Vigilance, p.1
Vigilance, page 1
allen stroud
Vigilance
Book Three of the Fractal Series,
Following Fearless and Resilient
FLAME TREE PRESS
London & New York
Foreword
The first idea for the Fractal series came to me when I was ten years old.
I was always an imaginative child. In my bedroom, I invented worlds. These were inspired by the games, books, television, and films that I experienced. My generation feasted on a diet of Star Wars, Battlestar Galactica, Dan Dare, Asimov and Elite.
My late father was a good artist. His preferred weapon, a blunt pencil. I never had the same talent, but always wanted to be able to put something on paper that captured the images in my mind. I would try to draw them, again and again.
Eventually, some of the comics and picture books inspired me to draw ship plans. These blueprints were for ‘The United Nations Space Force’, an organisation born out of existing bureaucracy. Their mission, a mixture of exploration and enforcement. The regulators of humanity’s gradual expansion into the solar system.
An array of crudely drawn ships in a sketchbook, made during car rides, or visits to godparents, aunts and uncles. The papers long lost, faded away into memory. The ten-year-old boy who made them tried to imagine the lives of people living in that far-flung future. How their world worked and functioned.
I remember being given big folders at school and being told we could decorate them as we wanted. Other children made interesting art, used cut-out pictures to make a collage, or created an homage to their favourite football team.
I drew spaceships. Badly.
But these imaginings were broad strokes. The stories behind them were clear and vivid to me. Those shaky pencil shapes were poor renditions of what I saw when I went to bed. In my mind, the spaceships came to life. The people who crewed them had fascinating lives, immersed in future technology that fascinated me.
The boy who dreamed could not understand the complexities of a global society, and indeed, the grown boy who now imagines them can only glimpse a poor resolution of such a thing. One mind amongst billions in the present, billions more to come.
But then, stories simplify the world and help us comprehend it. Science fiction gives us a chance to think about the problems of the present, revealed in a context of the future. That is a part of what science fiction writers do, but in every book, they don’t do it alone. The reader is an equal part of the process, the book a conduit between the two.
I want to write stories that make people imagine things.
Prologue
History will always show NASA’s Apophis Project of 2039 to be a pivotal moment. A last great reach into the darkness by the agency. An attempt to maintain its relevancy in the face of growing opposition and an American focus towards domestic issues, rather than looking towards the stars.
The asteroid’s trajectory had been calculated accurately back in 2004. The opportunity to intercept an object that would pass within 30,000 kilometres of the Earth was too good to pass up. Despite budget cuts, NASA managed to trade on its reputation and assemble a coalition of public and private partnerships who would research, design, build and launch a mission to intercept the rock.
Looking back on the moment, there are comparisons to be drawn. The world of venture capitalism involves risk and reward. The technology required to correctly analyse the material composition of Apophis at that distance would not be invented for another twenty years. Some data was available, and it was promising, enough to convince a collection of organisations that they could make a return on their investment when the asteroid was halted, and mining operations could begin. A further probe would be sent up, scheduled to reach Apophis six days before the full mission, but the results of that analysis would arrive too late in economic terms. The money had already been spent.
On the 16th of June, when the Sutekh probe landed on the asteroid and began drilling core samples, the asteroid was 60,000 kilometres from Earth. The short delay to transmit the results was an anxious wait for both investors and scientists. When the material was found to be mostly waste regolith, with only trace metal deposits, everyone was worried, but they were already committed to the plan and convinced themselves it was just a bad location. The metals would be elsewhere, waiting to be found.
Athena II blasted off from Cape Canaveral on the 18th of June. It took three days for the crew to reach the asteroid in their extra orbital shuttle, a prototype for the Ares missions that would go to Mars in the next decade. It took another day to match velocities. A boots-on-the-ground landing was ruled out initially, owing to the asteroid’s rotation, so the capture rockets were deployed remotely and wire-guided in sequence, once the ship’s computer had a calculation to arrest the rock’s rotation and correct its orbital path. This took two weeks to complete, but by the end of that time, Apophis was relatively stationary and ready to be explored.
The results were disappointing to the investors. The asteroid’s metal content amounted to six hundred kilograms of mixed iron and copper. The rest of the three hundred and fifty square kilometres was pitted rock and dust.
The failure to ‘strike gold’ broke the trust between NASA and its private partners. From then on, the organisation struggled to command the same level of international respect. Public news media led a witch hunt into the workings of America’s premier space agency, starting a bloodletting that went to the very top and fractured the presidential administration of the time.
But the project wasn’t a failure in terms of proving what humanity could achieve. The methods were means-tested and would form the basis for an emerging new industry that would come to dominate our thoughts about space nearly one hundred years later.
Five Years Ago
“Your name please?”
“Jackson Reeve. Liability Agent for EPS Global.”
