The White Fleet (Blood on the Stars Book 7) Page 22
Weldon had managed to come to a few conclusions. First, whatever was afflicting the landing party, it was highly contagious, far more than any disease he’d ever seen. It could be transmitted by contact with the skin, even through clothing of a moderately protective nature. Anything short of sealed spacesuits did little to prevent the disease from infecting another host.
He’d come to a related conclusion, one he’d kept to himself, mostly because it would serve no purpose to pass it on. Its dissemination would only cause a panic, and cripple the ongoing work to get the landing party’s infrastructure in place. But he was sure now, at least as certain as he could be. The pathogen at work was not natural. It had been engineered. It was a weapon.
“Doctor Weldon…”
He turned his head and looked back toward the doorway. It was one of the other doctors, and he knew immediately from her tone what she was going to say.
We’ve had our first fatality…
* * *
“Jake, thank you for coming. I imagine you’re tired, and I’m sure another debriefing of sorts is the last thing you wanted to deal with right now.” Barron stood up and walked around his desk, reaching out and shaking his chief pilot’s hand.
“Of course, Admiral. I’ve never been the best at obeying orders, I guess, but there isn’t a man or woman in uniform I respect more than you.” It seemed odd to Stockton that Barron would thank him for coming, but then he caught the creases on the admiral’s face, the dark circles around his eyes. He was sure he wasn’t privy to everything that was going on, though he’d picked up enough to know the landing parties were stuck down on the planet, that Barron wasn’t even allowing the resupply ships to land. He didn’t know exactly what was happening, but he was sure it wasn’t good. Now that he saw Barron’s face up close, he understood just how much pressure the admiral was carrying around…and that meant things were even worse than he’d thought. Probably much worse.
“I appreciate that, Jake. It’s a great comfort to me to have you in charge of our squadrons. You’ve fought it at times, but the truth is, you’re a natural leader…and no one I’ve ever met knows better than you just what a pack of Lightnings can do.”
“Thank you, sir.” Jake forced a smile, but he found that Barron’s stress was contagious. He’d seen the admiral face impossible situations before, but he’d never seen him look as lost as he did just then.
“Please, Jake…sit.” Barron gestured toward one of the chairs, and he moved back around the desk, dropping hard into his seat. Stockton nodded and did the same, but he remained silent, looking across at Barron, waiting to see what he had to say. Why he’d been called to the admiral’s office.
“Jake, I wanted to talk with you about those satellites. I read your report, and the reports of the other pilots involved in the operations. But, I wanted to be sure I understood everything.” A pause. “It’s important we have a good idea of what’s happening. What may be coming.”
“Well, sir…I don’t know what I can tell you that wasn’t in the reports. I picked up the signals, and the best I could get reads on them, they were heading to one of the transit points, the one we’ve designated Point Delta.”
“Everyone seems convinced it was some kind of comm signal.” Barron leaned back in his chair. “The prevailing guess is those things were part of some kind of still-functioning ancient imperial communications system. Much the same as the thoughts on the satellites we found in the previous systems.”
Stockton could tell from Barron’s tone, the admiral was far from convinced the “prevailing” wisdom was correct. Which was good, because Stockton didn’t believe for a second those devices were old tech artifacts. The positioning was highly suspect, for one thing, the locations almost too perfect within the debris fields…debris fields that didn’t exist when imperials would have placed them in orbit.
“I don’t especially agree with those findings, sir.”
“You think someone else put them there?”
“Yes, Admiral. But I have no idea who it could have been.”
“I believe I do, Jake.” Barron stared across the desk, his eyes fixed on Stockton’s.
“Admiral?” The pilot returned the gaze, but he doubted he’d kept the confusion out of his expression.
“I’m going to tell you some things, Jake. What’s going on down on the surface. What I tell you here is not to leave this room.” Barron paused. “I’m afraid I’m going to need the best everyone has to offer in the coming days and weeks, and that includes you and your pilots. We came here as explorers, but I’m afraid we’ve found something far more dangerous than we’d expected. And, I’m not sure what to do.”
Barron hesitated again, and then he filled Stockton in on everything that had happened on the planet.
* * *
“I want some answers from you.” Weldon stared at the captive, his determination fueled by frustration over his inability to make any real progress on treating those afflicted by the epidemic.
“You are a medical professional, are you not?” The prisoner’s every word dripped with arrogance. The emphasis he’d placed on the word “professional” was clearly derisive, something even the translation AI had managed to reconstruct as it repeated the Master’s response for Weldon.
“Yes, I am,” Weldon replied, keeping his voice even.
“You are, no doubt, among the most capable and intelligent of your expedition. You are clearly at a high range of capabilities among the Inferiors. Why don’t you tell me what you believe is happening to your people?” The Master seemed calmer than he had before, as though he’d adapted to his situation. He still showed no signs of fear, but he seemed more…amused…than he had before.
