Breakspace: The Ghost Fleet, #3

By Joshua Guess

Grant Stone has a damaged ship and an even more damaged crew. After the battle over Threnody, they need time to refit and heal up. 

The Ghost Fleet offers few reprieves, however, and in order for Grant to allow his team the rest they have earned, he has to take on a new mission. On one of the original colony planets, clues point toward a small part in a much larger conspiracy masterminded by the genocidal artificial intelligences trying to destroy mankind. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joshua Guess
• Release date: Mar 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781393307884

Book preview

Dedicated to Carl Sagan

For making me see the wonder in star stuff.

1

Fifteen days since the decisive battle over Threnody. More than two weeks of waiting for the other shoe to drop, and when it did, Grant was actually relieved. The message was addressed to him as all secret orders from his superior were; to Captain Stone of the Seraphim. Ostensibly an independent ship that had recently been fortunate enough to snag one of the limited licenses turning her and Grant’s crew into a sanctioned mercenary group. What were called free companies.

The irony of that name was rich beyond belief. What most people didn’t know was that the entire existence of free companies in Planetary Alliance—or just the Alliance if you’re nasty—space was a carefully designed lie. Nearly every free company, Grant’s included, worked for the Alliance Navy. He was a member of the Ghost Fleet, an off-the-books arm of the Naval Intelligence Agency. He and his crew spent months at the center of invasions, secret plots, and massive battles.

And they had suffered for it. More deeply and permanently than Grant could ever have imagined.

When the summons came, he was expected to bring the Seraphim. Jamal Sharp, the commander of the Ghost Fleet, always wanted his people ready to hare off to follow orders as soon as he was done speaking. As the captain of a ship, Grant understood this. When he gave an order, it was not a suggestion. However harsh he might have to be, his people understood that obeying often meant the difference between living and the alternative.

Yet Grant approached the worn-out backwater space station in a rented transport pod, itself jettisoned from a mass-transit liner once the large commercial ship had Gated into the system and reached orbit. His nerves jangled endlessly as the station’s capture system hooked the pod and reeled it in, and grew no better at decontamination and customs.

The address was on the station’s outer ring. The place was so old that no one had even bothered retrofitting it with gravity plating—the artificial gravity was provided by good old Newtonian physics. He was silently thankful for the long line at customs; it gave his equilibrium a chance to adjust to spin gravity.

Even so, Grant’s timing was good. The meeting was to have started only five minutes before he actually arrived at the cheap, rented conference room. Grant locked the door behind him and raised an eyebrow at Sharp, who nodded.

We’re private, Captain, Sharp said. Want to tell me why you took a liner to get here rather than your own ship?

Grant ambled over to the scuffed chair opposite his boss and took a seat. "Hello to you, too. Yes, I’m doing fine. Thanks so much for asking. Should I bother wondering how you knew I didn’t bring the Seraphim with me, or just assume you know everything because you’re such a talented spy?"

Sharp smiled, more predatory than kind. He waved a weathered brown hand at his terminal, which lay on the table in front of him. This station is one of my assets. I have full administrative access. Which is why I was surprised to see your name pop up in the log but not your ship.

Deciding on honesty, Grant met Sharp’s eyes and said exactly what was on his mind. I was worried if I brought the ship with me, you’d send us out on another mission. This way if you have to arrest someone for disobeying orders or whatever, it’s just me.

Sharp’s only reaction was to silently observe Grant for an uncomfortably long time before replying. You’re refusing to fulfill your contract with the Ghost Fleet?

No, Grant said. If you have a mission, I’ll do it. My crew and my ship won’t. They’re out of the equation for the foreseeable future. That’s not optional.

Sharp was not a particularly gregarious man—Grant rarely saw him smile—but the corners of his mouth tugged up in thin amusement. That’s more balls than I expected from you, Grant. Care to explain why?

You know damned well why, Grant replied, fire kindling in his voice. "You’ve read the reports. We’ve had just enough time to repair the ship so it can limp through solar systems, but she needs a lot more work. We have the money to do it thanks to that last contract you gave us and we plan to use it. We’re not fit for any fights. Not for a long time."

Sharp snorted. This isn’t about your ship. Don’t bullshit me.

