By the third day, I had an extensive list of rogue wormhole incidents, but I was also seeing a worrying pattern in the information I’d listed in the report – worrying enough that I pinged Henderson’s comm to ask if I could talk to him.
“What’s the problem?” he asked, when I arrived in his office. His eyebrows rose when I closed the door behind me.
“I know this is well above my pay grade, sir,” I began, knowing that I was about to put my foot in something. This, right here, was a big part of the reason I hadn’t made Commander yet. I’d never learned when to leave well enough alone. “I was wondering how many wormholes we’re reporting on for the Nwandu.”
“Six, that I’m aware of,” he replied, curious enough – and in a good enough mood – to humour me. He pulled up the list on a holographic screen and showed it to me.
I grimaced as my faint hunch turned into a strong gut feeling. “That covers every major populated system on the galaxy-side fringe of Alliance space. That’s a lot of information.”
“Where are you going with this, Lieutenant?”
“In my report, I’ve deliberately tried to leave out the ‘how’ of the wormhole breaches. I’ve put in the ‘what’, and the ‘when’, but I’m not even sure I should be putting the ‘who’ in there – which species have helped themselves to free passage through our system. The thing is, if this information fell into the wrong hands, it would make it incredibly easy for some nefarious third party to plan a coordinated attack against our outer-lying colonies. It details which class of ships made the jumps, what damage was caused – if they crashed into one of our ships going the other way, forexample – plus any malfunctions of the solar shielding or fluctuations in the dark energy of the wormhole. That’s just like writing a ‘how to’ manual for invading Alliance space.”
The wormholes had been the single most important breakthrough in interstellar travel, and it was likely that most species would never have left their home solar systems without them. Numerous species had discovered naturally occurring wormholes, beginning some six centuries ago, but they’d been notoriously unstable. Cooperative efforts over many decades had finally harnessed the potential of dark energy to create stable portals to other parts of the galaxy – or artificial wormholes. But the downside of creating the wormholes was that they were incredibly expensive to maintain. They had to be shielded from solar storms, traffic had to be monitored to avoid crashes and every couple of years, the wormhole had to be strengthened to maintain its integrity. And that was why various species or systems now claimed to ‘own’ their local wormhole. If they paid for the maintenance, they got to control the traffic.
“It’s a valid point,” Henderson said, not looking happy about it. “And I’ll certainly mention it to the Rendol Parliament. But the Nwandu have gone right to the top, and the Alliance Parliament has to weigh the risks of losing their participation, as compared to the risks of revealing certain key information to them. There’s been a huge amount of work gone into this negotiation already. And if it works out, we have a hell of a lot to gain.”
That night, I was noticeably pensive – so much so that Kade actually commented on it, as he was serving dinner. I brushed him off as politely as possible, then hastily backtracked and told him that I was worried about work stuff and assured him there was nothing he had done wrong. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about the Nwandu’s request. But I was one man, in a swirling maelstrom of sixty billion people in the Alliance. I doubted there was anything I could do that would truly have an impact on the situation.
I suppose that’s why I was thankful the following morning when I got called into Major Glech’s office – she was working from the main base, rather than the regional one, for the time being – and she told me, Kade, and four other soldiers that we’d been assigned to a security mission for the next three days.
“It’s simple guard duty,” Glech said, her bushy eyebrows ruffling. “The north-western terraforming outpost is upgrading their defence perimeter and they need someone to hold off any potential Geshtoch attacks until it’s up and running again.”
I managed not to groan at the news. Guard duty was the most boring assignment it was possible to get. We’d spend three days standing in the hot sun, staring at the desert sand, and listening to the whine of rock-breakingdrills and seed sowers. Unless, of course, the Geshtoch decided to attack, in which case, anything could happen.
Kade had been assigned the rank of corporal for the time being, until he got a couple of missions under his belt, and the other four were two privates and two more corporals, which left me as the ranking officer for our motley group.
The trip to the outpost took about two hours, and then we were given a quick tour of the facility, including a rundown on the more vital structures and where most of the staff were located. If an attack did occur, protecting those buildings would be our priority.
I wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing or a bad thing when, three days later, we all filed back onto the transporter, dusty and hot, to report that absolutely nothing of any interest had occurred during the mission. On one hand, the outpost was safe and none of us were injured. But on the downside, the excursion had failed to provide any testing of Kade’s abilities, either in combat, or on the more sensitive topic of how he followed orders. Henderson was still nervous about how much guidance Kade would need, as compared to the average soldier’s capacity to think for themselves. Kade hadn’t complained at any point throughout the assignment, and when I asked him what he’d thought of it, back home that night, he smiled knowingly. “It was routine,” he said. “Sometimes routine is a good thing. It means nobody’s getting shot.” It was a reminder of how quickly a mission could go wrong, and I smiled, then kissed him and tumbled him into bed.
In hindsight, I should probably have spent more time enjoying that quiet routine. Our next assignment was nothing like that simple.
◊◊◊
“Associate Fi Nors will be travelling from Adavi to Hon for a seven day visit,” Colonel Henderson announced, as he laid out the assignment that Kade, Bryce, Vosh and myself were going to be running. Bryce had apparently been cleared for active duty, the stability boot no longer on his foot, and I was profoundly grateful for that. Missions always ran smoother with Bryce at the helm.
“Elections are still six months away,” Henderson went on, “but Nors is taking a very pro-active stance on the terraforming projects and wants to visit the farming conglomerate to the west of Hon, accompanied by Associate Plerg. I haven’t been told what their official business is together, but there are plenty of rumours about the pair of them trying to bolster each other’s chances for re-election by putting together a plan to petition the Parliament for a greater focus on terraforming for the east coast. We have one of the highest rainfalls on Rendol 4, so there would be a certain amount of logic to that decision.”
The Rendol Parliament was made up of two hundred Associates, with elections held every four years. Most of the time, the Associates remained within the geographical area they represented, conducting parliamentary meetings via holographic conferences. But every now and then, there was a reason for one of them to visit another region in person.
“The obvious problem,” Henderson went on, “is that to get from Adavi to Hon, she has to cross the South Hon Desert, which is a known Geshtoch problem area. No matter how many times we warn them to stick to the terms of the treaty and stay in the coastal hills, they continue to encroach on Alliance territory. The four of you are going to be escorting her and two of her aides in an armoured transporter. You’ll be riding side-saddle, armed with rocket launchers, and your official orders are to treat any and all movement on the ground as life-threatening.”
What Henderson meant by that was that each of us would be stationed on gunner seats off the sides of the transporter, ready to blow up anything that moved in the desert below us. The Geshtoch were known to use EMP grenades to knock transporters out of the sky, so given their refusal to stick to their own territory, our response had become to shoot first and ask questions later. Officially, the Rendol Parliament was reviewing the terms of the treaty we had with the Geshtoch. In reality, all we seemed to be doing was taking pot-shots at each other, though given the increasing number of fatalities, pressure was mounting to find a real solution to the problem.
As we headed for our rooms to pack the appropriate overnight bags, I pulled Kade aside. “Did you read that information on the Geshtoch I sent you?” I asked him.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, as I knew he would.
“Good. This mission is way more important than the last one we did, or even the cargo retrieval where we first met. Associate Nors is one of the youngest, and the most popular Associates in the parliament, and she’s had some of the most progressive policies on terraforming. If she gets killed, it could change the face of politics for the entire planet. So just to make sure you’ve got this clear: If you see something move in the desert, shoot it. If you’re not sure if you saw something move, shoot it anyway. The Geshtoch do not fuck around. So neither do we. Any questions?”
“Is there likely to be anyone other than Geshtoch in the desert?” Kade asked.
“No. All Alliance members – both military and civilian – travel by air, and there are copious warnings to keep adventurers or hoverbike riders out of the area. The warnings literally say, ‘If you enter this area, you will be shot on sight.’ Whether it’s us or the Geshtoch who do the shooting is just details.”
He nodded. “Fair enough. If anything moves, I’ll shoot it.”
I patted him on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get packed. We’re only scheduled to stay for one night, but we always take emergency camping gear, as well. Two meal packets, a sleeping roll and a waterproof poncho.”