The man in front of me looks down at his portable screen. He scrolls through a list of names and eventually finds mine. Then he waits a few moments before acknowledging this. He thinks I haven’t noticed.
“Welcome, Mr Reeve. This way please.”
I follow the man through the busy restaurant. There is a table at the back, behind a partition. A woman is sitting at the table. I’ve never met her before.
“Welcome, Mr Reeve,” she says as I approach. She doesn’t get up.
“Hello,” I say, easing myself into the spare seat at the table. There is no effort made to ‘seat’ me by the attendant. I glance towards him as I sit down, but he is already turning away.
“Service around here…” I say, smiling to take the sting out of the words.
The woman doesn’t reply. She has a small screen in front of her, the kind you can drop into a pocket. As she operates it, I see her eyes move, reading, absorbing information for the task at hand. Again, there is a luxuriated pause, making me wait, ensuring that I understand my position of inferiority.
All part of the game.
“Mr Reeve. We have a task for you.”
“Sure, I guessed that.” I lean back in the chair. “Not like I get many blind date offers in places like this.”
The woman picks up the screen and holds it out to me. I reach forwards and take it.
“All the details are there,” she says.
I put the screen in my pocket. “Perhaps you should tell me what you want?” I suggest.
The woman shakes her head. “Everything you need—”
“Maybe I want to hear you say it before I agree.”
“My employer wants you to use your position to arrange a meeting with Senator Boipelo of Sierra Leone at the predetermined coordinates in the briefing. Once there, you will separate her from her security detail, following the instructions indicated. After she returns, you will conduct the meeting as before.”
I smile. “How am I supposed to get the attention of a world council senator?”
“All the material is in the—”
“Explain it in your terms.”
“We have outlined an investigation and provided you with evidence that would require you to question the senator as part of your work,” the woman explains. “The enquiry would be routine. Simply a confirmation regarding the identity of a third party. It will not attract press interest.”
“A lot of work for a few moments with the senator.”
The woman stares at me. “I’m not here to help you speculate.”
I nod and glance around. “What happens if I don’t agree to do this?” I ask.
“Again, I’m not here to help you—”
I hold up a hand, and she falls silent. “All right, I get it.”
These people know they have me by the balls. They have a data trail that tracks every petty crime I’ve committed in the name of the EPS. Each indiscretion, theft, bribe, backhander, all of it. That’s what makes me a tool to be used.
I hate being a tool.
You are trusted and have latitude, Mr Reeve. That makes you useful to us. I remember them saying that when they first made contact. I still don’t know who is behind all this. Any effort to find out always results in another meeting and a warning.
I could be on some sort of list. ‘Corrupt officials for hire.’ Yeah right.
I lean forwards and pick up the laminated menu. “What am I allowed to order?” I ask. “Anything too costly for your expense account?”
The woman stands. “Make sure yo u wait at least thirty minutes before you leave,” she says.
She turns away and walks out.
* * *
Reeve: Hey.
Savvantine: Hey.
Reeve: Can we talk? My screen says this connection is secure. What about your end?
Savvantine: Sure. Is this important?
Reeve: Could be. They made contact.
Savvantine: Okay. What do they want you to do?
Reeve: Arrange a meeting with a senator, then get her alone. I’ve already done it. I couldn’t risk reaching out before.
Savvantine: Which senator?
Reeve: Boipelo.
Savvantine: Looking…. Okay, yes, I have her. I’ll make enquiries.
Reeve: They were in there for about three minutes or so. I don’t know what happened.
Savvantine: We’ll check.
* * *
A discreet investigation revealed Senator Boipelo was subjected to an unlicensed non-invasive surgical procedure. We have managed to obtain the basic design for the device which has been implanted into her body. It uses several organic compounds to mask its signature, meaning it wouldn’t trigger a conventional security scan.
We believe the device is a receiver of some kind. It is designed to establish itself near the brain stem. We don’t know what it could be used for.
Given the circumstances, I would recommend relocating the senator. She has been compromised. If an intervention were made, it would alert the other party to our interest. Something off planet might be sufficient.
As always, Admiral, I’m available to assist should you need me to look into this any further.
Chapter One
Savvantine
I was born partially sighted.
I don’t remember much of what I could see when I was very young. They tell me I would respond to colour and to light and shade, but not detail. I didn’t reach for objects. I didn’t try to understand or navigate the world around me.
When I was three years old, they started corrective surgery. I don’t remember much of that either, only a vague memory of soreness and pain in my face. They worked on each eye individually, culturing and growing replacement organics when possible, replacing with digital implants when not.
Eyes are complicated. There’s a whole set of biological infrastructures needed to make them work. Eyes change as you grow. Organic replacements have to be monitored constantly to determine whether the body is adapting to the adopted cells. Any tech used in the process has to be removed and/or replaced as a child gets older.
