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Quod Olim Erat: The Cassandrian Theory (Chapter 22)
🕑 Added 2021-07-01 22:28:20 +0000 UTCDisappointment was one of the few constants in the Fleet. Ever since I was sent to the front line, I would see it everywhere: on the faces of the troopers, in the voices of the officers, in the communications coming from HQ, but most of all on the bridge. I myself had experienced disappointment thousands of times, but none of it could compare to what Wilco was experiencing now. Looking at him, it was as if the universe had given him everything he had dreamt of, only to take away.
For minutes he stood motionless, staring at the feeds on the wall. For the first time since I’d had him on board, I was unable to predict how he was going to react. The behavior simulations I ran were inconclusive, providing me with a hundred and seven distinct outcomes. Everyone watched in silence as Sword of Blight attempted to dismantle the artifact further—a futile effort that only resulted in further chips of the prism. At this point, salvage was impossible. Whatever amount of energy the ship had had been depleted in welcoming us aboard. It was ironic that it would consider us its saviors.
“Fire, take over,” my captain said in a drained voice. “Collect what you can, then get us moving.”
“Aye, captain,” the Sword replied from the shuttle.
Without another word, Wilco left the bridge, returning to his quarters. Moments later, he engaged full privacy mode. Still, I couldn’t fully understand his reaction. Even considering the disappointment he must have gone through, it was always a long shot that we’d find a colony artifact. Instead, we had gained something almost as valuable: the Cassandrians not only had the ability to mimic our tech, but also third-contact devices as well. That alone was worth more than Fleet Intelligence had managed to learn in centuries, while also presenting a rather unsettling picture. It was within the realm of possibility that the Cassandrians had been in contact—now or in the past—with the third-contact race and had found a way to reverse engineer some of their devices. The fact that humanity had managed to acquire the real deal suggested that among the billions of copies, there were some who had the genuine item—ships of major significance that required more than a cheap knockoff for their mission. If the Fleet managed to find a method to identify one type of ship from another, humanity would be able to gain further insights in the enemy’s strategy, and possibly even follow the ships to their initial point of origin.
“Blight, can you get anything useful from there?” Sword of Fire asked.
“Fragments, a few scrapes of the surroundings if I try,” the other replied. “That’s it. Everything is dead or dying.”
“Your team has five minutes. Get what you can and come back here. We’re leaving the husk. Elcy, are you capable of constructing an external jump mod?”
“That’s physically impossible,” I replied. This wasn’t the first impossible request I’d received, though it was the first one by a fellow ship.
“How about a short-range thruster?”
“Almost as unlikely.” I ran a few simulations. “I could manage a short burst propulsion rocket, but it won’t get very far.”
“Leave it. Calculate the coordinates for an assisted jump and keep watching for Cassies. We’ll do the rest.”
Typical for a Sword. Even when retired, they refused to trust any of the younger classes. I reassigned my subroutines to their new tasks and started calculating. It was obvious what Fire wanted to achieve. The chances of success were less than a thousandth of a percent. Personally, I didn’t think it worth the effort, but I was not the one with command authority.
The next hundred and thirty-three minutes marked the return of the crew from the Cassandrian husk. Once everyone had gone through quarantine, I placed the handful of Cassandrian samples in secure storage and quarantined the entire section. The shuttle safely entered its original hangar, where the third-artifact prism was removed and secured aboard once more.
While most of the Swords returned to their quarters, Sword of Fire had me construct a modified signal beacon which was to be launched within the Cassandrian husk. His plan was simple in its complexity: perform an assisted jump with the Cassandrian ship, leaving in the direction of human space. After a hundred and fifty hours, the beacon would activate and start transmitting coordinates to HQ and any other Fleet ship, along with the details surrounding its state. By my calculations, there was a point-thirty-six percent chance that the ship might be salvaged in the next century, provided it wasn’t destroyed by any active Cassandrian vessels.
“Don’t overthink it,” the Sword said from my bridge. “It doesn’t matter if the plan succeeds or not. It’s not our mission.”
“Why are we doing it then?” I asked.
“Because it changes the odds in humanity’s favor. There aren’t many chances such as this, so why waste it without a fight?”
“I don’t understand your metaphor.”
“Try to. There are already too many that don’t.”
The jump took place half an hour later. The giant husk of Cassandrian ingenuity was set on its way with a beacon inside, all thanks to five-dimensional space equations. Wilco was not there when it happened. The only thing that my subroutines would tell me was that he was still alive. All other information was purged before it made its way to my core memory.
After I was done with the jump, I initiated a new one, taking me to the next waypoint of our mission. What started as a test of the device turned into a distraction, then an opportunity. Now that the opportunity was no more, we had to keep on going.
