Click to read an excerpt from Pandora's Box
Click to read an excerpt from Song of the Valkyrie
Click to read an excerpt from Flesh and Steel
Click to read an excerpt from Steel and Dreams
Click to read an excerpt from Song of the Vanir
Click to read an excerpt from Headborough
I thought this was stupid. The girl should have died. No experience, no training other than what she'd read on a computer screen, no nothing. She ran out of food and got sick several times trying to find out what was edible, ran out of water and nearly died before she found more, and all of this with nothing more to guide her by than an old reference in an autobiography of a man who later became some famous politician. Not only might his directions been completely wrong because he was recalling something from four decades in his past, but in 750 years the landscape had changed. It was impossible. Even so, here she was.
My wyrm decided to speak up so Mrin could hear it. "Comment: I find her story totally unacceptable. I am aware that all indications are she is telling the truth, but I cannot accept her story. Analysis: I think this is an enemy plan to lure us out into the open where we can be destroyed. Recommendation: We should terminate this female, dissect her and resume our game. I believe I can win." she susurrated.
"Is that your wyrm?" Mrin asked into the darkness, her voice trembling with fear.
"Reply: Affirmative. That's her. I tend to agree with her, too. Your story is completely ridiculous. The moon blown up, man enslaved, bred as slave labor and used for food? Impossible. You're probably just a highly trained enemy agent who's superbly good at lying, and I should just terminate you and be done with it. Besides, I've been trying to beat my wyrm at chess for about a millennium now, and I think I've got her whipped. I think it's checkmate in two moves."
"Comment: Impossible. You cannot do it in less than three." my wyrm replied with a hiss.
"Reply: Two moves, tops."
"Counter-Reply: I disagree. It cannot be done in less than three."
"Counter-Reply: You're bluffing. Two moves at the outside."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute! What about me? You two are just going to sit here and argue while I'm cold and wet and scared in the dark?"
"Comment: She is correct. We should terminate her immediately, dissect her as rapidly as possible and simply return to the game. That is the only way to decide whether it shall be two moves or three."
"NO! That's not what I meant!" Mrin yelped.
"Reply: You're right, we're just wasting time. Her story is too outrageous to be believed, anyway. And I still say two."
"Um, um, wait! If you kill me, you'll never know how good I am at chess!"
Mrin floated there in the dark for a while in silence. My wyrm and I were having a private conversation, and we didn't want her to hear it. "Question: Do you think she's any good?"
"Reply: I doubt it. If her story is true, then she is a human cow who happened to learn to read. How many other cattle could she be playing the game with? She's just trying to stay alive. Recommendation: Apply the electroshock at setting 100, we dissect her and return to the game."
"Counter-Reply: I agree, and I certainly would like to examine her internal organs and answer a few questions. On the other manipulator, if she can play, we'd at least have a new player for a few years until she dies."
"Comment: That is an interesting thought. While I doubt that she can play, if she can, it would be fascinating to be challenged by another mind."
"Reply: Wouldn't it, though?"
I spoke up so Mrin could hear. "Comment: Mrin, we've decided to try you out. Question: Who will you play first?"
Mrin let out an enormous gasp of relief. "Okay, but before I play, I want you to just look outside once. You'll see the lunar ring and know my story's true."
"Reply: Unacceptable. Her story cannot possibly be true. That can only be an enemy trick to draw us out into the open."
"Comment: I agree. She probably can't play at all, and just wants us to show our head to some spy-satellite that can pinpoint us for the enemy."
"No, no! That's not true! I can play, really! I just want you to take a look, that's all. Once you see it, you'll believe me!"
"Reply: Negative. Play first. You say you can do it, so prove it."
"Comment: I agree. If the female insists she can play, then let her prove it. It is as much a part of her story as anything else. If she cannot, then that part is a lie. If it is a lie, then all is a lie and she has either had exceptional training at deception or is a synthoid. Either way, a quick dissection will tell us."
"Okay, but if I play, then will you look?"
My wyrm and I both thought about it. "Reply: If you can play, we'll look. If you can't, you die."
"Interjection: I totally disagree! She should only be allowed to live if she proves to be a challenging opponent! There is no point in letting her live if she can merely move the pieces and is not a challenging opponent. You have been a challenging opponent for over one thousand years. At this moment, you have me in a position where you might win in five or six moves, but I think you will lose. At best, you will stalemate. Even if you do win, you cannot possibly do it in less than three," my wyrm hissed loudly.
"Reply: Two."
"Counter-Reply: Three," she shot back.
"Will you two stop it? Alright, alright. You want me to play a game of chess for my life, we will."
"Reply: Excellent. Who will you play, me or my wyrm?"
"Um... You."
"Comment: You are wise to pick him. It has taken him this long to even come close to beating me."
"Reply: Hah! I'd have beaten you several times if you didn't keep cheating by distracting me with coyotes and snakes and birds and mice and all sorts of other false alarms for the last thousand years."
"Counter-Reply: We must protect the water. It has only been 50 years since we managed to accumulate enough hydrogen to be able to fill our tanks to maximum. The pool is often dry, and the bushes need some watering during the dry seasons to maintain our camouflage. Birds, coyotes and other animals threaten our survival. They must die. Mission parameters indicate that all humans who find our cave must die so that our presence remains a secret. I do not invent these interruptions as a form of cheating, they simply happen. It is not my fault that these interruptions keep occurring. Observe this current interruption - we have spent four hours, nine minutes and 48 seconds handling this. We never spent more than 10 minutes, nine seconds terminating, dissecting and discarding a coyote. The longest previous human interruption took us one hour, ten minutes and sixteen seconds to resolve. This female is stalling for time, possibly so that enemy units may find her and save her. Recommendation: Either play now or terminate her."
