The Red Queen (2 page)

“Someone in this family should learn the truth.”

The truth. Contained in the Book of Makori. All Maesters who worked their way up to the rank of Elite Maesters learned the sacred truths of Oras. Punishable by death if revealed to a non-member. He might not be able to stop the Crawlers, but he could at least find out why they were here. And maybe one day he could give his son the answer.

* * *

“If you’re going to bullshit with me, at least make it quality entertainment.”

Lieutenant Maxforth’s response to Zubren’s resignation attempt came as no surprise.

“Sir, I’ll ask that you watch your mouth in front of my family.”

Maxforth glanced at Elaine and frowned. A spoonful of oatmeal hovered in the air between her and Asher’s stool.

“Sorry about that. Force of habit. Maybe we should go outside.”

So I can lose my advantage over you? My family. No thanks.

Zubren held up the bolt carrier of his M-16 rifle, as an ancient document called it, in his gloved hand and gestured to the disassembled pieces laid across his kitchen table.

“You have to clean that right now?” Maxforth muttered.

“You realize how old this is? I have to clean my collection at least once a month or the dust attracts moisture.”

Maxforth snorted, grabbed a spare napkin, removed his watch, and began wiping it down. “Fine, if you're doing that, then I'm cleaning this. It's
twenty-five
years old.”

They sat there shining up their respective antiques in silence. Then Maxforth leaned over the table and whispered, “The Maester Guild is not a place for a Fleet Services pilot. It’s boring, pays bad, and since when have you ever accepted their teachings?”

Zubren winced. His lieutenant knew exactly how to phrase the question so that any response would either seem artificial or just plain illogical.

He pulled up a brush and swept it over the M-16’s right handguard. At a trickle of dirt, he grimaced. Doubtless, dirt from one of his wife’s excavations. “Honey, I think this might be one of yours.”

“Sorry about that.” Elaine came over and slipped the brush into her back pocket.

“You know, sir, maybe you’d like to hear my wife’s report on her dig at Site G. Elaine?”

Zubren winked to her.

Maxforth hesitated. “Normally, as I signed the papers to fund it, yes. But not right now.”

“That’s a shame. I’ve found some really interesting artifacts,” Elaine said. “I may even have a new gun for my husband’s collection.”

“That’ll have to pass through Fleet Services’ archival check-in first,” Maxforth said quietly. Then he beamed a smile at her. “While you’re at it though, enlighten me on why Zubren thinks he wants to be a Maester.”

Elaine froze. “Well, we've been watching their seminars now that we've got Asher and we thought it might be a better influence for him if Zubren joined the Maester Guild.”

“Yes, maybe Asher will grow up to be a peace negotiator with the Crawlers?” Maxforth laughed. Neither Zubren nor Elaine gave the slightest grin.

Sensing his little joke had been off the mark, Maxforth fastened his watch back onto his wrist. “If I may offer a piece of advice based on my own experience? The best thing you can do for your kids nowadays is give them a good roof over their heads. You never know when the economy will crash again.” He gazed up at the kitchen’s high ceiling and the expensive paintings that hung in their large living room. “Considering that I’ve written a few of your checks over the years, I don’t think life as a Maester would cover this.”

Zubren bit his lip. “I've gone through Basic. I know how to downsize,” he said, trying not to betray any resentment.

Maxforth pointed to the disassembled M-16. “I delved into gun collecting once. Very hard to give up. Especially when you do it voluntarily.”

“And say I wanted to keep up this gun collection?”

Admiring his watch’s new shine, Maxforth grinned infectiously. “Well, then you’d have to ask your wife to write up a stipend request. On paper, it would fund one of her excavations. In practice, the stipend would cover both your needs.”

The foreboding in his voice didn't bother Zubren as much as his apparent willingness to bribe him. He’d always held Maxforth in high regard, but maybe he’d been wrong to.
A good lieutenant factored his men’s emotional well-being into completing an objective. But Maxforth had come here prioritizing his own agenda. Zubren knew that now.

The possible reasons swirled in his head.
Maybe he needs me. Maybe if I know the truth as a Maester I’ll become a threat to him somehow.
Whatever the reality, Maxforth clearly had his mind set. Refusal would only entice him into more aggressive forms of persuasion.

