Pain Bringer (The Constant War Book 2), page 17
“Yet, Dr. Scott’s did?”
“It’s a theory.”
“From an orbiting corpse thousands of quads away?”
“It’s a working theory,” she said coldly.
Rousseau grimaced. Marcia had been listening intently about the new discovery. The prospect of new life was a personal, as well as professional, curiosity of hers.
But her interests weren’t exactly diplomatic.
She loved cutting open new life.
Seeing how it worked. All the gruesome ins and outs.
Rousseau didn’t appreciate her more ghoulish nature—a nature masked behind a stern, clinical facade. It was the grisly details of biology that thrilled her. She had devoted her life to the sciences, to the mecha programs and prototype trials, to overseeing the meshing of flesh and mechanical—perhaps in the hopes of forging something new in the process.
Her position on Heaven’s Council also gave her front row seats to explore the alien biology of the Sindarhe.
It was those particular interests that made Rousseau nervous about her involvement.
There was still so much they didn’t know about the alien race that had been attacking them through rifts and tears in spacetime for decades. Only in recent months, since the squiddies pulled their living, breathing deity through a portal, had humanity discovered the dimorphism of the species. And humanity’s quick extermination of the intrusion hadn’t left Marcia much time to pursue those scientific curiosities. But now…
“What are we talking about here?” Having been left out of the conversation for more than two seconds, Grey yanked the spotlight back onto himself. “Life on Earth? That—that’s inconceivable.” He glanced around the room for validation. “Right?”
Reynold slammed a fist on the table. He wasn’t particularly upset. However, unlike Grey, when Reynold wanted attention, he commanded it. A fist did the trick. The other ten council members perked at the disruption.
“We should send a team down to the surface to investigate immediately.”
Stiffly, Marcia nodded. That passed as exuberance for her. “There is no telling what’s down there,” she replied, seeming indifferent and uninterested, but Rousseau knew better. “It would be of great scientific and biological value to research and study this new budding life up close and personal.”
“I’ll bet,” said Rousseau.
“You don’t agree, Admiral?”
“I don’t know why I’m always the dissenting voice. I am glad there’s sudden interest in this new discovery, but what about the original engineering team? They’re still missing.”
“Not to worry. Operation: Castor is on schedule,” said Reynold. “My engineers are firing up the last engine as we speak. You saw to that yourself. And don’t think I didn’t appreciate it. But Corman’s crew can watch over operations from orbit and take care of anything that should arise.”
“Like mysteriously disappearing?”
“It’s not just two engineers out there this time. We have four teams. There’s no reason we can’t send people down to Earth to explore these new findings.”
“What if something happens and we’ve diverted our resources to the planet’s surface? Are we going to risk letting Sindarhe slam into Earth and obliterate life as we know it?”
“Yes, all very frightening, I’m sure,” said Reynold dismissively. “But we have no idea what happened to those men.”
“Exactly my point.”
“Come now, Admiral. Being scared of your own shadow doesn’t suit you.”
Rousseau didn’t appreciate the potshot from the entrepreneur that excelled at operating in the shadows. He rocked back in his chair and pointed at Marcia. “I get why she wants to go down there. She’s a ghoul—”
“Hey!” Marcia’s hands went to her chest. She looked appalled, but it was a practiced reaction from having heard the accusation many times before.
“—but what’s in it for you?”Reynold took a measured pause and steepled his fingers, nodding at the Fleet Admiral. “Why, everything of course.”
“Cute. It wouldn’t have anything to do with being the first down there to stake a claim on resources.”
“There is that.” Reynold blossomed with a Cheshire cat grin. “But believe it or not, I’m not all business. Like so many others, I’d like to get back down there to Earth. Call it my home one day. Hopefully, that happens within my lifetime.”
“So that’s it?” Rousseau turned to Grey. “Reynold wants to send a team to Earth, while we have missing engineers and a foreign object on a collision course with Earth, and we’re going to go sightseeing down on the surface?”