"I'll play, I'll play!"
"Reply: Good. Game Question: White or black?"
"Ummm... White."
"Comment: Interesting choice. Game Request: State your first move."
Mrin was silent for a moment. "You mean you expect me to play a game of chess for my life while tied up and wet and cold and floating in the DARK?" she yelped.
"Reply: Of course. Comment: Incidentally, you're not tied up - you're being held by the tank's internal restraints."
"I can't play chess like that!"
"Question: Why not?"
"It's too distracting, I'm too scared, I'm hungry, I'm cold, I have to pee and how in the hell am I supposed to know where the pieces are if I can't see them?" she yelled.
"Reminder: I told you that you should have terminated her. Comment: The female lacks the intelligence to play at your level, and is simply wasting our time," my wyrm hissed.
"NO! Okay, okay, uhmmm... uh... King's pawn to king four." Mrin replied.
"Comment: Not an inspired opening, but we'll see what happens."
The game proceeded to a crashing defeat for Mrin after only sixteen moves. It was pathetic. "Reminder: I told you the female was lying. She can't even see a simple king's gambit forming. You haven't used that one against me in three hundred years. Recommendation: Terminate her so we can dissect her and move on with our game," the wyrm hissed.
"Reply: I have to agree. That was absolutely pathetic."
Mrin was sobbing. "It's not fair! You complained when she distracted you! I can't concentrate under these conditions! I'm cold, I'm hungry, I'm scared, and it's just not fair! You cheated me!" she whimpered.
"Reply: I did not cheat. You are a lousy player."
"I am not! If you gave me a fair chance, I'd beat you!" she yelled back, thrashing against the restraints.
"Command: Remove the prisoner from the interrogation tank and place her in front of us. Extend the port sensor again, audio and video on. Arm the 12.5mm cannon in case she tries to escape."
"By your command," the wyrm hissed. Half a minute later, a dripping Mrin was dropped by the number two and three arms in front of the wyrm's mandibles.
"Comment: Okay, you're out. Question: Are you ready to try again, or was all of this just an elaborate ruse to give you a chance to escape?"
"I still can't play like this! It's dark, I'm cold, I'm hungry, and I still have to pee!"
"Comment: You're pathetic. Fifty or sixty millennia ago, your ancestors were living in caves just like this one. You have to pee, then do it. You're hungry, then eat one of the bugs in the cave - there's lots of them. It's dark, fine - it's not our fault the sun's set, but we'll turn on a light so you can see the bugs you need to eat. You're cold, fine. Huddle up to the thermal exchangers for the reactor - we'll turn off the IR suppression and open the emergency thermal vents so the warm air will get to you. It's not radioactive, so you won't die. Anybody who can hike 100 kilometers with little food and less water to find a cave in the mountains in the middle of nowhere, Arizona should be more self-reliant than that."
"Interjection: I totally disagree! Opening the reactor vents would raise the temperature in the cave and allow us to be spotted on IR satellite imaging. Increasing the illumination may also allow us to be spotted by nearby enemy units. Comment: If she must urinate, make her do it in the pool to increase our water supplies. If she must eat, we can catch the insects she cannot see for her. She could catch them herself if she paid more attention. Observe - there is a cricket on her left hand that she has not even noticed," the wyrm whispered. Mrin let out a little shriek, flapped her hands and hopped a bit as she sat on the floor. "Comment: I do not believe the female is truly hungry at all. I believe she was simply lying to get you to remove her from the interrogation tank. Observe - she not only rejected an insect she could have easily eaten, she has now crushed a large cave cricket with her left buttock and has made no motion to retrieve it and eat it. Analysis: I believe she simply guessed at a password and through random chance was correct. Recommendation: Terminate her now so we can dissect her and resume our game," the wyrm hissed.
Mrin shrieked, then said "No, no! I'm hungry, see? Look!", then reached down to her buttocks, pulled the crushed remains of the cave cricket off her skin and popped it into her mouth. She made a strange, gagging sound as she chewed it but finally managed to get it down.
"Comment: Perhaps she really was hungry."
"Reply: I stand corrected," the wyrm whispered.
"Question: If we took her down to the main chamber, could we use illumination there? Question: What about heating the chamber? Would that be acceptable?"
"Reply: That would be acceptable, though we would be leaving the water undefended."
"Counter-Reply: With the combination of blood, urine and other body fluids we can extract from her during dissection, I think that this would more than make up for any loss we experience to small animals. Question: What do you think?"
"Reply: I totally agree. If we draw and collect her blood slowly, we may be able to collect two liters before she dies and makes extracting the remainder problematic. Several of her internal organs are also prime sources of liquids," the wyrm hissed.
"Command: Extend number three manipulator, grab her and let's go."
"By your command."
Mrin shrieked as she felt the cold tentacle wrap around her in the darkness. "Don't kill me! Please, don't kill me!" she wailed as the wyrm backed up away from the entrance to the cave.
"Reply: Of course we're not going to kill you. We're going to give you a rematch under the conditions you specified. When you lose, then we'll kill you." She lost control of her bladder then, and followed that up by fainting again. "Comment: A complete waste of liquids. Well, let's get this over with."
