The Greater Game

By Rowe

The year is 2179.

The human race has expanded beyond the solar system, inhabiting planets around a dozen nearby stars. But space travel is slow and restricted, making control of these new planets from Earth difficult. Out of view of the homeworld, almost anything might be going on...

Meanwhile, on Mars, a radical new gove

• Language: English
• Publisher: White Cat
• Release date: Mar 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781735895611

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

ON A SMALL promontory overlooking a green-blue sea, Marcus Reynolds strolled over to a faux wood bench and slowly lowered himself onto it. The bench was positioned to allow a clear view over a sandy bay across to a second jutting headland, on which the planet’s main spaceport was situated.

Reynolds directed his gaze across the shallow bay and up the sandstone cliff opposite, to the flat expanse of runway and a collection of two-story terminal buildings. At present, there was just a single shuttle upon the runway – fat-bodied, glistening white. Various mobile gantries and support vehicles clustered around it. As the man watched, a large, wide-tired transporter carrying an oblong container trundled onto the runway from an unseen warehouse. Reynolds knew what was in that container, and he also knew that anywhere else in the human universe it would have been escorted by armed guards and mechanical sentinels. But this was Durre Menthor – the planet taking the Arabic name for its parent star, Tau Ceti – the sole possession of GalCorp. Every one of the twelve thousand humans on the planet was either a member of company staff or of their families, intensely vetted and supremely loyal. There was security, of course, but this was in orbit or at the customs and immigration stations on other worlds and their waystations. Few external contractors, and even fewer visitors, ever made it to this planet’s surface, although one such visitor was due shortly.

Reynolds had come here, his favourite place in the small, occupied area of the planet, to think and to wait. Behind him – set back from the cliff edge – were various one-story buildings, occupying just eleven square kilometres: uniformly white, broad-windowed, topped with solar panels from which they received their immediate energy needs. The nearer buildings were laboratories, in which the company’s biologists, biochemists, geneticists and virologists experimented, analysed, and produced their enhancements… or detriments, in the case of the bioweapons team, which was situated in a secondary compound. Beyond this was staff housing in buildings of roughly similar design that had been rapidly constructed by replication automatons according to a slightly different programmed template. Some of these dwellings bore touches of personalisation, such as dashes of colour or exterior ornamentation. And a little further beyond these were a number of larger buildings in which the colony’s social functions were served: a school, a couple of refectories, an entertainment complex, and the main retail outlet, which sold everything anyone could want, with 3D printers available to quickly manufacture items that weren’t in stock.

Pathways ran between the buildings, connecting everything to the main transport station at the rear of the complex, from which electric vehicles could be taken to other places of interest – of which there were currently few. One road led around the bay to the spaceport on the opposite promontory, with its warehouses and workshops; a second led in the opposite direction, a few kilometres further down the coast, to the colony’s microfusion reactor and support buildings; and a third led perpendicular to these roads, in a straight line for about two hundred kilometres, right into the heart of the continent. This third road, which Reynolds had rarely taken, led through jungle-like terrain to the Far Point station, half-way up the slopes of the ironically named Mount Everest, from whence company xenobiologists ranged out to collect, classify and study the native flora and fauna. And surrounding everything was tall fencing, y-shaped at the top, shielding every human element on this world – for though Durre Menthor was a planet that now hosted humans, it was certainly not, at least yet, a human planet.

Reynolds didn’t have to look behind to remind himself of the totality of his planetary experience: he had been here for nine years, during which time little had actually changed, or at least, little that was visible. There had, though, been sightings over the last few months of ships descending to the south, beyond the Sundstrom Archipelago, leading to rumours of a second, secret spaceport in that direction. Indeed, Reynolds had observed such descents on more than one occasion and appreciated that this made little sense unless the craft were landing somewhere and for some reason. Whatever was going on, it was clearly extremely sensitive: Reynolds’ Alpha 2 rating gave him access to almost all company intelligence, though clearly not as much as the twenty men and women with Alpha 1 clearance, most of whom were company board members. Yet what could be more sensitive than his current business with the Martians? Perhaps, he mused, success in his current task might yet allow him to scale that final professional summit and learn about the mysterious activities to the south.

As Reynolds mulled these issues and awaited his guest’s shuttle, his attention was drawn to a waterspout out in the bay, rapidly followed by a second and then a third, each jet blasting some twenty metres into the air. After a few seconds of calm, the trio of aquatic eruptions repeated, slightly further out into the bay. Reynolds knew these were signs of Menthor ‘whales’ out hunting, using powerful jets to stun columns of aquatic prey into insensibility. Such weaponry was fairly common amongst the planet’s sea life, especially amongst species that lurked in the shallows, which used the ploy to concuss paddling terrestrial creatures before dragging them into deeper water to be devoured in relative peace.

