The Swarm (32 page)

Lem didn't respond.

“I'm on that watch list, too, of course,” Father said. “I have to keep my mouth shut as much as anyone. Which is why having you poke around is a threat to my well-being as much as it is to yours.”

“So the IF
is
a military dictatorship.” Lem said.

“Don't be foolish, Lem. Do you see them governing? Are they passing laws, patrolling the streets of Old Town? Their job is to protect Earth from annihilation. That is their singular mission. If people like Serge obstruct that mission, then they'll take action.”

“Why go to such lengths to keep the ansible a secret? It's a communications device.”

“It's the ultimate communications device, Lem. You can't hack it or tap it. It operates between paired particles. If you don't have the matching set of particles, you cannot hear the message. There are no light beams or wavelengths in the air to intercept. The message magically goes from one ansible to the mate ansible. If terrorists were to have that tech, we couldn't track their communications. They would be invisible to us. The possibility of revolution and subversion is suddenly out of control. They would always hit us unawares. So for the sheer ability of continuing to govern Earth, the Hegemony insists that this be a closely guarded secret.”

“In other words, if people have ansibles you can't spy on them and record every word they say to make sure it doesn't offend your ideologies.”

Father rolled his eyes. “Please, Lem. Your moral high ground is built upon a pile of pretentious naiveté. Read the news. There are people in the world who are more monstrous than the Formics. They want nothing more than to slit your throat and blow you to itty bloody bits. Why? Because you don't pray like they do, or vote like they do, or raise your children like they do. And you're going to prosecute me for keeping my eye on them? What would you prefer? That I put weapons in their hands? No. I will not let this technology loose on Earth and give our enemies the tool they need to destroy us. Despite what you may think, Lem, I actually give a damn about the people of Earth.”

Lem didn't respond.

“So don't preach to me, son. Especially when you don't understand your own sermons.”

Lem said nothing for a long moment. “All right. So now what?”

“Now you remain absolutely silent on the subject of the ansible and prove to the Hegemony and the International Fleet that you can be a good little obedient citizen. And I assure you someone will be listening.”

“And Serge?” Lem asked. “How are you going to explain to the world his sudden disappearance?”

“We won't have to. He'll do it for us. Moved by the recent discovery of Formics in our system, he was overcome with a sense of duty and obligation to defend his friends and loved ones. He'll make a vid, give a speech, talk about enlisting. It will be very convincing. After a few takes and some coaching from the IF, he'll probably believe it himself. His dear mother will shed a few tears, she'll be so proud. The IF may even use the vid with their recruitment materials. A man touched with nobility can be an inspiring sight to see. Who knows? He might convince a few others to take the blue.”

Father gave the warehouse a final disapproving look. “Don't skulk in the shadows anymore, Lem. You're a Jukes. How can the people adore us if we don't make ourselves seen?”

Father turned and moved for the exit.

Lem called after him. “Would they have arrested me, Father? Or drafted me, whatever you want to call it?”

Father turned back.

“If I weren't your son,” said Lem, “if you weren't my father, would they have taken me with them?”

“You get one strike, Lem. Don't mess up again.”

Then he left Lem there with the dust and graffiti.

 

CHAPTER 15

Vultures

The boom in the space economy leading up to the Second Formic War was both the cause and the result of a large increase in commercial traffic throughout the solar system. According to the Office of the Hegemony, the number of cargo ships registered in the three years immediately following the First Formic War was more than four times the number of cargo vessels in operation prior to that time. Corporations like Juke Limited, Galaxy Defense, and Lockson & Meade all built shipyards in the Belt that required a steady stream of raw materials, workers, and life-sustaining supplies, all of which had to be drawn from remote Kuiper Belt sources since anything closer in was required for building warships.

The effect was a windfall for the most remote free miners, which meant that they, too, had the money to buy long-needed or wanted equipment—up to and including new ships, so that one-ship families now had small fleets of two, three, or four ships. And of course there were the newly constructed ships of the Fleet, constantly training and running maneuvers as soon as they were built while patrols forced other vessels to detour around the war games regions, making the solar system a beehive of activity.