Song of the Valkyrie
"Good afternoon, my child. Zeno says you are finished with your studies for today - have you returned to hear more of the stories of Mars? Ah. Which one were you interested in? Oh, that one? Well, that story is a complicated one, even for me, Old Aesop. Part was told to me by an inorganic citizen of Mars, but much of the story contains the recollections of organic beings. As you know from being one yourself, the memory recall systems of organics are a bit inaccurate, and rather subjective. Your Stoic training will help you overcome this, but one of the organics whose memories are a part of this story never had the benefits of being a citizen of Mars. Now: Our story takes place a long time ago, before we met our friends in the Confederation, but after the incident with the Jovians... Hmm? Where shall I begin, you ask? Well, like all my stories, I shall begin at the beginning, carry on through the middle, then, when I've reached the end, I'll stop. Ah, I thought that would make you laugh. Good! Let's begin, then."
Une.
"Approaching Sol system, captain. ETA 90 seconds." Lieutenant T'Vrosh called, not looking up from her navigator's console.
"Prepare for re-entry from hyperspace. When we have fully merged with norm-space again, assume an orbit ten planetary diameters out from Mars. Tactical on viewscreen. Open comm channels. Hail the Martians. Inform them we are on a mission of peace. All crew to battle stations in case the NAD doesn't buy our story - we may have to fight our way out of here. Yellow Alert." I replied, trying to keep my voice calm as I quickly rattled off my orders.
"Aye, captain." the bridge crew replied. The alarm klaxon sounded, and Lieutenant Ch'Lass' voice rang out over the ship's speakers. 'General Quarters! General Quarters! All hands to battle stations! Yellow Alert!" Throughout the ship, the three hundred and nine women of the crew went to their assigned duty stations and waited, some nervously, some fearful, some excited - many all three. I knew this as I was feeling the same emotions myself. My First Officer was probably already in the Auxiliary bridge bringing the backup command systems online and giving stand-by orders to the Officer of the Deck. Suddenly, the main viewscreen that dominated the bridge came to life, displaying our relative position to Mars. There were no other ships on screen - we were alone in space, apparently.
"We have successfully merged with norm-space again, captain. Full control restored to helm officer. Sensor-mode engaged." Lieutenant T'Vrosh called from her station.
"Confirmed, captain." Ensign D'Nal called, thumbing a switch on her the helm console to engage the maneuver drives and attitude adjuster jets.
"The Martians are hailing us, captain." Lieutenant Ch'Lass, the ship's comm officer called, her finger pressed to her earpiece to listen.
"On screen."
"No visual, captain. Engaging translation computer." Ch'Lass replied, tapping a sequence into the keyboard at her station. 'Damn. So much for dressing up for the occasion.' I thought sourly, glancing down at my painted fingernails and trying to keep the frown from my painted lips. I smoothed the front of my full dress uniform anyway - visual communication might be established later, and my orderly shouldn't have to know that an hour of her helping me primp and be perfect for this meeting didn't go entirely to waste.
The bridge speakers came to life with the sounds of an alien, yet recognizably female speech. At the bottom of the screen, below the tactical display, a subtitle appeared - the translation computer's attempt to render the Martian's ancient language into something comprehensible. 'This is Angel, Security Chief of the Mars Colony, calling unknown ship. Please identify yourself.'
"Captain, our mission information appears to have been correct - they are using a variety of English that is approximately 18 centuries old." Ch'Lass commented.
I nodded. Our own language was Valhallan Standard Esperanto, and it had undergone natural evolution and change in the fourteen centuries since the colony ships were first launched (in fact, an enormous amount of change), but the language of the North American Directorate and Mars Colony had not changed one whit - though why it hadn't changed, we had no idea. It was not known why the colonists had chosen to switch from English to Esperanto (some of the records of the colonists aboard the ship had been lost centuries ago in a computer error) but they had. "Engage R/T Translation so I may address them directly."
"Aye, captain. R/T Translation engaged. Go ahead." Lieutenant Ch'Lass replied. A small microphone emerged from a slot on the the armrest of my chair, and I picked it up and thumbed the switch to speak.
"This is Captain Evliir Mortalae D'Shan, of the Valhallan starship Valkyrie. We are here on a mission of peace. We politely and formally request an audience with your leadership or their designated representatives to discuss our mission." I said, then released the microphone switch and waited.
"Scrambled comm transmissions are being directed towards Earth from Mars, captain. I have already engaged our crypto systems to decipher it." Ch'Lass called.
"Not their usual game transmissions?"
"No, captain."
"Well, it follows that they would alert their allies to our presence. Continue monitoring their transmissions, and let me know when you've cracked their encryption algorithm."
"Aye, captain." Ch'Lass replied.
"Orbit achieved, captain." Ensign D'Nal called.
"Acknowledged." I replied.
"All battle stations report ready and standing by, Captain."
"Acknowledged."
The response from "Angel" continued without pause, and I read the translation on the bottom of the screen to catch up. 'A landing on Mars is not possible. Mars is a totally germ-free environment. Any attempt at a landing will be viewed as an act of hostility, and dealt with accordingly. Communication with our leadership is possible, but only via comm-channel at present.'
"What weapons do they have available?" I asked.
"Sensor scans indicate they have a ring of short-range defensive satellites in orbit about the planet. They also have a single mass-driver in their largest population center. I would estimate we are in no danger should they turn hostile - though the offensive capabilities of their allies, the NAD, remain to be seen." Lieutenant T'Vrosh replied, looking at the readouts before her.
"I would say that what we saw they did to Jove when we passed through the Alpha-Centaurii system is fairly indicative of the NAD's military capabilities." I replied, and several in the bridge crew shuddered. Jove had been rendered an airless, waterless rock, drifting in space - though the reason why this had been done remained a mystery. All that was known was what the warning sattelites in orbit said - that this was the penalty for violating the space of the Sol System. Keeping a close eye on the tactical display, I thumbed the microphone again. "Comm-channel communication would be appropriate and satisfactory for the moment, considering your situation and ours. You see, we have come here on a mission of peace. We have a problem that we are hoping you can solve."