“I guess it was just a pipe dream,” Zubren shrugged. “We’ll write up a stipend request and send it over.”

He stood up and extended a hand to end any ill feelings between them. “Now if you’ll excuse me, the next process of cleaning requires my full concentration.”

“I’m well aware,” Maxforth said, a gleam of hidden pleasure in his eyes. As they shook hands, Zubren tried to pretend he didn’t notice it.

* * *

Two days later, Zubren crossed the tarmac to ship out to Steger Military Base. The shuttle traveled at an elevation of only nine thousand feet, giving him a clear view of the miles of barren, scorched land beneath. He didn’t need his exosuit HUD to tell him there were zero signs of life. A giant blackened crater reminded him that humanity needed a new handle on the Crawler War fast if they wanted a planet to live on. Every day the Oras Union rationed out more and more supplies to refugees and the homeless. All victims of the Crawler War.

A lanky figure maneuvered down the aisle, so tall the ceiling forced him to bend down. He stopped at Zubren’s seat and held up a photo.

“Yup. You’re Zubren Hiels, all right.”

“And here I was worried I was somebody else.”

“Call me Dr. Gilm. We’ll be working together,” he said, sitting down.

“You’re a physician?”

“A weapons engineer,” Gilm grinned. “I don't think it’d be very sensible for a man suffering from a connective tissue disorder to claim he could help others.”

Zubren forced a smile and nodded. “They told me I’d be working with a team of engineers.”

“Then you should be very relieved, shouldn’t you?” Gilm quipped.

“You read my file?” he said, referring to his difficulties working with engineers.

“It’s one way to pass the time on this thing.”

“For some.” Zubren motioned to his still-sealed mission folder stacked against the armrest.

“I figured I’d come over and inform you of the details I think you should focus on. Speed up your read a little.” An annoyed look shot across Gilm’s face. He picked something out of his curly brown hair. “Damn dog. I think it gave me fleas.”

Their shuttle landed at Steger approximately three hours later. Even past midnight, the air’s humidity weighed his clothes down with sweat. As soon as he card-keyed into his standard military sleeper unit, he made a beeline for the shower divider.

Vents on the wall sucked in the steam from the hot water as it soothed knees combat had rattled one too many times. It was still early evening in Oras-C8, so after the shower he pulled up the complimentary MobileScreen on his desk and dialed a line to Elaine.

The image of his wife formed in a life-like clarity.

“You look good,” he said.

She grinned. “You look like you just went for a swim. I wish I could’ve been there.”

“Showered, and trust me, I do too. Any chance I can get a rain check?”

Raising an eyebrow, Elaine asked, “What would I get in return?”

“Let me cash it in right now and you'll find out.”

“I don't know if I want Fleet Services to
see me
,” she frowned. “Besides, I’m about to read Asher his bedtime story.”

And suddenly their customary tradition of flirting every time he checked in to a new base was over. Pushing his chair away from the wall, Zubren asked, “What are you reading? Not the Maester teachings?”

He ran a hand through his still-moist curls and grabbed the towel off the desk.

“Has a few hours with the engineers changed your faith?” she asked him.

“I'm not going to be a Maester anymore, remember? I don’t have to pretend to like it.”

“Who’s that behind you? I think the base guards are coming to take you away for fibbing to your lieutenant.”

Elaine adjusted the camera to reveal a heavy-looking book titled
The Fourth Anthology of Fairy Tales.

“I picked it up from the locker,” she said, referring to the locker that contained the lesser finds from her various excavations.

“Cute,” he said nonchalantly. His forehead uncreased in relief. He didn't want his son exposed to the Maester teachings when he couldn’t be there to put them into context.

Elaine showed him Asher resting and asked him a few questions about his assignment. Then she signed off, leaving him with his listless thoughts about all-powerful gods who sought humanity’s allegiance. Zubren had no issues with teachings that offered time-tested rules and values to live by, but he couldn’t accept that powerful gods existed somewhere in the universe. If the Maester beliefs were true, then it meant those gods couldn’t stop the Crawlers. Zubren didn't want to live in a universe where Crawlers with their mandibles and antennae ranked higher than gods. So he told himself the Maester teachings amounted to myth.