The rise in piracy during this era should not be surprising, considering the number of ships loaded with high-value, high-demand cargo moving back and forth between near-Earth space and the Kuiper Belt. They were ripe for the picking. Cargo vessels were generally poorly armed and ill equipped to handle an attack, and raids and seizures along the most isolated routes were common. The practice of cargo grouping became commonplace, wherein several ships would band together and fly their routes in close formation to discourage an attack, but some argued that convoys without military escort simply made for a more attractive target.

Many pirates were relatively civil in their behavior, leaving sufficient food for the attacked crew and inflicting no bodily harm. The same cannot be said for a particularly violent class of thieves and butchers known as vultures.

—Demosthenes,
A History of the Formic Wars,
Vol. 3

The mining ship was so small and pathetic and ill equipped that Khalid considered it a waste of time. He stood at the helm of his own ship, the Shimbir, staring at the image of the mining ship in the holofield, considering his options. He had traveled to this sector of the Kuiper Belt because he and his crew had heard chatter of an expensive A-class digger anchored to the asteroid here. A ship that could bring coin. A ship Khalid could strip down and sell piece by piece on the black market. A ship worth his trouble. But this ship in the holofield, this boxy, outdated, jury-rigged piece of
digada
, was about as far from an A-class digger as any ship could get.

“How far out are we?” Khalid asked.

Gut, the navigator, checked the readout. “Two hours, fifty-seven minutes.”

They were practically on top of the ship. It seemed a shame to come all this way and to turn back now, empty-handed. And yet, if they attacked, they'd be taking a risk for … what? A few packs of noodles and some dated, worthless mining equipment? Khalid scratched at the stubble on his cheek. His crew was watching him, surrounding him at the helm, fifteen strong, armed and ready, awaiting his decision. Most of them were already high on juice, their eyes red and hungry, their faces bathed in the bluish light of the holofield. If Khalid canceled the raid now, none of them would complain. They could all see that there was little to gain here. But they would also see this whole trip as a mistake for which Khalid was solely responsible. A monumental waste of time and supplies and fuel. They may not do anything mutinous immediately, but the seed of mutiny would be planted in their hearts. Then, months from now, the whispering would start, followed by plotting, and before Khalid knew it, he would wake to find his throat slit open, filling his chambers with floating globules of blood.

No, calling off the raid was not an option. The trick was turning lead into gold, as the saying used to go—before harvested gold from asteroids became so plentiful that it devalued drastically in the market. That was what his crew lacked, Khalid knew. Wisdom. A sense of history. Intellect. They were not unintelligent, for Khalid had no tolerance for stupidity, but there was no depth to their reason, either. They were literate in the sense that they could read, but illiterate in the sense that they cared not at all for books or learning or expanding their minds. Conversations with the crew were painfully dull and uninspiring. There were exceptions, of course. Maja had a head on her shoulders, which is how she had survived among a crew of men for so long. Her dagger, the Silver Lady, had also helped in that regard.

Khalid reached into the holofield and spread his hands apart, zooming in on the pitiful ship. Now he could see detail, including the ship's name painted on its hull and the laser drill crudely mounted on its side. Magnified the ship looked even worse. Even the asteroid it was anchored to looked pitiful by association.

Khalid cursed under his breath. A month of travel for this. The fuel he had used to get here and the fuel he would expend returning to his original route would be wasted. He would find nothing inside that ship of any value. Trinkets maybe, but nothing to recoup the expense of coming here.

He turned to his crew, gesturing to the ship, appearing cheerful. “Well? There she is, in all her glory. Do we take her or not?”

A few members of the crew exchanged glances, afraid to speak first.

Ibrahim, Khalid's younger brother, scoffed. “She's barely worth the trouble, brother. Look at that drill. It's a relic. We'd get nothing for it. I wouldn't bother loading it in the bay. It's junk. And I doubt there's anything of value inside. These people are space rats. What's that language on the side? Russian? I hate Russians.”