'Please explain the nature of this problem.' the alien voice replied, the translation scrolling across the bottom of the tactical display.
I took a deep breath to relax myself, then began my story.
The bridge door irised open, and I stepped through smartly, T'Vak in tow. "Admiral on the bridge!" T'Vak called without hesitation.
The bridge crew at their stations jumped as though hit by a jolt of electricity, and sat at attention - save for B'Dasa, the first officer, who didn't move in her chair (AI don't startle). I looked around, and was relieved to see V'Losh hadn't invited the ambassadors to join her on the bridge for a pre-flight briefing. Of course, one of the ambassadors, Azaziel, couldn't even fit on the bridge, nor was it likely the NAD ambassadors or ambassador from Lovelock would be terribly impressed anyway - the former having no emotions, and the latter being too alien from us to probably have the same reaction to the start of a mission.
V'Losh looked over her shoulder as she sat in her chair, saw me, then rolled her eyes. "At ease," she called, then sighed. "Admiral, really. We're preparing to launch, and-"
"I'm aware of that, Captain," I replied. "I'm here to relieve you."
V'Losh smiled at me, again like an adult might smile at a child who had inadvertently said something funny. "Admiral, don't be ridiculous. I'm far too busy to discuss this at the moment. Perhaps later?"
"Yeoman, read paragraph three of my orders from Fleet Command to the Captain."
T'Vak spoke up without hesitation, holding the orders before her. "Rear Admiral Evliir Mortale D'Shahn is hereby ordered to transfer aboard and assume full command of the Evening Star, VSS-2309, effective immediately."
V'Losh snorted. "I'm sure that reads 'honorary command', Yeoman."
T'Vak turned the orders around, printed side towards V'Losh. "Negative, Captain. The Admiral has been ordered to assume full command."
"And that is what I intend to do," I said, and stood next to V'Losh as she sat in her command chair. "Captain, I am here to relieve you."
The proper response, of course, would be for V'Losh to simply stand and say "I stand relieved." She and I would then exchange a salute, and she would step aside. But, I doubted that was what was going to happen. Given the depth of the political crisis T'Vak had laid out, it had occurred to me that the Opposition Party had probably already quietly contacted V'Losh, and told her the kinds of things they wanted to see in treaties she negotiated. And probably promised her a lucrative position in politics after she returned. She could easily resign her commission at the conclusion of this voyage, step into the political arena, and parlay the fame from this particular mission into a tremendous political career. Maybe even become the next prime minister. Yes, the prize of a lifetime lay before her - and all she had to do was keep her butt tight in that captain's chair, tell me to get lost, and make it stick.
V'Losh's chin firmed. "Admiral, don't be ridiculous. You can't possibly command this vessel, you're five centuries out of your time. Now go back to your cabin. We'll discuss this later."
I felt my heart pounding, adrenalin singing through my veins. Everything was on the line, here. I could feel it. Not just the command of this ship, or even the fate of the mission - everything. "No, Captain. You are relieved. Now get the hell out of my chair."
V'Losh snapped her head to her right. "B'Dasa, escort the Admiral to her cabin, by force if necessary. Keep her there under guard until I have time to deal with her."
B'Dasa shook her head. "I regret that I must decline, Captain."
V'Losh's eyes went wide with anger. "What?! This is mutiny!" She rose from her seat suddenly, her right hand flying across her chest...
Then froze, holding perfectly still, her sidearm half-way out of its holster.
This was because I had the muzzle of my sidearm pressed firmly to her forehead.
"You're right, V'Losh. It is mutiny. Your mutiny. I've been given command of this vessel, and you've refused to relinquish it to me. You've even attempted to draw a sidearm to enforce your will, in open defiance of orders from Fleet Command, and probably the only reason you aren't ordering us all around at gunpoint right now is that I'm faster on the draw than you. Surrender your weapon to First Officer B'Dasa, Captain, you are relieved."
V'Losh glared at me, and I could see in her eyes I was right - the only reason she wasn't ordering us around at gunpoint was I was faster on the draw than she was. Unfortunately for her, the last time she practiced drawing her sidearm was probably at her annual qualification - which, most likely, was months ago, and was little more than an annual formality. I, however, had just finished a solid week of training and qualification shooting, and thanks to the Europans, the body I had was young and fast. Finally, V'Losh sneered. "You wouldn't shoot. You're a damn pacifist from the past, you never carried a weapon in your life!"
I looked her straight in the eyes. "They tell me that at close range, this slug-thrower delivers about a metric ton of kinetic energy to its target. That kind of energy will splash your brains and blood all over me and everyone on this bridge, Captain. Probably maintenance will be picking little bits of your skull-bones out of the carpet for weeks. But if you think I won't pull this trigger, blow your head off, then just brush bloody bits of your brain and skull off that chair, sit right down and follow my orders from Fleet Command to the letter, you've got another think coming."
Steel and Dreams
"Main sensor view on screen," I called, and immediately the viewscreen filled with a view of stars.
"Magnification three," D'Linn called, and the numbers at the bottom right of the view showing magnification continued to spin, showing the magnification to three decimal places. The view looked like we were zooming towards a distant spot in space, the stars spreading apart from the center. "Magnification four... Five... Six... Seven... Eight... Nine... Ten..."