Grant crossed his arms. Not entirely, no. Look, we’ve been in the middle of this ever since the Children showed up. We blunted the invasion. We tracked down their bioweapons for you. We figured out Threnody was working with them and stopped that cold. Not alone. I’m not trying to take credit for it. My point is that my people have been through a nonstop wringer for the better part of a year. Crash lost a leg and needs rehab to get the replacement up to snuff. Dex was fucking kidnapped and forced to fight for his life on an alien planet. Krieger had to kill people for the first time and it took me four days to talk him out of quitting. All the stress has Iona and Spencer eyeing each other like pissed-off cats, and my new assault team is trying to figure out where they fit in with all of it.

Sharp’s next words were soft, even gentle. And Batta? What about him?

Something twisted inside Grant’s belly. Frederick Batta—his best friend, brilliant engineer and mechanic, and as kindhearted as he was gruff—had saved the life of one of the assault team during their assault on Threnody. In the process he suffered brain damage, partially from oxygen deprivation, partially from a concussion no one knew he had at the outset. The blow was powerful enough to crack his skull inside his mech suit.

And he’d rescued the crewman after taking that hit.

You know what Batta’s situation is, Grant said. He needs rehab, too. He’s already getting regenerative neurological therapy, but it’s a long process. We have no way to know what he’ll be like when he comes out the other side. All that aside, I think all of them need to undergo some psych therapy, too. We’re just not ready to wade back into the shit. Do what you have to, but that’s the truth.

Sharp tapped his fingers together thoughtfully. I think I have a compromise that will work for everyone.

Grant wasn’t sure he liked the tone, but he listened.

*

When he returned to Seraphim a day and a half later, Grant momentarily forgot how deeply broken his crew—his family—was. Part of his brain expected the normal greetings as he entered the airlock. The docks of Hermes station were large enough to make his ship look like a toy, and in the wonder of wandering through the space and gaping like a backwoods yokel, he had forgotten all about the terrible things that had happened to his crew.

To them. Not to him.

When he stepped inside, it all rushed back. No Batta to mother him or tell a dirty joke over the comm. No Crash to slap him in the back of his head when he let his insecurities and fear creep up on his ability to command effectively. It was a testament to Grant’s maturity—much of that thanks to Crash giving him course corrections over the years—that he did not blame himself for the things they suffered. There was not an iota of guilt, only responsibility. It had taken him years to glean the difference.

No, what Grant felt most keenly upon entering the silent corridors of his ship was as simple as it was universal: loss. Sadness. His family was hurt in a variety of ways. People he loved were in pain, and no matter how much they healed none of them would ever be the same. That might not matter in the long run; people were never the same. Life was constant change. Grant simply hoped that this one wouldn’t be the sort that cast shadows over all the years ahead of them.

If it was, he’d do the best he could to shine some light on it.

Iona, Grant said to the ship. You tapped in?

Always, came the response from all around him. You ordered me to maintain a link with the ship.

Grant smiled faintly. I did. Who else is on board?

The answer took no time at all to formulate. That was an advantage of being an artificial intelligence: thinking at machine speeds. Batta and Commander Cho are on station in the medical facilities, as expected. Dex is with me. We’re in the engine room. Spencer and Krieger are on a date at a restaurant that serves something called classic French cuisine, though I’m not familiar with the term. Earth was never very interesting to me.

And Lieutenant Fen? The rest of the troops?

A silence stretched out, long enough that Grant knew Iona wasn’t thinking about her answer so much as working out the right way to phrase it. Fen is in the crew quarters. Two of the assault team got into a fight which escalated and drew in others. She is currently trying to mediate the dispute, but...

Grant pinched the bridge of his nose. Go on.

The remaining members of the unit are split, Iona said. Half want to stay, the others want to forgo the rest of their contracts and find work on another Ghost Fleet vessel. They believe ours is too dangerous.

The controlled, robotic way Iona spoke told Grant much about her state of mind. The young woman—and yes, she was that, her artificial nature notwithstanding—was usually expressive and open. She only slipped into the carefully regulated tone created by forcing her brain into a purely analytical mode when she was deeply upset. "Too dangerous? They’re fucking assault troops. They drop in from orbit and take out enemy installations, for god’s sake. Or shoot across the vacuum and cut their way into a ship. And we’re too dangerous?"

Apparently they think we take too many unnecessary and...unwise risks, Iona explained.

Grant chuffed out a laugh. I know how soldiers talk, kid. They’re going on about how the CO is fucking idiot piece of shit, right? Willing to throw everyone’s lives away?

Iona’s disembodied voice, wafting from the comm, laughed softly. That’s almost eerily accurate.