“I doubt they're Russian,” said Maja. “The ship may have had a Russian crew once, but it's passed hands many times now. No telling who's inside it.”

Maja was probably right, thought Khalid. There could be anyone inside. “Whoever they are,” he said, “they won't put up much of a fight.”

“But why go to the trouble?” said Ibrahim. “What are we going to get there? Some dirty old clothes? A few cans of meat? That's not game, brother. We're more likely to get a disease from these people than anything of value.”

Some of the crewmen exchanged glances. They had seen diseases before. Fevers, blisters, viruses of the chest. They had lost a few of their own to such illnesses. Now the crew seemed wary.

Stupid, Ibrahim, thought Khalid. If you would just keep your mouth shut like I have ordered you again and again and again. Now, if I pull out, some will think me cowardly.

Maja must have sensed Khalid's frustration, for she spoke on his behalf. “You talk too much, Ibrahim. Just because you're afraid of a few decrepit old ladies, doesn't mean we should call it off.”

This earned a few laughs from the men, and a glare from Ibrahim, but it had achieved what Khalid needed. “My young brother is wise to be cautious. But one man's junk is another man's treasure. The contents of that ship are worthless, true. But the ship itself might win us a fortune.”

Ibrahim had the audacity to laugh at that. “I have never doubted you, brother.” He pointed to the holo. “But how can you possibly turn that into a single credit?”

Khalid forced a smile, though in truth he preferred to pinch his brother's nose until it bled. “You ask good questions, little brother.”

Ibrahim glared again. He hated being called that, to be disrespected in front of the men. Careful, Khalid thought, or it will be Ibrahim's knife that finds your throat. Khalid laughed and threw an arm around Ibrahim's shoulder. “You look at that ship and see a bucket of bolts. I look at that ship, and I see something much grander. Much stronger. Much more valuable. For that ship, dear brother, is not the fish, but the worm.”

The men exchanged glances again, and Khalid almost rolled his eyes at their lack of vision. How could they be so simpleminded? So vacant? A plan had formed in his mind now, and no one but him had the mental capacity for it. Even Maja looked slightly confused.

Khalid turned back to his navigator. “Gut, are there any other ships nearby? I'm curious.”

Gut tapped at his terminal. “There's an IF assault ship a month away.”

“An IF assault ship, you say?” said Khalid, smiling now. “One of the newer models, if I'm not mistaken, am I right, Gut? The LX-40?”

Gut checked the screen again. “Looks that way.”

“The LX-40,” said Khalid, saying the word with a little bit of theater, as if it were a thing of wonder, as if he were not stating its name, but its value. “Now there's a prize, my brothers.”

The simpletons looked at one another again. Only Ibrahim was brave enough to speak. “What are you suggesting, brother, that we take on an LX-40? That would be suicide.”

Khalid smiled. Because his plan was fully formed now. A risky plan, yes. Some might even call it foolish. But it was a plan that turned lead into gold, a plan that would silence anyone who questioned him, a plan that would attach fear to his name, or respect, or awe.

“I'll explain later, my brothers. But first let us go down and take this tin can. We did not come all this way for nothing.”

The men didn't object. They were curious to see what they might find.

Khalid's ship, the Shimbir, a salvage vessel painted a nonreflective black, drifted toward the asteroid on the far side, opposite the mining ship, with all of its lights extinguished. Then Khalid sent out a spy probe and waited for the crew of the mining ship to shut down the drill and kill some of their external lights, suggesting that they were preparing for sleep shift. Khalid then waited three hours to make sure the miners were asleep before beginning his attack. It was easier than Khalid thought it would be. The crew inside the mining ship were not Russians. They spoke Portuguese. Brazilians probably. There were only three of them. One of them was even missing an arm. Khalid thought them rather pathetic. Hardly worth the trouble at all.