"Stop," I called, my eyes wide. At magnification ten, that was a one followed by ten zeroes. Our resolution wasn't that great optically with the main sensor - that's why we had an optical telescope aboard. But still, we should see something there. A splotch of color, at least. If we were looking at another Indomitable-class ship like our own, at this magnification, we'd see it as a large pale blur that filled the viewscreen, easily. An unrecognizable blob, perhaps, and one we wouldn't be able to tell as a rock or a ship, but we'd see it. But there was nothing - save for the stars, the screen was completely black.
"Alright, there are two possibilities," I said, after a moment. "Either between Lieutenant L'Van and Ensign Ch'Yaz we are looking at empty space, or what we are looking at can't be optically imaged with the main sensor. A stray comet? Something else dark? Answers, please."
L'Van shook her head. "That's the position, Admiral, Ensign Ch'Yaz has us pointed right at it, and her compensation for it's vector and velocity is spot-on. It should be roughly in the center of the view, perhaps a bit low and to the left."
"Is it a radio or x-ray source?"
"If it is, I can't tell at this distance, Admiral," L'Van replied. "I can't even sense it's mass at this distance. I think it's just a rock, though. If it's a meteoric rock, could be pretty dark."
I considered what to do for only a few seconds. Yes, if I was wrong, I'd end up looking foolish. Or at least L'Van would, since she was the one who'd spotted it first, but I'd take the blame in the public eye. If I was right, however, I needed to investigate it. "D'Linn, extend our apologies, our visit will be delayed a bit while we investigate this object. It's likely just a rock, but it has me curious - and certainly the scientific value gained from it is worth a few minute's delay. After you've explained the situation, close the channel."
"Aye-aye, Admiral," D'Linn replied, and began speaking quietly into the microphone of her headset. When she was done, I nodded. Either I was right, or I was wrong.
"Admiral, do you think... Maybe..." Ensign Ch'Yaz said, her voice hushed.
I knew what she was thinking, because it was exactly what I was thinking. But I knew that had to be wrong. "No, Ensign. I think it's a rock," I replied, shaking my head. 'It is a rock, it has to be, it's just a rock, it's nothing. Or a comet that got nudged into a non-cometary orbit by some weird event billions of years ago and isn't close enough to the sun to produce ejecta we can see. Or something. Anything - but not that. It's a rock. It's got to be a rock,' I thought silently. "But, just in case I'm wrong..." I said, and paused. I could only hope I would end up looking like an idiot when this was over.
"L'Van, plot us a course that will place us about three thousand kilometers out from that object, sunward but not occulting, parallel course. Helm, transfer full control to the Nav Officer as soon as she has an optimal resolution for hyperspatial translation. All stations: secure for immediate departure from orbit and translation into hyperspace. L'Van, once we reach the virtual point of our destination, hold us there for a bit."
"Aye-aye, Admiral," L'Van called, then tapped her console rapidly for a long moment. "Course laid in, Admiral," L'Van announced.
"Acknowledged."
"All stations report secure for hyperdrive engagement, Admiral," Lieutenant D'Linn called a few moments later.
"Engage."
The screen filled with the roiling colors and eerie, twisting shapes of hyperreality.
"Approaching the virtual point in ten seconds," L'Van called.
"Yellow Alert, all weapons crews to their stations, particle and meson screens on full."
The crew blinked at me for a moment, then D'Linn tapped a button on her console. D'Linn's voice rang out through the ship as the alarm klaxons sounded, the alert indicators on the walls flashing yellow. "General Quarters! General Quarters! All hands to battle stations! Yellow Alert!"
'Oh, I am going to look sooooo stupid when we see this is just a rock,' I thought, glancing to T'Vak. T'Vak stood silently by my side, as always. When she saw me looking at her, she nodded, but said nothing.
"Holding us at the virtual point, Admiral," L'Van called.
"Is the object still there?"
"Yes, Admiral, I still see indications of a mass of about equal to our ship. And it's not a hyperspatial reflection or a virtual bubble, it's a terminal mass near the virtual point, I can see the flux lines clearly. It's in motion at about four or five kilometers a second."
"All stations report ready, Admiral," D'Linn announced.
"Take us out of hyperspace, L'Van, let's see what this thing is."
The twisting shapes and roiling colors of hyperspace faded, to be replaced with a view of the stars. And that was all.
"Full control restored to helm officer, Admiral, sensor mode engaged," L'Van called.
"Confirmed, Admiral," Ch'Yaz added, tapping her console to engage the maneuver drives and thrusters again.
"So what is it, L'Van?"
She shook her head. "There's nothing there, Admiral. Literally nothing. There is no mass there according to our gravitic sensors. The Rindler-scan doesn't show quark dispersion from kinetic or gravitic acceleration, but it's not as sensitive as our gravitic sensors when we're this far from a planetary or stellar mass - there could be something there of equal mass to our ship, like I detected in hyperspace, and it just won't show up on the Rindler-scan because we're too far from any significant gravity well for us to detect the minute quark dispersion. From all I'm seeing here, there is no object there, it reads as empty space. But I know I sensed an object from our hyperspatial position above the virtual point, I could see it!"
'A cloaked ship?' I thought. It had to be. I tapped the slot on my command chair, and extracted the microphone. "D'Linn, open a general hail for me."
"General hail open, all standard channels, Admiral."
I flicked the button on the mike, then spoke. "This is Admiral Evliir Mortalae D'Shan calling unknown ship. We mean you no harm, but your presence in this system has us curious. Please respond if you are able."
We waited, but after several seconds, D'Linn shook her head. "No response, Admiral. Maybe it's a real dark rock we just aren't close enough to spot?"