Grey stared blankly.
In times like these, Rousseau missed having General Havok at the table. He always knew how to balance opinions. And then ignore them to get things done.
“Chancellor President”—Rousseau rapped the table in front of him—“are we sending valuable resources, resources that we need on Sindarhe down to Earth?”
Grey looked to Reynold for approval. Of course he did. The man couldn’t make a decision to save his life. And in this case, it was the collective lives of humanity.
After a prolonged moment, he glanced at Marcia. Underneath her prim and proper demeanor, she was champing at the bit to visit Earth—for scientific reasons, of course.
Grey shuffled his gaze to Einhorn.
The wiry man tapped the side of his nose, deep in thought. When he realized all eyes were on him, he broke the silence. “Yes. Yes, it is an interesting dilemma.”
Grey mustered a meager sound. “Do—do we have a scientific consensus? Should we send teams down to Earth?”
Everyone stared at Einhorn. It took him several beats longer than everyone else to realize they were waiting for him.
“For starters,” said Einhorn, “that’s not my field of expertise. I’m a mechanical engineer. I run the robotics and weapons programs. I fail to see why you would give my opinion more credence as to the merits of breaching Earth’s surface than anyone else.”
“Well, you’re a scientist,” said Grey. His mouth hung open.
It was a good look on him.
Stupid.
He wore it well.
Einhorn leaned back in his chair. “I appreciate the blind faith in my abilities, but it’s preposterous that you’d value my opinion over anyone else’s. I specialize in mechanical engineering and quantum entanglements. What would I know about the molecular biological makeup of anything, let alone what’s going down on that planet?”
“Well, I just thought…” stammered Grey. He glanced around the table, looking for someone to bail him out. Not a single person made an effort. Nor wanted to.
“Dr. Black is more than qualified to make such a decision,” said Einhorn. “Why aren’t you asking her?”
Grey glanced at Marcia. A slight smirk edged the corner of her mouth. “Well, I—for a second opinion, maybe—”
“Nonsense,” said Einhorn. “If she says it’s safe to go down there, then I’d take her word for it. I don’t know what I could possibly add that would make one iota of difference. Furthermore, I do not have the slightest desire to visit that over-sized death trap.”
“Not even scientific curiosity?” Grey feebly suggested.
“Scientific curiosity, my left foot. My science is up here. What do I care about the contents of a toxic waste dump or digging through the remains of a culture bent on idolizing the superstitious. Not only is the future up here on Heaven, but all my stuff is too.”
Rousseau stifled a chuckle, quickly transforming the exhalation into a cough. Marcia wasn’t fooled, but she was enjoying the exchange far too much to call him out.
“But…” muttered Grey. “You’re the scientist.”
“A scientist. And so is Dr. Black.”
“That settles it,” said Reynold. “I can have my team on the surface as early as tomorrow morning.”
Rousseau straightened. Any residual humor from Grey’s blubbering was sucked from the room. “Before we go making any rash decisions, are we going to consider the timing of these events?”
“Timing?” asked Grey, looking like a lost puppy.
“Life. On Earth,” said Rousseau. “And the missing engineers. Remember them? The discovery of life on Earth coinciding with their disappearance can’t be a coincidence.”
“It could be,” said Einhorn. “Statistically, speaking. In fact, more likely coincidence than not.”
“What do you care?” Rousseau fumed. “You’re not even interested in going down to the planet?”
“I am just saying, there is no reason to think they’re linked.”
“The timing is a reason.” Rousseau regretted his intonation the second the words left his lips. He stretched out the words, voice going up at the end, sounding like an entitled school girl.
Einhorn didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He had enough trouble dealing with and trying to understand Char, let alone Heaven’s Fleet Admiral sounding all-too similar to the teenager.
“You think they’re related?” For the first time since the meeting began, Reynold shifted from his casual position, leaned over the table, and folded his arms in front of him. “Is there any evidence for this?”