“Okay…I’ll play your game. Obviously, there is a pathogen on this world, one my people have never been exposed to, and for which they have little resistance.”
“It is indeed a display of your weakness, of the inferiority of your people.”
“Disease affects all people, especially a virulent agent like this one.” Weldon found himself more affected by the prisoner’s barbs than he’d expected to be.
“Does it? I am sixty-three imperial years old…” The AI couldn’t translate the next term the Master used precisely. It offered “dog” and “vermin” as close substitutes. “I have never been what you would call…sick. Such is the fate of Inferiors, the Kriegeri and Arbeiter, and, of course, those who inhabit this world.” He paused, clearly finding the whole thing amusing. “Yet, even the Defekts who work the mines here are immune from that which is destroying your people.”
Weldon felt another angry response to the man’s words, but it was deflected by the Master’s disclosure of his age. He didn’t look a day over thirty, and none of the scans the med teams had managed to conduct without actually examining the subject suggested anything different. He’d known the Master’s genetic makeup showed few weaknesses, but he still found himself shocked at the practical effects of the man’s DNA, in terms of apparent intellect, and now, aging as well.
“I need you to tell me everything you know about this disease. Is it familiar to you?” Weldon tried to push the revelation about the Master’s age from his mind and focus on what he needed to know. Controlling the epidemic was the most important problem he faced.
“Why would I do that, Inferior? You have taken me prisoner, exhibited the audacity to treat with me without asking permission, denied me the respect one of your level owes to one of mine. I need only wait here until all of you are dead, and then I will again be free. The Defekts would not dare to hold me against my will, even though you have slain all my Kriegeri.”
“We have an entire fleet in orbit, with…” Weldon caught himself. He was far from sure he should be sharing any information about the fleet with the prisoner. The Master was captive, of course, but it was beginning to look very much like his people would become enemies. “…with enough resources to send more people down to the surface.”
“Unlikely. You have discovered, I s
uspect, despite your primitive science and limited analytical capacity…” The Master managed to make the insult sound matter-of-fact, like the declaration of an inarguable reality. “…that the agent at work is quite difficult to keep at bay, even with protective clothing and life support. Would your fleet, and whoever is in command, risk sending more of your people to the surface? Even fully-contained environmental suits would pose tremendous risks. The virus…and yes, it is a highly-engineered virus you are facing…was designed to facilitate contagion. It is capable of surviving considerable periods in space, even radiation-based decontamination procedures. And, it reproduces rapidly. A very small number, even a single virus surviving on an environmental suit, is likely to kill everyone on whatever ship it is brought aboard.”
The Master paused and looked at Weldon, his expression something akin to a smile. “No, your commander will not dare to land more people to the surface, nor allow any of you already here to leave. So, all I need do is wait.”
“Are you suggesting all of us will die?” Weldon wasn’t as surprised as he imagined he sounded. He’d already considered the possibility of one hundred percent infection. He could call Barron for space suits, for life support habitats, but it wouldn’t do much good. Everyone on the surface had already been exposed.
“Ah…you come to face the inevitable consequences of your own inferiority. You do seem to have some rudimentary intelligence, and some familiarity with tools and weapons of moderate technological complexity, but you lack the ability to resist the disease. It is called the Plague, by the way, and it was employed during the Troubles.”
Weldon wasn’t sure what the Master meant by “Troubles,” but he suspected it was what was known at the Cataclysm among the Rim nations.
“You consider that an inferiority? Vulnerability to a disease designed to kill billions?”
“Do I appear to be infected, or even concerned? I am wearing no protective gear.” The Master smiled, a grin that unsettled Weldon. “Even the Defekts, near-animals that they are—are immune. Yet, your people are dying. Such is the curse of your genetic frailty. Of course, that is inferiority. Nothing measures a being more than his or her genetic makeup. Your DNA has allowed you to master limited levels of technology, to imagine yourselves as something special in the universe—the top of your own small hill, so to speak—but now you see the true weakness of your people…and you have found your betters. Your masters.”
Weldon struggled to hold back a burst of rage. He was astonished how effortlessly the Master could provoke him, without so much as raising his voice. But the discussion, frustrating as the prisoner could be, had not been in vain. Weldon knew he faced an uphill struggle in defeating the weaponized disease, but there was something useful in what the prisoner had said. Even the people he referred to as Defekts, clearly the unfortunate descendants of people who’d suffered terrible mutations, seemed to be immune.
Of course…they’re all the descendants of survivors. All those who weren’t naturally immune died out long ago…
He stood up, turning to leave the small hut.
“I will pity your death, Inferior. Among your rabble, you seem to be among the most capable. You would have made a fitting servant.”
Weldon ignored the taunt. He didn’t have time to argue with the prisoner. He could feel the itchiness, the discomfort on his arms and legs. The first symptoms of the disease.