"It can't be them, it can't be," L'Van muttered. "I'd see the mass on the gravitic scanner. If it's there, it has mass, its gravity-well can be sensed..."
"Maybe," I replied, nodding. I tugged on the microphone, and let the spring-loaded mechanism snap it back into the slot in the arm of the command chair. "Let's try-"
"Admiral!" L'Van yelped suddenly. "Energy output readings, rapidly building... It can't be! Admiral, it looks like I'm seeing particle screens and meson screens being energized!" Then, a heartbeat later, she paused. "Incoming missiles!" L'Van yelped, just as sparks of light appeared and began racing towards us. "It can't be them! It can't be them, they're dead!"
"Red alert. Transfer the position data you have to the gun crews, L'Van. Meson gun, open fire on that position. Missile-crews, load LUG-9's and fire on that position. Gun crews, fire on that position, wide spread pattern. Laser crews, provide missile defense." I called, more calmly than I felt.
The bridge lighting changed to red, as did the status indicators, and the alarm klaxon rang again. "General Quarters, General Quarters, Red Alert!" D'Linn called over the ship's intercom.
I saw Ensign Ch'Yaz tremble for a moment, and D'Linn nodded. "Meson gun charging," she called a moment later.
Lasers from our ship lit up the incoming sparks, and moments later they flashed in detonation.
"Meson gun firing!" D'Linn called.
A flash of light, spreading across an oblong object - the meson gun hitting something, likely meson screens of an enemy ship. Whatever it was, it was large, somewhat oblong, and we were broadside of it.
"Missile away!" D'Linn called, darts of light leaping from our ship.
"They're moving! They're turning!" L'Van shouted.
"L'Van, calm down, pass the movement data to the helm and the gun crews. Meson gun, maintain fire. Helm, evasive maneuvers, keep us pointed at them, try to remain broad-side of them."
"Maneuvering!" Ch'Yaz replied, and the field of stars began to slowly rotate, the impulse from the thrusters making deck feel as though it tilted clockwise, then leveled. Our own missiles were closing, but the enemy was maneuvering. LUG-9's were unguided conventionals, impact-fused... They would miss.
"Incoming missiles!" L'Van yelped, just as a second string of sparks appeared and began racing towards us. "No! It can't be them, they're dead!"
Song of the Vanir
For those who have never been shot at by lasers before, the experience is rather unique. Despite what you see in the trids, lasers are silent and mostly invisible. Sometimes, if there's a bit of fog or dust, you can see them when the coherent energy burns through it. Otherwise, though, it's just not visible, other than by it's effect.
In this case, the effect of the major's aide-de-camp screaming as her right leg was shot off at the knee, the joint bursting in a steam explosion that ripped apart the norolon between her armor plates.
As her suit immediately applied pressure to tourniquet the wound and started shooting her up with painkillers, the rest of us went prone. The situation wasn't good - my guess was that as soon as they saw the lander coming down, they headed for it in their own APC's. We started to return fire, shooting at what few Europan drones we could see. The APC was before us, it's chain-gun roaring, it's two auxiliary turrets firing lasers. The enemy was roughly to the south of us, firing from the cover of a hill.
"Gully over there! Kuniklo!" the Major shouted, pointing behind us and telling us to 'rabbit' in batala'lingvo - grab the wounded, run, take cover.
"On it!" I replied, grabbing the major's aide-de-camp. Sweeping her up into my left arm, I ran for it. The major and the others rose to follow.
At that moment, I was suddenly smashed to the ground by the back-handed swat of a giant.
I blinked, stunned. My suit showed green, and the lanyard of my laser-rifle was still intact - I gripped the weapon groggily, then reached for the major's aide-de-camp...
...and stopped, because there wasn't any point in picking up someone who didn't have a head.
I rolled over, looking behind us. The APC lay on it's side, smoking, a twisted ruin. A second missile had, apparently, hit it on it's weakened armor. I couldn't see the major anywhere, nor the rest of the women in the squad that had been riding with us. I did see scattered bits and pieces of armor, and quite a bit of blood. It appeared they'd literally shadowed me from the explosion with their bodies. Above us was the lander, a vessel the size of a battle ship, it's perimeter guns firing down, trying to take out the enemy - and, at the same time, still trying to shoot down surface-to-air missiles fired at it. It was taking tremendous fire, small missiles slapping it's armored undersides repeatedly. The lander was about seven hundred fifty meters across, roughly spherical, and weighed an insane amount of tons. If the enemy should disable it, it would no longer be covering us from air attack, it would become a very large tombstone for our entire battalion when it came crashing down to the ground. Fortunately, the lander's captain apparently realized that, and it suddenly started to drift off to the southwest, drawing a considerable amount of fire as it did so.
Though saved from being crushed if it should be downed, we were also losing our CAS - the lander was busy just trying to defend itself. I didn't hear the colonel's voice, despite that she should be talking. She was in another APC when we came down, but what had happened to her, I didn't know. This had started off going from bad to worse - it was quickly going from worse to unsurvivable.
Headborough
Having to pretend to be normal is such a tremendous pain in the rump.
Oh, it's not difficult, mind you. Simply dress in a stodgy yet middle-of-the-road style, brown suit, brown shoes. Brush a bit of grayer into your hair to look like you're in your late thirties or early forties, avoid eye contact, carry a briefcase, walk smartly as though you have somewhere you have to be, etcetera. Combined with the skin toner and the makeup prosthetics I was wearing to give me loose jowls and bags under my eyes, my own mother wouldn't recognize me.
I checked the other month. Walked right by her on the street, she didn't even blink.