“Don’t you think it’s odd that we find life on Earth the second the engineers responsible for preventing Earth from being demo’d by a giant space squid go missing?”
“That wasn’t my question. Do. You. Think. They’re. Related?”
“Of course they’re related.”
Reynold squinted at Rousseau. “It’s not that I’m doubting you—”
“Sure, you’re not.”
Reynold leaned back, once again getting comfortable. His hand drifted to his chin, and he rested his head on it. “I do find the notion that the two events, life on Earth and the disappearance of the two engineers on Sindarhe, being linked somewhat intriguing. But it seems a bit of a stretch, even for me, who likes to partake in wild fantasy—I mean, we’re mining an asteroid belt for materials—and making a killing. I’d like to think veering off into fantasy can be extremely profitable, so I tend to indulge in the outlandish. Our more scientific friends here, they might be a little more hamstrung by observable data. Rest assured, when I take the time to listen to a seemingly bizarre inquiry, I am doing so because I find some merit to the idea. I would not waste my time otherwise.”
What a pretentious windbag, thought Rousseau.
Reynold placed a hand on top of Rousseau’s in a rather intimate manner—a powerplay intruding upon his personal space. “Is there any reason, any evidence that suggests these two events are related, other than a happenstance of unusual timing?”
Rousseau’s enthusiasm dissipated. The connection between the events was a gut feeling, a notion. He had no proof and Reynold knew that. Reynold took the appearances of a neutral stance, knowing that when it came right down to it, he would get his way. Rousseau had nothing to go on other than a hunch.
“No,” Rousseau said dejectedly. “There is no evidence.”
“Right. Well, that being the case, I don’t see why we’re waiting.” He turned to the President Chancellor. “On Grey’s authority and say-so, of course.”
Grey perked at being included, surveyed the ten members of Heaven’s Council, and sheepishly nodded.
Chapter Nineteen
Half a dozen mecha were stuffed into a reclamation net, free-floating in vacuum. The H.S.S. CARMEN, the sister frigate to the H.S.S. ASHLEY, dragged it through space on a long tether. Bent frames, rubberized tubes, and oil-soaked wires poked through the netting. Among the half dozen broken Tigerclaws was a mecha unlike the others.
Its smooth plastic sheen caught starlight. Lanky metal limbs twisted between the smaller squarish mecha.
The Painbringer.
Wilkins had watched the Marines round up the damaged vehicles and secure them. He didn’t give much thought to his own Tigerclaw. He would be assigned another once they returned to Heaven.
But Char hadn’t taken the damage to her mecha so lightly.
Her face was pressed against the portside glass. She glared at the reclamation net. Or more specifically, at the Painbringer strangled in its center.
Wilkins shifted on hard plastic, trying to get comfortable. Normally, the science frigate’s bridge didn’t accommodate so many passengers, but now all the bridge chairs were filled with Marines. The unlucky ones were pressed up against the rear bulkhead. Wilkins and Char, unluckiest of the bunch, were crammed into the back row, but Wilkins paid no mind.
They were heading home.
Sindarhe was behind them.
As was the H.S.S. ASHLEY. The platoon left her in Sindarhe’s orbit with Corman and his crew, a couple dozen engineers and workmen, and the remaining Marines with operable mecha to keep the launch on schedule.
Char was practically on the portside glass, her gaze affixed to the Painbringer. Wilkins put a hand on her shoulder. “You doing okay?”
It took Char a few seconds to register his voice. “Huh, what?”
“You comfortable?”
She glanced around the bridge, as if the environment were foreign to her, and returned her gaze portside. “Yeah. Fine.”
“You sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure.”
“You don’t look comfortable to me.”
“Speak for yourself, big man.”
Wilkins grumbled, stiffly pivoting in the cramped confines. “I’m fine.”
“Exactly.” Char pressed harder into the glass, her lips leaving a mark.
They passed the time in silence, until they felt the forward thrusters fire, readying the frigate for final approach.