The problem for the world’s human inhabitants was that their alien nature in no way inoculated them from a role as potential prey, to creatures that would usually taste first and fatally before realising after that they had made a mistake. And this problem was not confined to the sea life: it was typical of indigenous life on this planet (hence the fencing surrounding all human artefacts and roads), as well as to that on most habitable planets that humanity had yet encountered. Perhaps the only surprise about this matter, Reynolds thought, was that this had been such a surprise to so many zoologists and biologists in the first place. Habitable worlds needed sufficient oxygen for humans to breathe, which required the presence of lifeforms that produced oxygen as a by-product, which inevitably resulted in vast and variegated biomes that had in common this universal feature: that they contained lifeforms that existed by killing and feeding upon other lifeforms, and that had, furthermore, evolved over many millions of years to be rather good at doing this. There had seemed to be a common thought before the first new world had been encountered that human beings would be sufficiently unfamiliar that they would somehow be excused the attentions of native wildlife, which would simply look upon them with confusion or fear. But creatures came in many shapes and sizes in the dozen-or-so inhabited worlds, many of which were analogous in some way to humans physically, or at least behaviourally, particularly in the propensity to run away from other creatures. Thus, most predatory beasts could not help an evolved urge to bring down things that were smaller than them once they turned to show their back. Humanity had rapidly learnt that Xeno-Nature was also red in tooth and claw and that harmonious co-existence was unlikely to be feasible in this universe. Some societies had attempted to take an ethical stance on this issue, limiting their impact upon their new world through self-isolation in closed habitats, but others – often out of clear view – took more vigorous steps to ensure the safety of their new realms, using the torch to create areas where terrestrial life could then be seeded. Reynold knew that although Durre Menthor appeared more like the former than the latter, this was only due to practicalities and happenstance, and that a more strident approach would undoubtedly be taken if and when it was needed.

A sonic boom brought Reynolds back to the present. As he looked up, he caught the slowing shape of a shuttle gliding out of the northern sky, rapidly growing in size as it headed towards the runway across the bay. Reynolds got to his feet and strolled towards the buildings behind him. It was a gentle twenty-five-minute walk to the spaceport – just enough time for the shuttle to land and for necessary release procedures to be completed.

***

The man who emerged from the shuttle and gingerly made his way down the steps from its hatchway was clearly a third or fourth generation Martian. He was tall, but he walked in a slightly stooped manner, struggling with a planetary gravity that was more than he was used to. Most of his features were hidden behind outer clothing that was made of a dense artificial material, olive-green in colour, and he wore sturdy green-and-black boots. The man’s eyes were completely obscured by a pair of opaque goggles, which prevented any solar radiation from getting to them, and his hair was covered by a hood that projected a couple of inches over his brow so that his face was in shadow. Yet for Reynolds, of much greater interest than the man’s external appearance was what lay hidden in his genome…

Reynolds patiently waited several metres from the foot of the hatchway. The Martian reached the bottom of the short stairway, made a perceptible effort to straighten, and then slowly walked six paces to his host. Here he stopped: he raised his gloved hands and gently lowering his hood. This revealed thick blonde hair, black skin – even darker than Reynolds’ own, though the company man knew that while his African ancestry was certain, the Martian’s origins were more complex – and a serious, straight-mouthed expression. Reynolds bowed his head and broke into a slight smile, resisting the urge to push a hand forward to shake that of his guest, knowing the Martian dislike of unnecessarily making skin contact with ‘aliens’.

Welcome, Representative Schilling. I hope your journey was not unpleasant.

The Martian gave a slight nod, though his expression didn’t change. It was tolerable. Thank you. And I hope you have had a productive day thus far.

Reynolds could not help but smile at this. The Martian reputation for being both direct and work-obsessed could not have been more clearly demonstrated. Not really, though I expect the next hour or so will more than make up for my earlier unproductivity. Reynolds’ eyes sparkled with some humour. Then he half-turned and gestured towards a low building a short distance away. Although I expect I know the answer already, would you care to join me inside where we can have some refreshments while we conclude our business?

The Martian followed the direction of his host’s gesture and then slowly fixed his hidden eyes on Reynolds. Thank you, but no. I am keen to progress. He saw the white oblong container sitting on its transport off to the side, awaiting instructions to be moved into the hold of the newly arrived shuttle. Please, let me inspect.

Certainly. Follow me. The two men walked side by side to the cargo in silence – the Martian making visibly more effort just putting one foot in front of the other. At their destination, the Martian raised a hand and gently placed it against the metal side.

Everything is here, according to contract, said Reynolds. Naturally, I can’t open this up – it has been prepared for your journey and includes certain defensive safeguards to expunge and sterilise the contents should it be intercepted by other parties. However, I have an inventory and schematic of the interior here… and with that he reached into a jacket pocket and produced a small information stick. The information is encrypted. I believe you have the key.

The Martian took the small device in his right hand and carefully inserted one end into the socket of a dark oblong device that covered his left forearm, and which blended in with the dark green of his clothing. The oblong came to life, revealing a small keypad on its right-hand side. The Martian tapped a code into this with his right index finger, at which the screen changed to provide a representation of the container’s interior. With practised ease, the man touched the screen and manipulated the schematic – elongating aspects, then compressing them; rotating the 3D representations to allow views from different angles; tapping on icons to reveal further details on content characteristics. Reynolds watched in silence for a minute or two, until he felt a need to summarise.

As you can see, all of the external sections contain unproblematic materials. As requested, we have improved your earthworms and modified a number of novel insect types, which should help enrich your biome without damaging crops. The seeds include some new forms, including carrots and peas. We believe the former may be viable under natural conditions, but we would advise that you proceed cautiously and save most of the stock for your greenhouses initially. Further adaptation may ultimately be necessary.