For me, all of that was lived experience. I didn’t understand what I was going through. All I knew was that I spent a lot of time in hospitals and medical centres. There were bright blurs and dark voids.
Those years taught me to live with my own company. They also taught me to understand my world without using my eyes. Even now, there are instincts and sensitivities I have that others do not.
Eventually, after several surgeries, the procedure was declared a success. My ability to see measured at 20:18. My transplanted eyes are a combination of organic technology and grown replacements from cloned cells.
Some years after that, I had another procedure. A data monitoring chip installed in my skull. I was told that this was routine, designed to detect issues with the optical technology used to give me sight.
Later, that chip got upgraded into something more useful.
I am in the chair. The torn straps are knotted across my chest. I am breathing carefully, rationing my oxygen intake into calm sips. My heart beats slowly, calmly. This is a focused relaxation trance, one that I am completely aware of.
Doctor Emerson Drake is sitting next to me. I am very aware of him as well. He is not calm. His breathing is ragged and erratic.
He has been pushed too far.
I read Drake’s file when he first made contact with us. Now, I access it again, through the data store embedded in my brain. Back then, I thought he might end up being an asset, someone we would need to use to affect the situation. I needed an idea of what he might be capable of and what would break him, if the circumstances warranted it.
Medical specialists are an interesting hypocrisy. They get used to seeing blood, to dealing with all sorts of injuries. They find ways to focus on the healing, the repair. There is a positive frame around what they do. Everything is progress, hope, and help.
When you take that away, you take away the filter. You make them see their world for what it really is – an ugly, ugly place.
I know that world. It is where I live.
Lieutenant Stephen Rivers was a good officer, right up until he wasn’t. He chose the wrong side. Now he’s dead, his body floating in front of us in a cloud of his own blood, shit and urine.
I trusted Rivers. It was a calculated, but necessary, decision at the start. Later, I should have seen when he made himself indispensable to my work. I made a mistake. I do not know how many people died because of that.
It is possible my mistake caused the destruction of Phobos Station.
Drake’s file disappears. Now Rivers’s records are in front of me. I make a small amendment – Deceased. The detail will not be communicated, not unless I open a channel to the central database at Fleet Intelligence.
“Colonel, I—”
“Quiet, Doctor, please. I’m trying to think.”
Drake accepts my instruction. The calm, even delivery of words is essential in this moment. He believes I have control of the situation, that I am a source of authority in this maelstrom of events. He will accept my leadership for now. That is good. I will need that.
I sense a shift in our circumstances. Something almost imperceptible, but I have learned to trust these instincts. I open my eyes, ignore the floating corpse, and turn towards Drake.
“Doctor. We are about to be rescued. Before that happens, we need to be clear about what happened here.”
“Rivers was a traitor.”
“The motivation of Lieutenant Rivers to do what he did remains only partially understood. Until such time as it is necessary, I need you to accept the version of events I will report. Is that clear?”
Drake is no gamer. His facial twitches betray the warring thoughts within. In the moment when he acted to save my life, he found clarity. The world became simple – good and evil, right and wrong. I am taking that moment away from him, muddying the waters, making the situation more complicated.
“Doctor, this is necessary,” I urge. I lean forwards, lowering my voice, letting him in. “The events going on around us are dangerous for us personally, and for everything at risk here around Mars. We need to project stability and establish control over the situation before it becomes something we cannot control. Rivers will wait.”
Drake flinches away from my gaze, but he nods. “Okay, I guess.”
“Good.”
There is a thump from outside. The compartment moves, shifting to my right. The broken straps hold, but Rivers has no straps. His body falls away from us, crashing into the wall in another explosion of red gore.
I’m reminded of when he died. The glassy, vacant expression of absence. I’ve seen it many times. If there is an afterlife, will the ghosts of all those I have bested be waiting for me? Do they crowd the threshold of Hades, or are they confined in their own personal cages, embroiled in the punishments meted out to them for their own sins?
I can hear the hiss of pressure equalisation. The ship that has grabbed us is preparing to open the hatches. Perhaps I’ll see Captain Ravansakar again if he’s survived? An opportunity to apologise for my misstep on his bridge earlier. I hadn’t meant to take over, but the circumstances were…unusual.
Now they are even more unusual. I must maintain my poise, project security and stability. These military types are strong, but brittle. They have been forged, but not tempered. Until now.
An alarm beeps; I glance at the hatch. It slides back.
A man is standing there. I don’t recognise him.
“You folks okay?” he says and reaches out a hand. “My name’s Sam. Quartermaster Sam Chase, lately of the Khidr, now serving as part of the prize crew of the Gallowglass. They said you were from the Asthoreth? Now, if I can….” Chase’s eyes stray from mine, noticing the broken corpse of Lieutenant Rivers over my shoulder. His words are gone, forgotten, lost. His gaze returns to me. His stare is harder now, more alert.