He’d have to confirm it with a medical scan, but he didn’t have the slightest doubt it would confirm he was infected.
He had work to do…and not much time left.
* * *
Barron sat on Dauntless’s bridge, which was what he still called the battleship’s immense fleet control center. He was watching the members of his command crew at their posts, but his thoughts were with his people on the surface, with the prisoner and the strange natives of the planet…and with fruitless imaginings of what his fleet had found in the system. What lay out there, closer to the empire’s old core. The expectations when the fleet left Megara had been based on finding old tech, and perhaps better information on the history of the Cataclysm. Now, he knew that history included other survivors, and that some of those, at least, were dangerous. He didn’t know where that would lead, but the tightness he’d had in his gut for two straight days told him his instincts didn’t expect anything good to come of it all.
He hadn’t spent much time at the command station over the past few days. He’d classified everything that was happening on the surface at the highest levels, tried to keep as much as he could from spreading through the fleet. That had relegated him to his office, where he could have a degree of privacy unavailable in the control center, but now he realized most of those efforts had been pointless. It was hard to keep secrets in an outfit like the White Fleet, and even more so when he was stripping ships of medpods and imposing seemingly bizarre rules on the shuttles supplying the surface. He knew his people probably didn’t know everything he did, but he was damned sure they knew something was wrong.
He was thinking about making a fleet-wide announcement, one that would explain all that had happened. He was about to order the comm officer to set up a line when Sonya Eaton turned toward him.
“Admiral, we’re getting a transmission from the probes at transit point delta.”
He turned and looked at his aide. “What is it, Captain?”
“Energy spikes, sir. It looks like we have ships transiting…and about to enter the system.”
Barron felt as though he’d had the wind knocked out of him. There was no chance any Confederation vessels were coming through that point…none at all. And that meant…
“Bring the fleet to battle stations, Captain. Prepare to scramble fighter squadrons on my order.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Eaton was one of the very few privy to everything that was happening on the planet. She seemed calm, though Barron suspected that was an exercise in self-control and not any absence of fear and tension she was feeling.
He looked at the display, watching, waiting, even as Dauntless’s battle stations lamps bathed the entirety of the great control center in a soft red glow.
He was still focused on the display when ships started coming through the point, one after the other.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CFS Dauntless
Orbiting Planet Zero
Zed-11 System
Year 315 AC
“No further transits, Admiral. Fourteen ships total. The four in the front appear to have greater masses and densities, as well as significantly higher energy outputs. If I had to guess, I’d say they were warships of some kind, probably escorts for the others.”
Barron nodded, but didn’t respond. Sonya Eaton was serving her own role, and shouldering much of the burden of commanding Dauntless, and she was doing a magnificent job, by any objective standard. But she failed in one critical area. She wasn’t Atara Travis.
He knew he did Eaton a disservice by comparing her to Atara Travis, but he couldn’t help it. Travis had been at his side in every desperate battle he’d fought, and the two had long been synced together as a team. He’d have sworn they’d communicated telepathically during those terrible fights, and he felt naked going into a situation as crucial and dangerous as this one without her on the bridge.
“All ships are to remain at battle stations and hold their positions. No one is to fire or launch fighters without my express orders.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
The warrior inside Barron was screaming to deploy his ships for battle, to advance until his primaries were in range…and certainly to get his squadrons launched and ready for battle. But he wasn’t just Admiral Barron now. He was the Confederation’s ambassador to a new and mysterious power. His actions—or inactions—could prevent a war. Or start one, against an enemy that was almost a total mystery. About the only thing he knew was they had superior technology. Were they as big as the Confederation? Just a few systems? Or ten times the size of all the Rim nations combined?
“Updated scans, Admiral. It definitely appears the lead vessels are warships. The AI has identified the other ten as freighters of some kind.”
“Very well, Captain.”
Of course. It all started to make sense, and to match the reports he’d gotten from the surface.
Those people on the ground, the ones they call Defekts…they work the mines. And these ships are here to pick up the ore, and drop off some token goods in return. That’s how the natives have clothing that’s manufactured.
Barron thought about it as trade, but only for a few seconds. It wasn’t anything close to legitimate commerce. The Masters, whoever they were, ruled over the inhabitants of the planet, using technology to set themselves up almost as gods to be worshipped and obeyed. And they sent the locals into the mines without proper equipment or protective gear, giving them tokens like cheap clothing and manufactured food products in return for the priceless ores their sweat and blood produced.
The Defekts are expendable to them. They don’t care how many die in the mines, as long as the ore flows.
He shook his head. He found the whole thing to be reprehensible…but the more he thought of the prisoner’s attitude, of his casual, almost natural, feelings of superiority, he began to see the perverse logic in it all.
They think of these people as animals…or at least something very close to that.