Of course, she hadn't seen me since I was six, the old bat might have forgotten I existed.
I stood in line outside the bank, waiting for my turn at the auto-teller. I had an itch under the padding I was wearing around my middle, but I ignored it. A forty-ish executive-type doesn't scratch his beer-belly in public. There were four in line before me, and the one at the teller currently was, apparently, brain-dead, and was working their way through the push-button list of options as though it was the most complicated device on Deneb. It wasn't - an auto-teller was programmed to be simple enough for even a high-grade moron to be able to use it. Unfortunately for me, it appeared a low-grade moron was currently poking at it. I resisted the temptation to glance at my chrono - I had a standing rule that unless I really needed to know the time, I didn't check my chrono until I'd seen other people do the same at least four times around me. Constantly checking your chrono made you look nervous. I refused to be nervous. The plan was foolproof. I could not fail.
Of course, I didn't really need to be here at all. I could have followed the path the bard-bots at the Poet's Children's School had laid out for me - college, a quick tour in the military to get me the required line on my resume that would land me my first job, then slowly working my way through the usual corporate machinery, following the Peter Principle until I either popped out at the top after fifty years, or fell into place as yet another cog in the machine. I'd love to say that Mother was quite disappointed when I decided that this was not the path I'd spend my life following. Unfortunately, the truth was she could care less, she disinherited me at eighteen, as soon as it was legally permissible for her to do so. The last time she spoke to me was when I was six and she shipped me off to the Poet's Children's School for full-time schooling, as though I was an orphan. She didn't appear to be terribly concerned for my welfare as I left. Of course, it was hard for her to be concerned about anything, after her usual breakfast of three shots of Rigellan whiskey.
I supposed I'd been rather fortunate to even have been born, really. Mother was a typical Denebian socialite in youth - started out beautiful, her mother paid for the required cosmetic surgury to make her better than that, and she entered the usual treadmill for Denebian socialites. By the time she was forty-five, she'd been married and divorced eight times, and the alimony payments from eight ex-husbands left her rather well off. Her own mother was cracking the baby whip over her head, and she decided she'd have another girl with husband number nine. Unfortunately for her, it didn't quite work out that way.
In quick order she ended up with me, then before she could get pregnant again, her baby factory went out of business. It happened sometimes, particularly to those females who'd gotten a contraceptive implant when they were in their mid-teens and left it activated all their lives - it was why most doctors recommended women not get a contraceptive implant until they were in their twenties. The hormones suppress the ordinary menstrual cycle by tricking the body into thinking the user is pregnant. When she decided to turn it off, she was forty-five. But, the woman's body still knows how old it is, and menopause sometimes sets in for those who wait too long to turn the implant off. Unfortunately for mother, that's precisely what happened. She'd gotten her first contraceptive implant at the ripe age of thirteen so her own mother could use her as jail-bait for blackmailing a few old lechers, and she'd kept it active until she was forty-five. She switched it off, had one pregnancy - me - and that was it. Of course, as far as her body was concerned, she'd been pregnant non-stop since she was thirteen, it was time to quit. Granmama likely would have been devastated, if she hadn't already had four other daughters who had dutifully produced daughters of their own to carry on the family tradition.
Ah, yes, the family tradition. Mother explained it often, when I was little - she's a very chatty drunk. Husband number nine died when I was two, and mother hired nannies to tend to me until I was old enough to pack off to school. I never even learned his name, really - mother mentioned it a few times when I was younger, but I've slept since then. I don't even carry his name, mother thought that was rather gauche'. She gave me her name, instead - which I have since done my best to distance myself from. When you're six years old and your own mother explains the joys of seducing wealthy men, wedding them, then divorcing them after a year or two and moving on to the next victim, you can't really help but think of her as anything more than an expensive prostitute, or simply a well-dressed thief.
Not that I was technically any better, but at least I only stole from those who could afford it. In fact, most of those I stole from didn't even know they'd been robbed.
In the end, I saw myself as a necessary part of society. After all, if it weren't for people like me, what would the police do? Aside from writing traffic tickets and dealing with the occasional battery (domestic or otherwise), police nowadays didn't really have much to do other than scarf doughnuts, glug cheap coffee and slowly work themselves to a quiet coronary. I, at least, gave them something to do, and added a bit of excitement to their dreary little lives. And, unlike mother, I didn't treat other human beings like a hog-leech treats a herd of fat cattle. Several small capers had kept food in the fridge and an apartment roof over my head. Now, it was time to move up to the next level.
The man in front of me glanced at his chrono, so I took the opportunity to glance at my own. This particular scheme had to come off before thirteen hundred, or it would all be for nothing. I still had time, though I'd be cutting it close. The man in front of me swore at the idiot in the front of the line. "Come on, come on! Some of us don't have all day!" I nodded, as he'd echoed my thoughts.
"Hold on, sonny-boy, I've almost got it," the geezer at the front of the line replied.
The man in front of me, however, wasn't taking that for an answer. "Gramps, if you make me late to get back to work, I swear by the Poet I am going to cram this briefcase right up your wrinkly ass!"
The old man turned to look at the man in front of me, and decided he was serious. I decided to add the weight of my own silent glower to that the old man was already receiving from everyone else. "Alright, alright, I'm done," he replied, snatching his card out of the slot and quickly walking away. "Impatient jackanapes..." he muttered loudly.
"Crackbrained leatherhead!" the man snapped back, just as familiar with the Poet's style of insults as anyone else. The others in line nodded to him, and when he glanced around, not a few of us shot him a grin.