Char took her eyes off the Painbringer momentarily, as Heaven came into view. They caught a brief glimpse of hangar 4’s doors parting, as the frigate pivoted, allowing the reclamation nets to drift past.
A squat troller rig moved to the edge of the hangar door. Its telescoping arm snagged the reclamation net and began reeling it in. A lander rolled out, partially extending through Heaven’s shimmering plasma barrier. Despite the coordinated ballet of automated vehicles, when the net breached the barrier, the Tigerclaws hit the lander with a thud, echoing through the hangar as the weight of the damaged machines settled.
The troller winch whined, securing the reclamation net to the lander’s flatbed. A compressor roared to life, and the lander carted the load into the hangar and out of sight.
Char snapped up from the window. If Wilkins didn’t know better, he’d think she was panicked. She jumped at the sound of air hissing through the cargo bay airlock. The ramp lowered. Before Wilkins could crack wise at her sudden reaction, Char sprang from her cramped position and climbed over him, paying no mind to the not-so-comfortable places her flailing arms and legs landed as she crawled over him.
“Hey! Watch it! You could ask me to move, ya know?”
“I could,” Char shouted over her shoulder. She cut off a handful of Marines, shoving one into a wall of hanging pressure suits, and sprinted down the still-lowering ramp.
Wilkins shook his head, unbuckled himself, and stood. He moved into the cargo bay, queuing with the other Marines lining up for deployment. The frigate was still hovering a couple meters off the ground. Through a sliver between the launch ramp and the open door, he saw landing operators waving orange wands, aiding the frigate, as its stern spun toward the landing zone. It lurched as it made contact with the landing locks. Loud, incessant beeps were followed by an even louder clank of the locks engaging.
They had landed.
And outside the open cargo bay doors, Char was already halfway across the tarmac.
“That girl,” muttered Wilkins.
He filed out with the other Marines, not looking forward to debriefing. Mostly, because it was his job to debrief the platoon. He caught sight of Admiral Rousseau marching across the hangar. He felt a false sense of relief for the briefest of seconds, when he thought maybe, just maybe, the Fleet Admiral would give the debriefing.
But he quickly realized Rousseau had other plans.
He was here for him.
Before Wilkins could think of hiding, Rousseau made eye contact.
Good gravy.
He was sure the Admiral could sense his demeanor by simply looking at him, despite years of training masking his inner thoughts and emotions, a learned discipline that told him he was better off keeping such toxic thoughts to himself. But he said it out loud anyway.
“What is it this time?” asked Wilkins.
“What makes you think I have anything for you?”
“You never talk to me unless it’s something that’s potentially deadly.”
“Funny you should mention that.”
“I wouldn’t call it funny, exactly.”
“We’re sending a team down to the surface.”
“The surface?”
Rousseau nodded. “Earth.”
“Of course, you are. Cuz, it’s been what, half a century since someone last set foot down there?”
“Fifty-seven years.”
“And for good reason too. So why now?”
“I think you know why. It’s your discovery after all.”
“Sorry, I wasn’t being clear. I meant—why me? Surely, the council didn’t single me out for this assignment. This has the earmarks of a Rousseau special.”
“Because you’re the best, of course.”
Wilkins snorted. “You know that isn’t the slightest bit true. Heck, I’m not even in Heaven’s top ten. And we both know you’ve been actively sidelining the best. She’s none too happy about it neither. So why don’t you cut the cheese and bologna?”
Rousseau chewed on the corner of his mouth. “I don’t trust Reynold Morgan or anyone he sends down to Earth. Or anywhere, for that matter.”
“So it’s a babysitting gig?”
“You didn’t hear that from me.”
“Of course not.”
“I’ve arranged for you to accompany Dr. Scott to the surface.”
“Isn’t he one of Reynold’s guys? If you don’t trust Reynold, why are you allowing him to go to the surface?”
Rousseau didn’t say a word.
“Right,” said Wilkins. “You have no choice in the matter. That’s why you’ve made sure I’m accompanying him. Easier to keep tabs on him that way.”