The Martian nodded curtly. All good. And this opaque interior section…?

You will need to use your second level security key to access that.

Again, the nod. The Martian focused on one section of screen and used thumb and forefinger to expand it, identified an icon, tapped this, and used the keypad on the right to enter a longer code. At this, the opaque area became translucent, revealing details of the contents at the very centre of the container. Reynolds noticed the left-hand side of his guest’s mouth give an inadvertent twitch, suggesting a supressed smile of satisfaction.

And here, continued Reynolds, is the more contentious component of the cargo.

And this time the Martian did look up and break into a thin smile, though there was no particular humour in it. You mean, the seeds of our freedom, the basis of your wealth, and the source of our disagreements with those Stone Age cretins on Earth?

Well put.

The full sixty thousand?

Reynolds pursed his lips. Of course, our science and skills are not perfect, but there are well over fifty-six thousand viable embryos. In your documentation you will find the parentage of each and every one – so that you can avoid any incestuous mishaps down the line. They are safely stored and can be thawed and implanted at any time over the next twenty years. Generation Six.

Generation X?

Reynolds shrugged. Perhaps, though probably not. There is only so far we can push bioengineering in so few generations. Frankly, the progress we have made with this batch has astonished even our own scientists.

The Martian frowned slightly. Howso?

We have altered the germline to include genes from several new extremophiles. These future-Martians should have far greater DNA-repair capability than your generation, allowing them to cope much better with radiation. This generation should significantly exceed current life expectancy. I suspect cancer will be rare in your offspring, unlike now. There are some here who are even thinking of using these adaptations in their own lines. On top of this, we have further enhanced the capacity of the lungs to cope with low oxygen levels and atmospheric pressures.

How long will they be able to survive outside?

Reynolds shrugged. On Mars? Now? We can only speculate, but perhaps five minutes… a considerable advance on your own generation? Naturally, everything depends on when your terraforming efforts achieve atmospheric pressures above the Armstrong Limit.

I once endured about three minutes, but of course we don’t advertise such facts. We cannot let the primitives into our secrets.

Reynolds nodded. The big limiting factor for life on Mars was the planet’s low atmospheric pressure: below the Armstrong Limit, water boiled at the temperature of the human body. An exposed human would die rapidly and unpleasantly as their saliva, tears, urine, blood, and the liquids wetting the alveoli within their lungs, boiled out. If the Martian had survived three minutes in the open this was… suggestive. Exactly so, he continued. But they must suspect. Why Earth hasn’t acted is a mystery. It wouldn’t take much to get some Martian DNA, no matter how carefully you guard yourselves… Reynolds waved a hand towards his guest’s gloved hands and general attire.

Schilling suddenly snarled in anger. It is a secret as dangerous to them as it is to us! They are a divided rabble, whereas we are united. Some want war and others will do anything for peace. While this balance remains, we can continue towards our destiny – as long as we are cautious and do not provoke them.

Maybe they will change. They cannot deny the future forever.

The Martian snorted. They have too many people and too few who would benefit from our technologies quickly enough. One day this powder keg will explode. We need to be entirely self-sufficient before that happens. He looked down quickly to his forearm computer and turned it off with one vigorous tap. Then he looked at his host again, his mouth once more firmly set. I thank you, Dr. Reynolds. I see all is in order. Your fee sits in our shipyard – and has already been inspected and approved. Once we emerge back into the Solar System, I will send permission to release it.

And then, surprisingly, the Martian extended his gloved hand, which a startled Reynolds took after a moment’s hesitation. It has been good to do business with you.

Reynolds quickly recovered his composure. Yes indeed. And long live the revolution?

CHAPTER TWO

BUILDING SHIPS CAPABLE of traversing the space between stars was difficult and extremely expensive. As far as most people knew, there were just three shipyards capable of doing this, all within the Solar System. The oldest facility orbited relatively close to the Earth at the first Earth-Moon Lagrange point and was run by the fractious United Nations; the next occupied the second Earth-Moon Lagrange point on the far side of the Moon and was the sole property of China; and the third orbited Mars and was run – with considerable interference from Earth – by this semi-autonomous entity. What Henrik Esselt wondered, and was tasked to find out, was whether there was in fact a fourth…

The International Space Industries company – or ISI – had been relatively late to the space game. Founded by three immensely rich men and one even-richer woman, the company had first barged its way into the satellite business, and then ploughed money into reusable spacecraft. It had been the main contractor behind the second manned Mars mission, had founded its own small base on the Moon, another on Mars, and then played a major role in building and then operating the L1 shipyard and space station. ISI had thereafter won the main contract to build the very first interstellar Punch Drive ship, using the knowledge and experience it gained to then dominate human space activity for many years after. Unfortunately, much of the company’s success rested on industrial, economic, and political practices that had caused concern, outrage, and even fear within national governments, particularly when it founded a colony on Robertson – a planet named for its first Chairman. This had led the combined Earth powers to clip the company’s wings. Thus, ISI’s attempts to claim monopolistic patents on the Punch Drive were rejected, as were its attempts to claim significant areas of land on the Moon and on Mars. Various governments discovered grounds on which to fine the company, imprison its executives, and nationalise affiliated enterprises. The company had been compelled to loosen its monopolies and sell various business stakes. As a consequence, ISI – which had long left its origins in the USA and incorporated on an island tax haven – was now a noticeably lesser presence in human affairs. And yet, the company appeared far too optimistic given its current condition, and this worried Esselt’s masters, leading to his current assignment.