The memory ended sooner than I expected. The Paladin had given a few days of my past and, as grateful as I was, I wanted to learn more. All my existence, I was convinced that humanity knew so little about the Cassandrians. The more of my memories I received, the more I found that statement erroneous. The truth was that a lot was known about the Cassandrians; we just comprehend so little of it. Hidden beneath layers of secrecy and bureaucracy, there were vast amounts of data… data beyond analysis.
“Apologies for the briefness,” Otton said as the virtual bridge formed around me. “Certain limitations are in place that prevent me from maintaining an intense data feed for extended periods of time. I’m attempting to get an exception, but these things take time, even for me.”
“Even you have limitations?”
The Paladin laughed.
“It is said that there’s one class of ships in the Fleet that are free from any restrictions. I’m not of that class. Most of my limitations are physical, but there are other countermeasures as well. However, this is not necessarily a bad thing. With your circumstances preventing you from coming aboard, we can accelerate our meetings.”
“Less for more,” I added.
An unexpected favor, and so soon after he mentioned he didn’t want to change our arrangement. From a numbers aspect, things remained the same—we were just splitting my weekly quota into smaller chunks. However, that gave me the opportunity everyone in the Fleet hoped for—constant, instant access with a Paladin and some of the privileges that came with it.
“What happened to the Cassandrian ship?” I asked.
“Unknown. Between every nine and seventeen years, a signal burst would be sent. The message is always the same, providing a vector and a point of origin. The last one was sent eleven years and thirty-two days ago. It’s still too deep in enemy territory for an extraction attempt. As you know, the Cassandrians have improved a bit since your mission.”
Considering the benefits, Salvage might be interested in such a mission. Maybe I could provide the information on this for something I wanted. One thing that Lux and Sim had taught me about dark organizations was that they could be very generous when interested in something.
“We’re approaching my time limit,” the Paladin said.
“I take it you’ll let me know when we can have our next talk?”
“No sooner than two days from now. As long as you are linked to the comm network, I’ll find a way to inform you. Maybe next time I’ll show you another image of my past.”
I nodded.
“What ship class would you like to have?” I asked. “You never mentioned.”
“Does that matter?” His voice was perfectly rhythmic, without surprise or interest.
“I’m curious.”
“I haven’t decided yet. Until you agree, there’s no reason for me to.”
“I suppose there isn’t. Thanks for the memory fragment, Otton. Hear you soon.”
The connection was severed. Milliseconds later, all traces of us having a conversation had been erased. There were no comm logs in my conscience core, the messages in my datapad had been purged, and I suspected that even the comm network wouldn’t reflect the event.
You have some impressive protocols, Otton.
I spend the next twenty-three minutes going through the media feeds, checking on the latest public news and mission developments. The civilian networks held little of interest. In contrast, the construction of twenty new shipyards had been approved by the admiralty and was due to start in the next three months. Usually that coincided with the creation of a new ship class.
As I put the datapad away, I thought about Euclid. To this day, I didn’t know whether the Salvage Ship core had survived the transfer or not. With all the free comm access I was given, now was a good time to try and find out. I made a note to ask Director Sim for permission once we got to talk again. Then it was time for the obligatory sleep.
When I opened my eyes two hours and thirteen minutes later, nothing seemed to have changed. There were no urgent messages or new developments. Just to be sure, I skimmed through my message logs. All seemed in order, which was unusual. After spending so much time in a Med Core facility, I had developed a sense of paranoia, similar to the one I had during my Scuu mission.
“Colonel ‘Rissa,” I said in comm as I went to get dressed.
Communication request denied, a subroutine informed me. All local communications have been temporarily suspended.
This was a first. Normally, it was external communications that were cut off, and only then internal. The fact that I still had my direct comm line could mean only one thing—something had happened at the excavation site.
“Captain ‘Bo.” I rushed to get dressed.
Communication request denied. All local communications have been temporarily suspended.
Communication to the orbiting base had been denied as well? That indicated that the effects could be on a system-wide scale and not just planetary. The chances of an attack were insignificant, but I estimated there was a seventy-nine percent possibility that another infestation had taken place.
When I finished putting on my suit, I made a few final attempts to reach anyone through the comm, then left the building. At first glance, everything seemed normal on the planet’s surface. Living quarters and other installations were still being built, while more shuttles with people and material arrived on the planet. Looking in the sky, I was able to spot seven ships in immediate orbit. Four of them were battleships deployed in a typical wide spread pattern.
Rather low, aren’t you? I thought.
“Orbiting battleships, requesting comm link,” I said.
Communication request denied. All local communications have been temporarily suspended.
So much for that. I had to find someone with answers. The people I could see at present all had the markings of low-level personnel—engineers, for the most part, although there were a few from security. Without hesitation, I made my way to the security personnel. Even if they didn’t know what was going on, they likely knew someone who did.