Tell you what, Grant said. Do me a favor and send a message from me to their terminals. Tell the team that anyone who wants to leave can do so, no hard feelings. They’ll get their bonus and a good recommendation from me. Let them know that the reason for this is my meeting with Sharp. We’ll be heading out soon for what will likely be a long, boring mission with little chance of any combat.

Iona made a disbelieving noise that sounded entirely human despite being completely artificial. Which means we’ll end up shot to pieces in the end.

Maybe, but unlikely. This really is a different sort of mission. More up Spencer’s alley than mine, Grant said. Anyone who wants to stay can stay. Anyone who wants to go can go. I think this will either give them the excuse they need to jump ship or guilt them into staying. Either way, have them decide within the hour.

That soon? Iona said in a surprised voice. Should I recall Krieger and Spencer?

Grant waved a hand and started walking toward his quarters. No, no. They’re fine. We’ll wait until Crash and Batta get back from therapy to talk about it. I just want to know where everyone stands before bothering to call a full meeting on the mission. If we have to wait for a whole new ground team, so be it. But if even one of them stays, then that person can pass on the information to whoever we hire to replace them.

Must be an interesting mission, Iona said in an even, diplomatic voice.

Grant chuckled. Oh, it is. Everyone gets a little something out of it. I think Dex might actually smile. I’m kind of looking forward to it. Definitely am, for some parts.

And the rest? Iona asked knowingly, her voice following him through the ship.

Grant shrugged. I suppose we’ll see how it goes. Probably not as dangerous as hunting down pirates at the ass end of space.

But knowing his recent luck, some fucking thing would happen to beat the odds.

2

You’re splitting us up, Dex said.

The Captain sighed over his cup of coffee. The crew sat in the galley, now much less crowded. Fen’s entire team opted to leave, the Captain said. Crash and Batta need time to recover. You’re still dealing with the kidnapping—

That part I’m fine with, Dex interrupted. It’s everything that came after I have a problem with.

The Captain waved a hand. However you see it, you need time to work through it. I won’t order you to see a therapist, but I strongly suggest you give it a try.

Anger flared up inside him, so sudden and intense that Dex’s fingers twitched before he could stop them. The urge to lash out was incredibly strong. In the weeks he’d been back from the hellish experiment, the reactions hadn’t dimmed at all. That worried him. His already engineered genetics had been rearranged again, making his enhancements more powerful and less stressful to use, but also that much closer to the surface. It’s not the first time I’ve had to kill. I’m fine.

Lieutenant Fen made the strange hissing choke that served as her species’ version of a snort. Son, I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive. That’s bullshit. If I was your commanding officer, I’d damn well order you to do it. I see a psychiatrist every few months even if I haven’t done anything more dangerous than sit at a guard post. Mental health needs maintenance, too.

Dex glared at the reptilian woman until Iona put a hand on his. We’ll talk about it later. This isn’t just about you.

The reproof was gentle but firm. And of course, she was right.

Captain Stone continued. Yes, we’ll be heading to Proxima colony and we’ll be splitting up. But it’s not like we’ll be that far apart. Iona and Dex will be on the ship. Batta and Crash will be in rehab. Everyone else can do whatever they like in the meantime. I’ll handle the mission myself.

He turned to Dex. Oh, and did I mention you’ll be overhauling the ship? We’ve got full specs for the enhanced gravity drive and Sharp is sending us upgraded fabricators. If you want to do it, I mean.

Dex gaped. "What? No. No way. I thought they weren’t letting anyone in the Navy have that tech outside of..."

Outside of black ops, yeah, Captain Stone said. We count. Sharp said he would have given us the green light in any event since we seem to always find ourselves in the middle of all this shit. He’s outfitting every ship that survived the assault on Threnody as a test run to see how the new drives work with our vessels. Project is yours, kid. Batta will be your consultant if you need to pick his brain.

From the end of the table, Batta spoke up. His voice was still gruff, an artifact of breathing too many fumes over the decades, but it lacked the fire so familiar to Dex. Prob’ly not a good idea, Cap. I lost a lot. Hard to... He looked away as he trailed off. Dex knew the damage to his brain was only in the first stages of being repaired. They needed the sort of medical facilities you could only find on a colony to do the job right. He would have gone to Proxima for that reason alone. The Captain might have taken him in, but Batta was a mentor. Maybe something like a father.