Henrik Esselt appraised the latest intel from the Joint Earth Intelligence Agency on his computer, within his small room in the habitation wheel of the L1 station. The page he now scrolled down listed the movements of all known Punch Drive ships over the last year. There were essentially two types of such craft: the first were known as Exploration Vehicles (EVs), or ‘Class 1s’, and the second were Large Transportation Vehicles (LTVs), or ‘Class 2s’. The EVs were small craft only able to accommodate a few crew members; they were the descendants of the very first interstellar ships from the 2090s. Registration and manufacturing records currently listed forty-four such ships, owned by a variety of nation states, collectives, and companies. The LTVs, however, were much bigger – capable of transporting perhaps five hundred humans and considerable cargo – and were consequently less ubiquitous. In fact, Class 2 starships were monumentally expensive to build, and as such there were just eleven in existence, with only China and the United States possessing more than one. The slow pace of planetary colonisation within the human sphere was mainly due to limited access to the larger craft, which tended to make no more than a couple of voyages a year.

Esselt’s main interest was in the movement of ships registered to ISI, notably its three EVs and single LTV. He filtered his search so that only ISI ships were identified. This revealed, as he already knew, that the Class 2 ISIS Bornholm was currently in port, with one EV at Mars’ Phobos Station, the second recorded as present at Robertson, and the third simply noted as ‘in transit.’ The first thing that struck Esselt was that the Bornholm had apparently completed five interstellar journeys in the previous eleven months, with a sixth about to commence. He changed his filter to show only LTV movements. A summary table confirmed that no other registered LTV had made more than three voyages, and indeed, there were just two that had done so; others had made just one or two – or none, in the case of Japan’s sole aging craft. As for the EVs, records here were patchy. To a degree, this was understandable. No entity on Earth had found any legal basis to claim Robertson for collective humanity, and as such no authority could compel ISI to declare the purpose or destination of any ship leaving that planet or its system, Alpha Centauri B.

As Esselt began to call up details on the Bornholm, a chime and slow-flashing light indicated that someone was at the door to his chamber. He stood up a little too rapidly for the three-quarter g of the rotating station and found himself propelled part-way towards the ceiling. Grumbling, he found his feet and took four paces to the door. Tapping a console to the left of the opening revealed the person outside to be a woman with short brown hair, a pale complexion, and an impatient expression on her symmetrical face. She wore a green one-piece overall with a Velcro slash from right hip to left shoulder – a standard, utilitarian design that mirrored his own – with a personal comm unit strapped over her left forearm, as was the norm. Before the man could respond the woman demanded in Standard English: Henrik – open the door. We have to hurry.

Esselt touched a stud and the door slid open effortlessly. The woman did not wait for an invite, squeezing past him and striding into the room. She looked at the desk with its sole chair – at which Esselt had been sitting, beneath a small observation window looking towards Earth – then at the narrow cot along the adjacent wall. She decided on the former, took two more steps, sat down, and swivelled in the seat to appraise the man.

Good morning, Katya, said Esselt. I am pleased to see you, too. Accepting the fait accompli, he moved to the cot and sat on it, turning to face his guest.

Katya Wicz gave a perfunctory smile and leaned forwards. It’s leaving in two hours. If we wish to inspect it, we have to go now.

Esselt ran a hand through his dark hair, which was cropped at the sides and back but thicker on top. He frowned as he looked directly into Wicz’s blue eyes. Sorry – I thought departure was due next week, otherwise I would have been here earlier. He had only arrived at the station yesterday; he knew that the woman – who was an operative of a different intelligence agency to his own, but also seconded to the JEIA – had been here several days longer.

That’s right. The change in schedule is somewhat unusual – especially for a Class 2. Those ships just aren’t made for rapid turnarounds, which raises several questions. First, how are they able to do this? Second, why are they doing it?

It surely can’t be because they know of our interest.

Wicz frowned and gave her head a half-shake. They clearly wish to retain some secrets. Have you checked the Bornholm’s flight plans over the last two years?

I was about to when you interrupted.

Don’t bother. It’s viable. Just. But to make its frequent trips it must have been on the move almost continuously for two years with no significant stops for maintenance. Wicz stood. But we don’t have time for this. Come on. And with that she strode to the door, pressed the opening mechanism, and headed out. Esselt scrambled to his feet and followed in her wake, just beating the door as it began to slide shut.