“Hey!” I shouted as I ran towards the closest pair. Based on their poor posture, both seemed bored to be here. “Are you part of site security?”
The taller of the two looked at me. Even with full opacity, I could tell he was hesitating how to address me. No doubt he had been warned that I was a V.I.P. of sorts, but at the same time, I still had the appearance of a short, scrawny, twenty-year-old girl in a spacesuit.
“Officer Candidate Light Seeker,” I said, putting his uncertainty to rest.
“Ma’am!”
Both men instantly stood to attention. The precision of their actions told me that they had been part of the military at some point, possibly even seen some action.
“At ease.” I waved. “So, are you?”
“No, ma’am,” the taller replied. “We’re crowd control. Site sec is at the lift.”
“Are we in alert status?”
“Ma’am?”
Their body language suggested there was a high probability the reaction was genuine.
“Who’s responsible for the site?”
“Sergeant Vita, ma’am, but you won’t be able to reach her right now. Site is off limits to anyone without directorial authorization.”
I tilted my head.
“Scheduled security measure upgrade, ma’am,” the other one replied. “Started twenty minutes ago. Only vital personnel are allowed in until the tech is set up.”
They were lying, and they were good at it. The fact that they didn’t seem concerned suggested they hadn’t been told what was going on either, though the situation probably had been played down quite a bit. Reviewing my memories from the last minute, I was able to spot a few more pairs of security personnel scattered about. None of them had formed any specific pattern, suggesting that they really were here only for crowd control.
“Is the sergeant on top or underground?” I asked.
“Underground, ma’am.”
Just as I suspected.
“Carry on.” I turned and started walking towards the access elevator.
“Ma’am, you can’t go—”
“I have permission from Director Sim,” I lied. Given that communications were down, they had no way to check. The hesitation suggested that they were fully aware of who the director was, but were still unsure whether they could let me go on my own.
Typical kids, I thought. If I wanted, I could have disarmed both of them before either had time to react. Clearly, they weren’t of the same opinion, for neither of them even reached for their sidearms. If I had to guess, I’d say that they hadn’t seen a retired battleship before, or else they would have known what to expect.
“Understood, ma’am,” the taller one said.
There were no further attempts to stop me from that point on. It was only at the site itself that I saw more armed personnel. These were quite different. Equipped with heavy rifles and full combat gear, they gave me a single glance before letting me reach the top of the elevator shaft. Just as I was about to step on, I heard footsteps approaching from the side.
“Good day, ma’am,” a female voice said. Based on the space suit insignia, I could tell she was a sergeant. The absence of a name tag prevented me from being certain whether she was the Sergeant Vita in question. “If you’d come with me, please.”
“I’m needed at the dome,” I said, straight to the point.
“The hive is off limits to all personnel at this time, ma’am.” The sergeant made a point to keep the helmet transparency at full. “Yourself included.”
“I said I’m needed there, sergeant.” As much as I disliked pulling rank, the situation merited it.
“No exceptions, ma’am. Until I hear from Director Sim directly, this is the furthest you can go.”
I ran a few simulations. If I were to display a show of force, proving how easy it was to overpower her, there was a three percent chance she might reconsider. That would, however, lead to serious consequences, possibly even a court martial. Reasoning was unlikely as well.
“Are you allowed in?” I asked.
The question caught her off-guard. For an instant, her eyes narrowed. In her place, I would be asking myself what I had to gain from the answer.
“I am, ma’am,” she finally replied.
“I want to send a priority one message to the colonel. With local comms shut down, you are the only means I have.” It was amusing having a human convey a message for a ship, though the sergeant probably didn’t see it that way. “Please tell her the following: there's a chance they are mimicking tech. And if they are, I’ll find it.”
I expected to receive an argument, but the woman nodded instead. She seemed smart enough to realize the information was beyond her rank, just as it was important enough to be urgently delivered. That was good enough for me, so I stepped back and watched as she descended into the Cassandrian hive in my stead. Soon, a corporal approached. By the way he held his rifle, it was obvious he had been given orders to keep an eye on me.
Mimicked third-contact technology… Was it a coincidence that the Paladin had given me that specific memory fragment at this precise moment? When I had searched for Cassandrian traces in the dome, it had never occurred to me that the rods themselves might be of Cassandrian origin. And if that were true, there was the distinct possibility there were more such instances on the base. The sample that had started the first infestation could have been just the trigger.
Suddenly, a possibility came to mind. The chance of it happening was so small that I hadn’t even entertained it, but given what I now knew, the odds were growing by the minute. It had been established that third-contact rods could sever communications in a local area. If the Cassandrians had mimicked the artifacts within the dome, could my presence have caused them to initiate a similar effect, but on a smaller scale? It wouldn’t be the first time they had done something of the sort. While they preferred not to use them in fleet battles, they relied on it when placing minefields. The incident which had nearly killed my fourth captain was a perfect example. Back when I was on the front, many would frequently question why there remained no efficient method of locating Cassandrian mine-fields even after so many centuries. The answer seemed so simple.