We’ll get you better, Dex said.

That might be true—the odds said it was. Regenerative therapy had moved along nicely with the rest of human technology, but there were hard limits to biology itself. The odds were excellent that the damage could be repaired. There was no way of knowing how much of Batta’s experience and expertise were lost, however. Neurology was complex beyond belief. Memory, skills, and education ranked among the more complicated things it could do.

Batta might never fully recover. Not that it mattered to Dex whether or not the man could still fix the ship. He was family.

It’ll be nice to see everyone, Batta said.

Dex tilted his head curiously. You know people on Proxima?

Several looks were exchanged from the older crew. Finally Crash, eyebrows knit together, spoke. You don’t know?

Clearly, I don’t, Dex said irritably.

Oh, wow, Crash said. Well, Batta is from Proxima. Has he never ranted to you about how much it bothers him that they changed all the naming conventions for Alpha Centauri when it was colonized? No? Lucky you. We had to listen to him bitch about it for years.

So your family is there, Dex said. That’ll be nice.

Crash laughed. You could say that. India was the first country to put down a permanent colony outside the Solar system. Batta’s family dates all the way back. Last I heard, and this was a while ago, they owned about five percent of the planet and no small chunk of the real estate in the system itself.

Dex’s eyes widened. As someone who had virtually no use for his own pay and let it accumulate in his secure account, the idea of massive wealth was as alien to him as Fen. Oh. That’s good, I guess.

The Captain waved a hand dismissively. Trust me, you won’t care about the money once his mom cooks for you. Arpana is a magician.

Crash pinched the bridge of her nose. "The woman is a doctor and head of one of the largest corporate entities on the planet. Can you please not reduce her to a centuries-old stereotype?"

No, that’s fair, Batta muttered. She’d probably put that close to the top of her list of accomplishments. She won a couple competitions.

Not eager to hear the three senior officers devolve into the sort of argument only old friends can manage, Dex cleared his throat. So what’s the mission? Can’t be too big if you’ll be handling it yourself.

The Captain had an excellent poker face. Nothing for you to worry about. Operational security is high on this one. Only the people involved know details, and not even all of those. You’re going to be working on the ship, so my hands are pretty well tied on what I can share with you.

Dex nodded in understanding, and it said much about his recent ordeal that he let it be at that.

––––––––

Later, when he and Iona were alone:

Do you ever wonder why I love you? she asked.

Among his many genetic gifts was an enhanced brain. Dex could think more quickly, more broadly, and more deeply than nearly anyone. He was also beholden to the same evolutionary tics and quirks as any other twenty year old.

What? Are we about have a really upsetting talk?

Iona, stepping out of the shower, stopped and stared at him unconcerned with her nudity. Then she burst into laughter. Oh my god, no. I was just thinking about the meeting. How organic brains are these seething balls of chemicals that make you feel a certain way. I don’t have that, but I do feel. I guess when they programmed the basic structures of my cells, that was one of the things hard coded in. It would have to be for sims to work the way they want us to.

Sims—the Navy name for artificially intelligent people composed of equally artificial cells—were a solution to the age-old problem of how to stop an AI from using logic to decide humanity deserved death. That very issue was why the Children, a race of AI escaped from Jefferson colony before its destruction in a bid to prevent exactly the kind of apocalyptic scenario the Alliance now faced, were so fixated on fighting the war. A mind brought into existence fully formed but with only raw logic to drive it would inevitably decide that the most rational course of action was one genocide or another.

Does it matter? Dex asked. I don’t care why you love me. Not on that deep a level, anyway. I mean, I know in my head that my decisions and reactions are all a bunch of electrochemical signals mashed together. I know I’m programmed by my genes to feel protective of children, but it doesn’t change the reality of those feelings. I’m happy accepting the result without torturing myself over how we got to it.

Iona slipped into a robe. Not a sexy one—well, not deliberately sexy. Dex had no need to see her soft brown skin primped with artifice to find her irresistible. The thick, comfortable red robe might as well have been expensive negligee in his eyes. That’s not like you. You’re endlessly curious about everything.

Dex gave her a frank look. "Is this really your best gambit? I’ve talked about what happened down there. And no, you’re not wrong. I feel different. I spent a long time putting a barrier between what I was trained to be—fucking created to be—and the person I chose to become."

She put a hand on his. They took that away from you.

No, he said sharply. "I did that. I could have chosen to die as that guy.