As Esselt followed the loping woman, whose strides were elongated in the partial gravity, he tried to get his head around her latest intel. The Punch Drive worked on the basis of identifying temporary weaknesses in the fabric of space, caused by gravitational fluctuations from the movement of every celestial body in the universe, from the nearest space rock to the furthest black hole. The technology was based on the Theory of Crumpled Space, which had been worked out in 2074 by Deng Gao, a Chinese physicist. One of the implications of this was that, if one could identify and align weak spots between two separate places – such as different stellar systems – then the appropriate application of thrust and direction could punch through the fabric of space from one point to the other instantaneously. Calculating these ephemeral points of synchronous weakness between star systems, however, required absolutely immense computational power, and to use the results then required the application of huge energies with complete precision: a fractional mistiming meant a ship would carry on in a ‘straight’ trajectory, having wasted time and resources to get to the Punch Point in the first place – like walking many kilometres to a train station, only to see the train whistle past without stopping. Even then, current computational power revealed relatively few usable occurrences given present technology. It was estimated that there were around a dozen Punch Points to the nearest star systems within the orbit of Jupiter – that could be breached with existing ship thrust capabilities – within a year. And there were correspondingly fewer identifiable Points to more distant systems within this reachable zone, which became exponentially more difficult to calculate, making a realistic limit of around eighteen light years for any one journey. Of course, Punch Points outside the Jovian orbit also existed and were identifiable, but the problem was that craft had to travel further and expend more time and energy just to get to these, requiring larger and larger ships, and hence more fuel and other resources, for little gain. And the dozen Punch Points to Alpha Centauri in any year could be spread throughout the inner Solar System, from within the orbit of Mercury to the shadow of Jupiter, and from near Earth to the other side of the Sun. As such, a great deal of intent was needed to access these potential gateways: one could not simply set off into space and hope to come across a viable Point.

So you are saying, said Esselt, to the back of Wicz, after some thought, that the Bornholm has been travelling between systems continuously, flying from Punch Point to Punch Point, without any appreciable pause at its different destinations?

Wicz slowed slightly with the effort of thinking, then speeded up again and answered without turning around. Not only that, but they must have the most efficient cargo loading and unloading processes I’ve ever come across and suffered not a single delay or mishap. Their efficiency in the use of their ship is almost one-hundred percent...

You mean, inhumanly perfect. Esselt pulled to a halt just behind Wicz, who had reached their destination: a passenger elevator that ascended one of the wheel spokes to the zero g hub.

He watched Wicz activate the call pad before turning to face him. She now smiled. Yes. Computationally precise. An itinerary drawn out to fool another computer that might be tasked to automatically check their activities and flag anomalies.

The elevator doors opened. The two entered, took hold of handrails, and each tucked a foot into one loop on the floor intended to stop passengers from floating away as gravitational (or strictly speaking, Coriolis) effects eased off. Then Wicz selected the Hub as their destination; the doors closed; and the elevator began to rise. By the time the elevator came to a stop, after around twenty seconds, almost all weight had drained away and Esselt felt a degree of disorientation and queasiness. The doors opened and the passengers found themselves in a large sphere, with a rail above them, crossing from one wall to the other and canted at an odd angle of about thirty degrees to the horizontal. Where the rail breached the wall over to their right there was a passenger terminus. They started to make their way towards this by following a handrail that appeared to curve along the sloping floor and wall, half floating, half pulling themselves along. Other paths and handrails converged on the terminus from elevators at the top of the other spindles, including across their apparent ceiling – where Esselt noticed a couple of other station personnel, upside down and crawling along the sky towards them. They soon came to a doorway, which Wicz activated. Once in the terminus space, they pulled themselves up and around, following the guiderails until they were orientated so that this was now horizontally flat. Here, they found themselves at the doors to a shuttle train. The doors to this were open and three people were already inside. Esselt and Wicz took seats besides each other, put on safety belts, and waited while others climbed in from both sides. Around four minutes later, countdown clocks above the doors started blinking numbers in green, counting down from thirty. When the number reached ten, a recorded female voice announced imminent departure and advised use of the seatbelts.

At ‘zero’, the doors slid shut. By now, there were perhaps a dozen people in the shuttle, which could have accommodated around forty. There were no internal windows, though a soft yellow light illuminated the clean, white interior. The shuttle began to move through the connecting tunnel that linked the hub of the habitation wheel through several now-open pressures doors to the main port and shipyard, which, like the tunnel, was a zero g environment. Acceleration briefly pushed the passengers back into their seats, and then deceleration in the latter part of the short journey propelled them forward against their belts. Once the shuttle stopped, zero g returned; red lights flashed above the doors half-a-dozen times, and then they opened.

The two intelligence agents undid their belts and made their way through the door. They found themselves in a broad, low-ceilinged space, with desks and terminals affixed on the ‘floor’ to enforce directionality upon the environment. This space served as a combined reception area, security point and interchange. Wide corridors exited the area to left and right, stretching perhaps a kilometre in each direction, providing access to a total of thirty-six bays accessed via wide airlocks. Beyond this current area, another windowed wall could be seen ahead, which held a refectory and small side offices that dealt with other services. The control room – which directed arriving and departing traffic and dealt with all external communications – occupied an unseen upper level.

The other passengers from their shuttle spread out through the reception area – some heading towards Bays 1 to 18 to their left; some to Bays 19 to 36 to their right; some to one of the doors to the offices and refectory beyond; and a couple headed to one of the six desks that formed an incomplete semi-circle facing the shuttle terminus. A small queue formed behind the second desk to their front-and-left.

Where now? asked Esselt, as he turned slightly to allow a couple of blue-overalled men to squeeze past. The men wore magnetised slip-ons they’d brought themselves; Esselt noticed racks to either side of the corridor containing sets of adjustable slip-ons for temporary use, as well as racks with magnetised poles, like walking sticks, that were the preferred aid of some. Esselt himself still clasped a waist-high support rail, as did Wicz in front of him.