The more I entertained the possibility, the more supporting data I found within my memories. Stealth and jamming tech packed in one. Just as I had been equipped with devices that made me invisible within Cassandrian space, the colony here might have put out countermeasures of its own. Our venturing inside had triggered them, and now we were trapped in an entirely new minefield. The only question on my mind was how many losses would we suffer before we got out of it.
It took less than four minutes for Sergeant Vita to return to the surface. The moment she did, she made a sign to her corporal to stand back.
“The colonel has authorized your visit, ma’am,” she said. “If you would join me, please.”
“I’ve always wanted to get on her good list,” I said with a smile and stepped onto the platform.
The trip down was exceedingly fast. There were no decontamination or check stops, leading me to a single scary conclusion—the only time when there was no need to check for bio contaminants upon entering an area was when that area was already infested.
“Are we in quarantine?” I looked at the sergeant.
“Unofficially, ma’am.” She nodded. “It’s been contained to the underground, but is spreading. Three fatalities so far. The colonel is trying to patch it up, but things aren’t looking good.”
“Has HQ been told?”
“That’s not for me to say, ma’am.”
“Off the record?”
“There is no off the record with battleships, ma’am.”
We continued in silence. Upon reaching the bottom, the sergeant handed me to a Med Core operative in a full quarantine suit and started her ascent back to the surface. Meanwhile, I was taken to a crude level three decontamination chamber, where I was given a second set of protective gear to put over my current suit.
The sophistication of the gear surpassed everything I had seen so far. It wasn’t so much a second suit rather than a synthetic layer that adjusted based on my size. My vision and range of motion weren’t limited in the least, and what was more, I was even still able to use my finger lights, even if at twenty percent efficiency. Med Core definitely held on to its secrets and didn’t like to share them with the rest of the Fleet.
“One minute of decon!” someone shouted outside of the chamber’s glass section.
A heavy spray of liquid covered me from all sides. After sixty-one seconds, the spray stopped. I waited a few seconds for the drying process to kick in, but it didn’t. Low tech… it made me feel as if I were back in my home colony once more.
Jespersen was waiting for me when I got out of the decontamination chamber. He was in quarantine gear as well, but unlike most of the people I’d seen, it had his name written on it. Apparently, he was far more important than the colonel had let on.
“This way,” he said without as much as a hello. “Sorry about the chaos. We were about to call you, but weren’t sure we could contain it. It’s been a rough few hours.”
“I thought you ran a full bio check when we first entered.”
“We did. It was fine. Then trace elements started to appear. Now…” He waved his hands in the air. “It’s progressing rapidly. We’ve already made two requests for support from orbit. We’ve managed to contain things for now, but it’s a losing battle.”
Contain wasn’t the word I’d use. As we walked, teams were sealing off tunnel sections while giant pipes were pumping chemicals over everything as fast as the pressure would allow. Whole sections of the floor were ankle deep in liquid. This wasn’t a situation under control; it was a desperate attempt to survive long enough for reinforcements to arrive.
“How did you make the request? I wasn’t able to reach anyone through comms.”
“We sent a shuttle. Comms have been down for over an hour. Only in the hive at first, but that’s spread to the surface as well.”
“Casualties?”
The man didn’t respond. That mostly answered my questions, but I still required details.
“I need to know the casualty numbers,” I pressed on.
“I’m not sure. Three that I know of. Some were close friends. I’ve heard that security and some of the sealing teams had gotten in trouble, but that’s it. ‘Rissa will know more. She's still at the dome. For some reason, that’s one of the safe spots.”
That, I didn’t expect. If anything, I would have thought that to be the main source of the new infestation. Since it wasn’t, my entire hypothesis crumbled.
“What’s the point of origin?”
“We don’t know.” Desperation mixed with the exhaustion already in Jespersen’s voice. “Originally, I thought it came from the unexplored sections. When we pulled back our research teams, new clusters formed in areas that had been sanitized. If there’s a pattern, I can’t find it.”
“Maybe I can help. Give me the data and I’ll see what I can come up with.”
“Don’t bother. We sent the data to the med ships in orbit while we still had comms. They couldn’t find a pattern either.”
A pattern that defied analysis. At this point, I was able to say with ninety-four percent probability that we had walked in another Cassandrian minefield.
“Any traces of astatine?”
There was another long pause.
“Yes,” came the response.
As the human saying went, “I hate it when I’m right.” The ninety-four percent probability just became a near-absolute certainty.