Shortly, the line had evaporated in front of me as each took their turn slotting their cit-card and making a small withdrawal to top off the funds they carried on it, or deposited excess funds from their cards into their bank accounts (where they would accrue interest). All money was, nowadays, entirely electronic. Theoretically, this was the perfect anti-crime measure - after all, since we didn't have paper money or metal coins, you couldn't physically steal money by mugging someone. And, stealing money electronically was extremely difficult to get away with, since each unit of cash was an individual file, and carried the ID numbers of every card it had ridden on before it finally ended up back in the planetary electronic mint. We still had 'mints', but they didn't produce paper bills and coins like those in the Days of Yore. No, instead, they cranked out encrypted files of various denominations. Forging money was possible, but extremely difficult - and even if you managed it, if you got caught, it was a capital crime. Even the internal circuitry of our cit-cards was secret. If you tried to crack the card open to reverse-engineer it, the broken vacuum-seal let air in, which erased the positronic circuitry inside it through a failsafe mechanism. Yes, in theory, electronic money was entirely foolproof and rendered most crime impossible.
In practice, of course, it was hardly foolproof. It simply raised the bar for criminal performance. Certainly, we had nothing like the simple thuggery of the past, when money was a physical thing. Today, crime was a bit more sophisticated than that, here in the Confederacy.
The man in front of me finished his transaction, then withdrew his card and trotted away quickly, waving for a cab. I stepped up and smoothly pulled my cit-card out of my pocket, outwardly calm. Inwardly, my heart was fluttering like a caged fluff-bat.
It had taken me four years of self-education before I was even reasonably confident in what I was doing. Electronics, physics, chemistry... Classes in high school had bored me tremendously, I was already studying college-level texts in the areas I knew I would need. I suppose if I had applied myself, I might have done better in my grades. Of course if I had, today the police would likely more easily spot me as a potential suspect, as my grades would have clearly shown my aptitudes.
I resisted the temptation to glance at the card, and simply slotted it smoothly into the auto-teller.
Pickpocketing was, really, a lost art - I'd managed to reclaim it from a book on magician's tricks. Of course, for most criminals, pickpocketing was an entirely useless skill - steal someone's cit-card, and you're holding nothing useful. A cit-card only works for it's owner, as a thumbprint-scan is required for even a trivial transaction. Even those whose cards I stole lost nothing. Getting a new cit-card was free, you got it by simply reporting to the nearest ID office and telling them you'd lost your old one. Even the money on it was theoretically recoverable, since records of every transaction existed - even card-to-card transfers were recorded by the cards and the data eventually transferred to the banks, as soon as you went to a local auto-teller and plugged in your card to either upload or download money to or from the bank. So, if you lost your card (or had some ne'er-do-well like myself pick-pocket it), you simply went to the local PCD office to pick up a replacement, then went back to your bank, told them you'd lost your card, and they checked to see what credit file ID's had been transferred to your old card. If those ID's showed up as absent in the system, they were flagged as "lost" and invalid, and you received replacement credits. Simple, and ultimately foolproof.
But not necessarily thief-proof.
Getting the data off of a card wasn't that hard, if you knew how. Most personal computers had a slot where you could stuff in your card to make online payments, and some operating systems (like the Valhallan Fenestroj OS) used cit-cards for ID verification. It was just a matter of reverse-engineering those programs to find out how to query the cit-card correctly. Once done, it was merely a matter of writing a "port-sniffer" program to determine the handshaking and data protocols used for payment interactions, deconstructing the file formats used for credit files, and I was in business. The rest was just trivialities - after all, creating a fake thumbprint in latex was a snap. Of course, getting caught at any of it was a capital crime, but I lived by the simple maxim of "Melted Computers Tell No Tales." Dropping a laptop into a microwave oven and giggling at the sparks and flames may have seemed a rather childish thing to do, but hell, I was still only nineteen, I had to have some fun.
After typing in the transfer - a hundred thousand in forged credits, I thumbed the card. It obediently beeped at me, and the cash was transferred to the bank.
I resisted the urge to giggle.
Tapping the keys quickly, I entered the command to withdraw cash - a hundred thousand credits. It was a grade-one card, and that was it's cash limit. If I could have pickpocketed some rich guy with a grade three or four card, I would have, but I hadn't run across any. Still, the person I'd stolen this card from wouldn't even see a blip on their bank records, because the net transfer for this session had been zero and the Daly City Bank didn't bother reporting zero-sum transactions on one's monthly statement. Only the bank would know about it. The bank's software would, naturally, not simply shuffle back the credits I'd just given them, they'd give me fresh credits. Higher ID numbers on each file, and straight from the government mint.
At the prompt, I thumbed the card again, and it obediently beeped again.
Pulling the card out of the slot, I tried to casually place it in my pocket. My hand was trembling, though. I hoped nobody noticed.
A shadow loomed behind me, and a thick finger tapped me on my shoulder. "Harold Robert Coffey?" a deep voice intoned.
I managed not to jump out of my skin.
Struggling to place a disinterested yet curious expression on my face, I turned around...
...and saw that the man behind me loomed over me like a mountain. He wore a suit that looked two sizes too small, making him look even bigger. With a bent nose and massive jaw, he also looked like he ate Denebian slime-devils for breakfast. "Mmm? Who?" I asked, trying to keep my voice pitched a bit lower, as befitting the 40-ish persona of the latex makeup I was wearing. "Never heard of him."
"Come with me," he said, clapping a ham-sized hand to my shoulder.
"I don't think so," I replied, kicking him sharply in the shins. He cried out, his grip relaxed, and in a heartbeat I twisted myself free and ran away.
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