthos Orbital Approach. We have you on our screens. Transmit your identification and registry immediately.”
“Korxonthos Orbital, this is the DSV Bronwen’s Fortune, Captain Jennifer Bronwen in command, requesting clearance to dock,” Jennifer responded. “Transmitting ID and registry codes now.”
“DSV Bronwen’s Fortune, your identification is verified. Please state the intention of your visit to Korxonthos, Captain Bronwen.”
“Business. Delivering a cargo and then further cargo acquisition for my outbound trip.”
“Acknowledged. You are cleared to proceed to commercial dock four-twenty-six, berth ten-zero-sixty. The beacon frequency is one four three point two.”
“Dock four-two-six, berth ten-zero-sixty, beacon one four three point two. Confirmed, Orbital. Making my course,” Jen replied, already firing up the engines. She clicked over to internal comms. “Honold, Solinas, you guys might want to come forward and take a look at this,” she invited as she locked on to the beacon frequency and set the Fortune in motion toward the cyborg station. “It’s quite a sight.”
r /> She wasn’t exaggerating. Of all the worlds and systems Jen had managed to clock up in her six-year freelance career, Korxonthos was by far the most striking: a constructed planet, a homeworld built almost from scratch. Legend had it that somewhere in the centre of the colossal construct was the ship on which the original cyborgs had been sent forth into the galaxy by their ancient builders, and that over time, having failed to find a planet that suited them to colonize, they’d simply built extension after extension until they had a world that perfectly suited their specifications.
As creation myths went, it was certainly novel (if just as far-fetched as anyone else’s) but no one could dispute that Korxonthos was unique. Like its inhabitants, it was an optimized mix of natural and synthetic, an engineered superstructure bolted onto a dwarf planet core and able to support its billions of residents in a relatively small volume. From a distance it resembled a cast-metal model of a ringed planet, a dull, silvery-grey orb bisected by a wide, flat disc. Up close, you could make out the details of the thousands of docks, dozens of shipyards and the sprawling industrial complexes that made up the ring. Everything hazardous was kept confined to the outside edges in order to minimise the potential for damage to the superstructure.
By far the most bizarre thing about it, however, was that it moved. It didn’t simply occupy a solar orbit, it could be directed by its inhabitants. When you got closer still, you could see the regular hexagonal pattern of propulsion nozzles sunk through the layers of residential decks, colossal exhaust ports that used compressed waste gases as propellant to move the construct to new locations as desired.
And it was closer to the galactic core than Jen could ever remember it being.
The last time she’d visited, about two years back, it had been a good few hours further rimward under maximum conventional drive speed. I wonder what made them move it sunward. It’s not like they’re on the friendliest of terms with the Assembly races.
Her train of thought was disrupted by the arrival of her passengers. “Wow,” Honold marvelled as he flopped into the co-pilot’s seat, “now there’s something you don’t see everyday.”
“Pretty,” Solinas remarked laconically, leaning on Honold’s seat back.
As Jen pulled the Fortune around onto her final approach trajectory, the full majesty of the spacescape before them became apparent. Korxonthos hung against the blood red backdrop of the Demon’s Eye nebula. Far off in the distance, the local star burned with a cold white light, accenting the cyborg fortress with a shining corona that made it glow. “Pretty, he says,” Jen snorted disparagingly. “You should write poetry, Solinas, really.”
The changeling clicked his beak, amused. “I’m an artist of a different sort, Bronwen.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“Wait a second, what in the hell is that?” Honold demanded, pointing off to port.
Jennifer looked, and took in the sight of the massive starship hanging about halfway between them and the outer edge of the orbital docking ring, and chuckled wryly. “That, Timo, is a titan-class vessel, the mother of all battleships. And believe me, this is as close as you want to get to the business end of those armaments.”
“You’ve seen it in action?” Solinas asked curiously.
“Not this one. The Marauder navy has one—the Hephaestus—and I did one deployment on her when I was still enlisted,” Jen replied. She nodded at the behemoth, now eclipsing a good quarter of their view as they drew closer. “That thing’s bigger though… it’s a real monster. Look at the size of those mass drivers on the ventral mounts.”
