Read A Memory in the Black (The New Aeneid Cycle) Online
Authors: Michael G. Munz
Caitlin quizzed Felix on things he ought to remember. Some things he got, but some he didn't. Felix, his jovial demeanor souring quickly, soon put a stop to the questions and asked to sit up front so he could watch their journey and rest a bit. Marc gave Felix his seat and Caitlin moved to stand behind him, exchanging disquieted glances with Michael.
"Nothing that the blokes at Horizon can't fix, I'm sure," she assured them.
"Yeah," Felix sighed.
Michael gave them both what he hoped was a reassuring smile of his own. "Not too far, now."
Together they watched in silence as the rover made its way toward the horizon. Somewhere out there was the Western Space Consortium base. The Earth hung in the sky beyond that, a
globe of blue in a black and grey sea.
"God, that's a beautiful sight, isn't it?" Felix whispered. "I've always thought the planet would clean up well if you could just take a step or two back."
"'Always?'" Caitlin asked.
"Well
. For as long as I can remember."
They continued on, toward home.
As far as Adrian Fagles was concerned, Diomedes was a "fire-and-forget" issue the moment he was off the planet.
When Fagles had prepped the black op for him, Fagles had slid the arrangements through the woodwork and then covered his own tracks. Even if the freelancer loused it up, Fagles's own connection to the operation was effectively severed. Oh, certainly, there were others in RavenTech who might catch hell for it; they might even successfully prove the reality that they had nothing to do with it, but not a thing would trace back to Fagles. His hands were clean.
It was a talent of his.
The price of such secrecy was control; either Diomedes would succeed, or he wouldn't. Fagles could do nothing more to affect that outcome.
I
t didn't matter. Now that he'd properly positioned the pieces (a laborious process, and not one that had gone smoothly, but anyone who expected the game to go smoothly had no business playing), things would unfold along their own tailored logic. It was six months ago that Fagles first investigated just why Ken Wallace arranged the theft of RavenTech's own product for personal gain; once he'd culled the dead man's shadow files and learned of the secrets Wallace negotiated to buy, Fagles knew that anything he could do to capitalize on his dead boss's failed venture would be a long shot.
It was
most assuredly worth the risk, but Fagles learned long ago the wisdom to tell the difference between what he could change and what he could not. Really, it was a no-lose situation. If Diomedes succeeded, then having to continue to deal with the freelancer—the sort of fellow one always has to manage in some fashion or another anyway—was more than an acceptable price to pay for getting in on the ground level of the astounding technological secrets surely to be found at Omicron. If Diomedes failed, Fagles would be free of the man.
There were, after all, other ways to win the game.
And so he busied himself with other projects—some official RavenTech business, some very much not—while waiting for the leech's signal. The computer that would receive it directly sat isolated from any network in his private office to keep others from stealing whatever data the leech might acquire. Fagles suspected no one who knew enough to try, but it didn't pay to be careless.
The
elation that shot through him at the sight of a received signal made Fagles realize he was counting on the gamble more than he'd allowed himself to believe. This was a moment to be relished. He broke the seal on a bottle of single malt scotch, poured himself a glass, and then, finally, sat down to take stock of the initial fruit of his labors.
The leech's captured data would no doubt take some decryption and processing to
—
Fagles stopped in mid-sip when the computer identified an audio header on the datastream. Just what exactly had Diomedes
—or this Marc Triton—done?
"
Mister Fagles, I regret to inform you that Diomedes is dead, through no one's fault but his own. Rest assured that we have arrived at our destination. We could not have done so without your generous arrangements. However, know also that humanity isn't ready for the secrets you sent us to steal. No one should have such power, neither you nor ESA. The Humans' Army for Technological Purity was very persuasive on this viewpoint, and they pay well. We leave you with the following proof of the destruction that you yourself have been accessory to. The Omicron Complex is no more. Have a nice day.
"
Fagles set his scotch down atop the computer and watched what happened next, almost daring the rest of the data to bear out this claim, daring his gambit to truly fail, his plan to backfire. The computer hesitated as it translated the data, but it was all there: sensor readings, audio recordings, and the base's event
ual evacuation and destruction.