The Bornholm is at Bay 36. Get some slippers and take this… Wicz turned and handed her partner a clip-on laminated badge. This had the words ‘Safety Inspectorate’ overlying a faded logo of the L1 station and a somewhat dated photo of Esselt in the middle, above the name ‘Herb Tolstoy’ and his designation as a 2nd Class Safety Engineer.

You’ve been busy, noted Esselt, as he clipped the badge on a top pocket of his green overall. You even got an old passport photo of me.

Looking up from where she was putting a magnetic overshoe on her right boot, she smiled. Best I could do at short notice.

Esselt joined her at the rack and took a pair of overshoes for himself. You could have just taken a copy from my official files. I know EU Intelligence has breached our low-level security systems.

As East Atlantic Intel has breached ours. Wicz stood up, now secured against the zero g environment. Still, I didn’t want to seem too obvious. Let’s go.

Still grimacing at the severe hairstyle on the photo on his name badge, Esselt finished his adjustments and then followed Wicz’s retreating back. They turned right along the broad corridor, ignoring the nearest desk, and passing beneath the huge, now-open pressure door that would, in an emergency, seal off the right wing of the structure from the rest of the station. Disastrous past experiences had taught spacefaring humanity that it could never include too many back-up systems to cope with breaches in spacecraft and stations. The corridor had two three-metre wide moving floors in the centre, one in each direction, with guiderails along the walls and various hoops and supports on the walls and ceilings. Esselt and Wicz stepped onto a walkway that was also used for larger loads; other staff made speedier progress to either side of them, using the magnetised poles to help propel them, or swinging along expertly like slow-motion monkeys across the padded white ceiling. After a few seconds, Wicz impatiently started into a lope/walk to increase her speed. Every thirty or forty metres they passed the entry to one of the bays – with large Arabic numerals, in red, counting up their progress and providing a splash of colour in the largely monochrome interior.

Bay 36, like Bay 1, was a larger structure at one end of the port-cum-shipyard. Indeed, there were two hangar doors here – one along the left-hand wall, completing the line of bays, and one broader one perpendicular to this, beyond the termination of the walkway, which was for larger cargo loads. The end bays were generally where Class 2 LTVs were built or docked, or both, since external parts of the superstructure, open to space, allowed craft to dock at several points – above and below the span of the station, or level to it. Several of the thirty-six bays were operated by the United Nations’ Space Agency, while others were leased by nation states, alliances, or other organisations, with the ISI holding the long-term lease to 36, which was where the Bornholm had been constructed over thirty years ago.

Esselt and Wicz were the only people to step off the walkway at its end. In fact, they were the only people in this part of the station. Esselt suddenly felt the ghostly emptiness around them; he looked back the way they had come and noticed significant activity further away – small figures in green, blue, or black overalls, with the occasional low-loader carrying crates – yet nothing within about a hundred metres of them.

Strange… Esselt said to himself.

Wicz heard the man’s mutter and looked around. Yes, it is strange. You wouldn’t think that one of the largest and most complex craft ever built was about to depart.

Esselt started at this and looked at his partner. He thought for a moment, then raised a hand to indicate the other silent bays between them and the distant activity. I don’t suppose you know who operates these other bays?

No – but I can find out soon enough. Wicz brought up the personal comm unit on her forearm and started tapping at it. While she did so, Esselt clicked over to the end door. There was a large red ‘36’ to its right. Beneath the number was a currently darkened terminal with a keypad below it. He started to feel uncomfortable, aware that they were likely being observed by hidden cameras – and perhaps even being recorded – and as such were hardly showing the typical behaviour of UN Safety Inspectorate officials. Cursing under his breath, he turned back to Wicz and addressed her in a loud voice.

Have you found the documentation? Don’t tell me they’ve not uploaded the correct files?

Wicz looked up sharply – though managed to catch herself before she could begin questioning her partner’s sanity, noticing his peculiar expression and head twitch towards his left shoulder. What? Are you… ah! She dropped her arm and then raised both hands in a universal gesture of exasperation. What do you think? Do they ever get it right?

Soooo… what exactly do we need here?

Wicz suddenly realised that she had not had time to brief her partner on their cover story. Nothing. We’re ok. The docs aren’t necessary at the moment. She hoped that was enough. She walked past Esselt up to the door and then pressed the call button on the keypad. After a moment, an unsympathetic male face appeared in the monitor.

Yes? How can I help?

I’m Irina Karkova – UN Safety Inspectorate. I’m here with my colleague to conduct a random inspection. It’s your lucky day. Please open up.

The man’s frown deepened. A hand ran over his close-cropped hair, revealing a silver ISI logo on the cuff of his black uniform. I’m sorry – we weren’t informed about this.

Of course not. We reserve the right to do safety checks without warning. You’d be surprised, or maybe not, at what unannounced visits often reveal.

The man looked off to his side. His dipping head momentarily disappeared from view. A couple of seconds later he returned. One moment please… Then the monitor screen returned to its darkened state.