“You could seriously fuck up someone’s homeworld with that thing,” Honold remarked, his tone grudgingly approving.
“No kidding,” Jen agreed. She frowned thoughtfully. She’d been to Korxonthos a few times, but she’d never seen the titan undocked from its berth. If they had it deployed, the cyborg leadership, their Legislature, were clearly worried about something. Possibly something related to the trajectory of the planetoid toward the Suns. Curiosity piqued, she activated her tactical heads-up display, and whistled softly as she saw the swarms of battlecruisers and dreadnoughts on patrol. “Well, something’s sure making the scrapyard itchy,” she remarked.
“Probably the Reavers,” Solinas offered. “Word has it they’ve been causing trouble along the borders of Terran and Ercinean space.”
“Reavers are always causing trouble,” Honold observed dismissively.
“Yeah, and that doesn’t usually get their big brothers all riled up like this.” Jennifer adjusted her instruments, scanning for energy signatures. “Those dreadnoughts are running with charged weapons.” She blew out a breath. “Guess we’d better be on our best behaviour, gentlemen.”
“We’re just picking up your contact, right?” Honold asked a touch nervously. “Just a quick in and out?”
“It’ll be a good few hours. I’ll have to offload my cargo first, and then see if I can pick up anything for the run to Modeus. It’s not efficient to run with an empty hold, and I’d prefer not to have to.”
“What’s the cargo?” Solinas asked. “I noticed it was pretty chilly down in the holds when I was re-booting the gravity generator.”
“Spare parts,” Jen replied guardedly, hoping he would leave it, but it seemed the changeling was the curious type.
“What kind of spare parts would cyborgs need that they can’t build?”
“Organic ones.” Jen flapped a hand at him. “Bits that people aren’t using anymore.”
Honold’s jaw dropped. “Are you saying you’ve got a hold full of body parts?”
“Sure have. Well, complete bodies, mostly, but there will be some odds and ends packed in there, I imagine. I make it a point not to inspect this kind of cargo too closely.”
“That’s disgusting.”
Jen snorted. “What, you never thought about how they make baby cyborgs?”
“You mean they don’t grow under cabbages?” Honold deadpanned.
Jen chuckled. “Nope. And there aren’t any storks involved either. They use dead bodies. Recycle the organic tissue, the same way as they salvage tech. Waste not, want not.”
“And you’re all right with that?”
“How d’you mean?”
“Well,” Honold winced, “you’re selling them dead bodies.”
“In point of fact, I’m not. I get paid by the company on Hel to deliver them—they’re selling them. That’s not your point, I know, but the people are dead. What do they care?”
“Their relatives might.”
“If they had anyone to give a damn for them, Honold, they wouldn’t have ended up in Mortalis’ freezer to be sold in the first place. Is that fair? No. Is it legal for me to transport them as goods in a transaction? Yes. Am I going to pass up the opportunity for an easy profit by making moral judgements? Definitely not.” Jen cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’ll leave religion to the Ercineans, and righteous crusades to the Guardians, and try to make a living somewhere in the grey areas, just like you.”
Honold nodded sheepishly. “Sure, Skipper, no criticisms being made here. Don’t get your dander up.”
“If it makes you feel better it creeped me the fuck out the first time, too.”
“Do you deliver people to the Reavers, too?” Solinas asked in a cold voice.
Jen shook her head. “Cyborgs buy their organics, or salvage them after death. Sometimes they take volunteers, from what I’ve heard. Reavers, though, they always steal what they need, usually from people who are still alive. Why there’s a difference in approach, I couldn’t say.”
“Yeah,” Honold agreed. “I mean, they’re all machines, they all come from the same original programming, so why wouldn’t they operate the same way? That’d be logical, right, and they’re all about logic.”
“If you’re that interested, why don’t you ask when we get there?”
Honold snorted. “Not me. I’m not “volunteering” to be their next spare part kit.”
??
?Try to remember that,” Jen advised as yet another patrol of raiders buzzed past the canopy. “Since they look like they’re a little short on patience right now.”