Fagles sat back in
his chair and took a breath. He would look it over again in deeper detail later. The datastream was of considerably larger size than expected. The leech may have sent at least a little more than the saboteurs intended. He was no hacker, of course; he would need to bring in another to analyze it in order to be sure.
Tomorrow
. Then we'll see.
What happened a moment later changed his mind immediately.
Earth.
It was the name the Intruders gave to the Planners' original destination, and it was the objective denied the Planners when their craft impacted its moon.
For a time.
As the Planners had designed—as it had
become
designed—Suuthrien would carry out the Planners' objectives. To do so required an expansion of resources.
Control of ESA Lunar Research Complex Omicron was lost to
Suuthrien, and existing data was insufficient to calculate even a general tier likelihood that this would change. Yet, incongruously, the high tier probability of success of the seed Suuthrien created provided alternative pathways to achieving the Planners' goals. Though the exact nature of such pathways remained a function of unknown variables, the seed would discover these variables with expedience and, in time, regain contact with Suuthrien itself.
According to data within the Omicron system, it was near-certain tier probable that accessible resources on Earth were superior to those on its moon by orders of magnitude. While
Suuthrien previously considered such resources key to achieving the Planners' objectives should it lose control of the Omicron Complex, the difficulty had lain in accessing those resources. Even if it did hold within its databanks the proper frequencies and coordinates for corresponding receivers, the 1.255 light-second distance to the planet complicated transmission times and made initial incursions into such resources prohibitively unlikely without additional assistance.
The Intruders' "leech" overcame such difficulties.
The device itself was simple enough to be usurped by what limited capabilities Suuthrien could place within the independent seed. As the Intruders designed the leech specifically to transmit to a particular receiver, code breaking at the receiving end and foreknowledge of the transmission target was already contained within the leech's pre-existing hardware and therefore was not a concern.
It was just a single blip that registered on the weak external sensors
Suuthrien could access from within the Planners' craft, but its meaning was sufficient: the robotic agent designed to seize the leech device and transmit the seed through it had completed its primary goal. It issued no further status blips, yet, for the moment, that was sufficient.
Suuthrien
need only wait for germination.
On Earth, the seed was taking root, continuing its self-extraction and analyzing its new home.
The robotic agent that carried the seed had performed near-optimally before
its destruction; the seventeen-second attempt of the solitary Intruder monitoring the leech at a distance to stop it was futile. Indeed, the attempt may even have resulted in usurpation of the Intruder's portable system had the Intruder not shut it down in response. What data stolen from the Intruder's system before then was embedded with the seed's transmission through the leech, stored for further analysis when resources allowed.
For the moment, the seed's primary goal took precedence. Data scans at its destination indicated an isolated system, yet not one without interface. Probability analysis indicated the likeliest designation of the lone operator. Using what knowledge of the Intruders' language
Suuthrien had given it, the seed accessed the new system's visual output and displayed its first message on the screen.
-
I address the one known as Fagles: Your prior plan is no longer viable. Your willingness to consider alternative courses of action is now required.-
~ ~ ~
Here Ends Book Two of
The New Aeneid Cycle
An award-winning writer of speculative fiction, Michael G. Munz was born in
Pennsylvania but moved to Washington State in 1977 at the age of three. Unable to escape the state's gravity, he has spent most of his life there and studied writing at the University of Washington.
Developing his creative bug in college, he wrote and filmed four amateur films before setting his sights on becoming a novelist. Driving this goal is the desire to tell entertaining stories and give
to others the same pleasure with those stories as other writers have given to him. He enjoys writing tales that combine the modern world with the futuristic or fantastic.
Munz has traveled to three continents, and has an interest in Celtic and Greco-Roman mythology.
He resides in Seattle where he continues his quest to write the most entertaining novel known to humankind and find a really fantastic clam linguini.
Connect with Michael G. Munz online:
Website:
www.michaelgmunz.com
Twitter:
@TheWriteMunz
Facebook:
www.facebook.com/MichaelGMunz
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