* * *

“Good sleep?” Gilm asked, gesturing to an empty chair.

“I’m adjusted.” Zubren planted himself on it and stared at the dissecting table that dominated the room. A damaged exosuit Model 1 rested atop it, the outer layer completely seared off, exposing the maze of gears and mechanical joints. Gaping holes littered it where heat had melted through them.

“Must’ve been a pain in the butt to pick this thing out of the debris,” Zubren said, rubbing his head as if he could feel the damage done to it.

Gilm cleared his throat. “I don’t disagree, but our task isn’t exactly a cake walk either.”

Right. They had to design an entire new set of exosuits to attack the Crawler Haze.

Swiveling around to type something on his computer station, Gilm added, “The biggest challenge is that all the data on space-flight modules went up in flames with Sector 20. This exosuit was designed for mid-altitude Oras atmosphere only.”

Zubren opened and closed the exosuit’s left shoulder flap with a screeching sound.

“We’ll have to deploy the exosuits in teams to compensate for the three-dimensional threats of lower space combat. They can fight at angles that way.”

Gilm nodded and typed this into the computer. “That’s what I figured you’d say.”

They went on brainstorming. Zubren generated most of the ideas, while Gilm weeded out the bad ones and gave suggestions. Every time he heard something he liked, he inputted it in the computer’s combat design simulation program. He’d enter data based on various factors, such as the priority of velocity changes, battery life, and maneuverability. Then, using physics-based algorithms and a compilation of scientific estimates, the computer program would respond with expected performance statistics on things like engine output, weight, fuel capacity, combat radius, and maximum speed. It could even compare this data to current, as well as Crawler, technology. The rest depended on Zubren and Gilm’s interpretation and whether or not it met the desired standards of Fleet Services.

During a break, Zubren skimmed through his mission folder.

“You know, I can’t find the data profile for the Model 1. Would’ve been nice for them to include it. Can you bring it up on the computer?”

“Apparently they housed that info exclusively at Sector 20 too, so we don’t have it on file.”

Zubren shook his head cynically. Fleet Services prioritized the exosuit data’s security to the extent they hadn't even uploaded its design blueprint onto a server. They’d stored it on physical hard drives only. If it weren’t for the recovered exosuit on the table, they would be stuck clutching at straws for years to build another one. Even the computer program didn’t give precise estimates, just broad calculations. Nor could it give a rundown of the build specs for the exosuit’s armor plating, internal parts, gravity repulsors, or HUD computer system. They could probably salvage a few of the nanobots due to their tolerance of high temperatures, but they’d have to conceive a good portion of the exosuit from scratch.

It was a wonder the Crawlers managed to burn the exosuit up, considering they’d designed the core suit to withstand heat the thermal shield generated. How had the Crawlers burned it though?

Zubren borrowed the computer and read the wreckage report. It turned out the Crawlers didn’t blow up the exosuit. It turned out a fuel depot had exploded along with a few chemical storage containers. The combination of that had incinerated all but what remained of the Model 1. But when he tried to find footage of the fuel depot exploding, he hit a brick wall. All the video came from after the attack or interviews of survivors and it was heavily edited.

“You’re doing an awful lot of data surfing,” Gilm said, prying open the exosuit’s palm plate.

“I’m searching for info on the attack itself. The exosuit’s condition tells us nothing about the combat capabilities of the Crawlers.”

Gilm shrugged. “We already know Fleet Services’ desired results. I'm sure they’d already have given us intel on the Crawlers’ current armament if we needed it.”

Compartmentalization then. Or was Fleet Services Command concealing particular sets of data? A silly suspicion, Zubren decided. Yet as they resumed their design operation, the suspicion lingered. At times he found himself completely wrapped up in the notion of it, barely responding to Gilm’s feedback.

Continuing on with the initial design stages, they completed several hypothetical strategic plans on the exosuits’ functions in a week. They then proceeded to model the most effective internal compositions, deciding to place the fuel cells on the lower hip surface, while the shoulders would serve as portable armories. This ate up an entire week of twelve-hour days. Once they created a basic blueprint of the new exosuits, they worked on the more advanced features, like the gravity repulsors.