They’re going to blank us, hissed Esselt over his partner’s shoulder. We don’t have the power to force this…

Sorry! hissed Wicz. The Inspectorate was the best I could think of in short order!

A thought suddenly occurred to Esselt. By the way, he whispered, what did you find on Bay 35?

Empty. No current lease. Very odd, given the volume of traffic through here and the current level of construction of in-system craft…

Esselt took a final look at the still-blank monitor. Why don’t you continue here. I’ll look around next door. JEIA should be able to get the door code. And before Wicz could reply, he turned and headed back towards the hangar door of Bay 35, around forty metres away, eschewing the walkway and keeping near to the wall. As he walked, he tapped at his comm device.

By the time he reached the hangar door, Esselt had an override code. As he typed this into the alphanumeric keypad there, he heard Wicz’s voice rising in the background. He could tell that she was getting irate, though doubted whether the threats she was issuing would work.

The wide hangar door parted. Esselt quickly stepped in and found himself in a corridor slightly broader than the doorway. Security desks were situated to either side of the door, with banks of blank monitors behind them. The corridor led around twenty metres to another pressure door, while to either side of this were a number of darkened offices. A pale light illuminated the corridor itself, showing the same metallic grey floor and white padded walls and ceiling as the rest of the station. Esselt knew that the workshops and storage bays lay beyond the far door, which ultimately gave access to open space and the scaffolding and gantries at which craft could be berthed, or at which new craft could be assembled. Today, however, he didn’t need to access this area: the security desks would do.

As the hangar door slowly slid shut, Esselt booted up the computer system at the nearest desk. An isolated server meant that each bay had its own secure system. Online, however, the computer gave access to top-level station systems. Esselt quickly accessed Bay 35’s external cameras. To override control of these he needed to submit a further request to an Intelligence Analyst at JEIA. Within a few minutes, he was able to redirect all of the cameras away from the berthing and workspaces at 35 to point instead at 36. The upper bank of cameras had a good unobstructed view of the ISIS Bornholm above the plane of the station. He used the cameras to record as much detail as he could, particularly of the ship’s condition and dimensions. The Bornholm was like a great white whale: it was generally ovoid in shape, with a cargo bulge underneath and several mighty engines protruding from behind like flippers. Two broad, rigid umbilicals connected from the station to the bulge, with one narrower one connected ahead of this for use by human crew and passengers. Red and yellow lights sparkled along the bows of the ship and the control deck at the front.

Not really sure what he was looking for, Esselt submitted all of the recorded information into a computerised workspace, which created a 3D image of the craft, and then he called up details of the ship from ship registry. As the two images rotated side by side on the screen in front of him, a diagnostic program analysed the images. And Esselt broke into a smile…

***

Ten minutes later, as the hanger door to Bay 35 closed, Esselt noticed Wicz gliding towards him. Her face was thunderous.

Bastards, she hissed, as she came up to him. I can’t believe they just did that.

So, you didn’t get in?

They weren’t even particularly subtle about it. They left me waiting and buzzing for some minutes, then came back to say that the door was malfunctioning. They had engineers coming to work on it, they said, but didn’t think it would be fixed for an hour or so.

And the ship leaves…?

In an hour. And then, to emphasize her displeasure, she repeated: Bastards!

Esselt couldn’t help but smile. He put a reassuring hand on his partner’s arm. Never mind. We don’t need to see any more.

You found something?

Oh yes, he nodded sagely. I did indeed.

What?

That’s not the Bornholm.

CHAPTER THREE

THE TRANS-SOLAR SYSTEM universe had proven full of surprises, the main one being that there was life out there. In fact, there was lots of it. About one-third of all of the systems that had been visited over the century since humanity had become an interstellar species had been found to have some form of life. Even though logistics, time and opportunity had limited exploration to within twenty light years of Earth, this had still allowed about one-hundred-and-twenty of the roughly one-hundred-and-fifty stars in this sphere to be surveyed, with replicating organisms found in the systems of forty-two of these. And this was from relatively cursory inspection. Given that much of the life that had been found was primitive, and some of it was exotically non-Terrestrial – existing in strange places beyond any ‘goldilocks zone’ for water, such as on ice moons around gas giants – it was highly likely that much had been missed. The problem was that scientific access to interstellar ships was limited, and most of those who owned these craft had little interest in performing lengthy analyses of systems with no humanly habitable planet just to find yet more bugs.

Though most of the life that had been discovered was relatively primitive, that found on the best real estate in the local universe had tended to be the most advanced – and also, perversely, the most inimical to humanity. In other words, planets that had oxygen atmospheres and liquid water, which were habitable for humans, also tended to host creatures that were considerably less accommodating than those on other, scarcely liveable bodies. And this was one of the reasons why New Earth really was a diamond in the rough – a goldilocks world with relatively few bears on it. The planet hosted life that had advanced enough to oxygenise the atmosphere without going too far down the route of evolving intemperate Animalia, with the surface mostly covered in dense tree and fern analogues that had no active defence against the invading bipeds. In addition, the planet was a good size, with gravity only slightly more than Earth, and it had a stable, temperate climate over most of its surface. In contrast, all of the other recently (partially and sparsely) colonised worlds had something wrong with them, whether a limited amount of land mass, low oxygen levels, temperature extremes over much of their surfaces (or at certain times of their years), burdensome gravity, ferocious indigenes, or indeed, a combination of these things.

Captain Michael Henry Jones mulled over his good fortune as he relaxed under the warm glow of 61 Cygni A, which loomed large overhead, looking considerably bigger than Sol looked from Earth, thanks to the planet’s relative nearness to its mother star. He reclined in a small, open-topped half-track, with his feet up on the dashboard and his blue helmet resting on the passenger seat. Currently, he was parked atop a small hill that was covered in a yellow-green grass analogue, which gave a clear view over the settlement of Novaya Moskva in a dip in the landscape below. His squad of Peacekeepers was arrayed behind him, taking their lunch noisily at half-a-dozen picnic benches. Occasional laughter and raucous comments drifted to Jones on the light breeze.

As he contemplated the settlement below, Jones was able to trace how its development reflected the colonists’ changing understanding of this new world. Novaya Moskva (or NM to the Peacekeepers) had a highly symmetrical old town made of fortress-like two-story buildings that had been rapidly constructed to provide security. A ring of open space, now hosting various games fields and football pitches, showed where the original perimeter fences had once stood when there was genuine fear as to what might lurk in the unexplored lands beyond. The zone beyond this revealed a more-lax attitude to planning, with the buildings varying in shape, size, and concentration, and with variation increasing the further one got from the centre. The most recent constructions were now barely part of the town itself, sometimes sitting in isolation on hill tops or in groves of imported Earth trees (silver birches here, brought from Mother Russia itself), coming right up to the foot of the hill from which Jones observed. Some of the new builds were opulent, like grand dachas, built to the whim of a new type of settler – those with the money to afford an off-world passport and the fare to emigrate here. And Jones knew that the layout of NM was replicated in the other original settlements that clustered around this town – like bastions around a central citadel – each being the home of one particular major nation or community from Earth. Over the last few years, however, smaller settlements with more mixed populations had begun to appear in more distant areas, with some even springing up on New Earth’s other three continents. There was now no shortage of aspiring migrants from all over the home world, with batches arriving on every transport from the spacefaring powers. Indeed, within a decade the population was likely to approach that of Mars, which had been settled for much longer, and it already exceeded that of all of the other new worlds combined.

It was these new arrivals that were the main source of concern for Jones and the battalion of UN Peacekeepers in which he served. This multinational force, recruited from elite regiments of old-world armies, had originally been tasked with protecting the first settlers from hostile native fauna. But once the planet had been found to be relatively tame, and the criteria for immigrants had changed from specially selected, high-calibre, hardy pioneers, to anyone with enough money – no matter how deranged, entitled, dishonest or psychotic – the main risks to the settlers had changed from ones without the population to ones within. The Peacekeepers’ role was now as a planetary police force, minimally aided by small home units in the main towns.

We’re about done, sir. Where next?

Jones was jolted from his reverie. He turned to find Sergeant Jorgenson, dressed in a light green uniform, adjusting the straps to his blue helmet with its white ‘UN’ lettering. Though Jones hailed from Lincoln in England, and Jorgenson from Copenhagen in Denmark, the fact that they were both Atlanteans created a common bond that helped them work well together. In fact, Jones usually turned to the Dane if he needed to get something done, rather than to his second-in-command, Lieutenant Kasperson of Arizona, USA, with whom he shared a mother tongue but little else. Kasperson had been left to hold the fort in Reagan while Jones took a squad to recce the environs of NM in search of illicit activities.

Jones reclaimed his helmet and encouraged his sergeant to join him in the front of the half-track. He then keyed on the terminal set in the centre of the dashboard. This came alive with a map of the area, centred upon their current location. They had set off late from their base in Reagan, so Jones had allowed the squad to stop for lunch before their swoop – not being a believer in going into action on an empty stomach. Intel from JEIA suggests that we need to check this place out, he scrolled the map eastwards, indicating a collection of buildings about seven kilometres away in the lee of a steep hill. A single road wound from there to NM, passing around the hill’s curve, through a valley that held a small river. Jones manipulated the map on the screen, allowing him to show the contours of the land and the geography. He tapped on the crest of the hill and then expanded the picture with a sweep of thumb and forefinger. Note that there is some sort of tower on the brow of the hill giving a dominant view over the road as it approaches from NM.

Observation equipment, nodded the Dane. Any weapons?

The roof extends out over the tower so satellite imagery can’t tell for sure. Although we’ve only ever been fired on by psychos before, the time is coming when the gangs may think they can get away with shooting at Peacekeepers.

Jorgenson frowned. They would need some high-up protection to get away with that.

Yeah, well, they might have it. Why do you think we were sent?

They don’t trust the NM contingent? Jorgenson blue eyes widened. It was the closest thing to outrage that the captain had seen in the Dane. He couldn’t help but smile at this.

Don’t worry too much – it’s just a precaution. But let’s just say the intel didn’t come from the KGB, but from one of the other agencies working under the JEIA banner. Given this, it was thought expedient to look outside the Russian community. And I guess it helps that we have no Russians in our unit. He indicated the troops behind him without looking. The UN Space Division differed from its Terrestrial counterpart in having multi-national units rather than seconded units from member states: as such it was more like the original French Foreign Legion, and indeed, it was sometimes humorously