Tethered Worlds: Blue Star Setting Page 24

  "What we're doing isn't enough?"

  "I want to put the Consortium on notice. It's not just about this guy: it's their whole organization. Send this message from his compy to every address within it you can hack, and modulate it to sound mean."

  His AIs bustled for a scant second. "Wixom got a bunch. Quite a long list," Max said. "We're ready."

  "Where the consortium works against oppression, it is welcome. Where it becomes oppression, I will be there. You are a powerful organization, but made up of individuals. And the realm of the individual is my domain."

  "A bit theatrical," Max said, "don't you think?"

  "I want them to know powerful forces are out there." Jordahk saw it, a leadership vacuum. He had never noticed it before. Perhaps it had been there for centuries, since the mighty left the stage. "Now slag the compy."

  "Are you sure, kid?"

  Wixom didn't wait for the answer. There was a deep spike of activity within the bracelet, and Consortium guy was slamming his inert ring upon the table. It was notable that the Bitlord's creation needed little prompting to destroy a scientum AI. Jordahk felt a sudden pang of guilt. Power, so damn corrupting!

  "Look, Max. We needed to destroy every trace anyway. And since I can't punch Consortium guy in the nose for ambushing my parents, at least there's some personal comeuppance... uh, aside from wiping out his coin."

  Down on the dance floor, the show was wrapping up. The few assailants still conscious were giving Kord and Vittora a very wide berth as they slipped out the broken front entrance. But one person moved against that flow, pushing inside the door. The construction grappler Kord had thrown out stood trembling, his face contorted.

  He reached down, and a treader holster unfolded to push a small pistol into his hand. Max highlighted it immediately on Jordahk's rets. It was an incapacitator, a nasty nonlethal weapon that used magnasonics. It shot a beam of liquid sound, often blowing out the ears of their targets. A bracer would stop it, but the anti-sound capability of security-hardened compy could only blunt it. He lifted it toward Kord, who was not wearing a bracer.

  In a blur faster than Jordahk could see, his father drew on the misguided construction worker. His father was still carrying the beat up but powerful grister he had favored for the past year. He had been loading it with armor-piercing ammunition ever since the Egress Incident. By the time the incapacitator was aimed at him, a half-dozen other weapons were pointing at the thug from around the room—including Vittora's. Only through great restraint, Jordahk surmised, had she not pulled the trigger.

  The quick and potentially lethal resistance to the construction worker's lunacy sobered him quickly, and he began raising his hands in surrender. It was a good argument for an armed populace, if just to keep unstable individuals like this guy from going off.

  At that moment, Durn burst through the remaining door, knocking it off its hinges. It fell onto the crazed construction worker, crushing him to the ground. His incapacitator skittered across the dance floor. Durn looked confused and worried about hurting someone before the crowd erupted in cheers. Then he noticed the pistol sliding to a halt and puffed his chest out heroically.

  ACETIC SENTINEL

  The Premiere News Service Dedicated to Adams Rush

  LOCAL HERO STRIKES AGAIN

  Castellum, Asterfraeo Palisades 253/2614

  The premature transition of the Cohortium government seat from Windermere to Castellum has caught many by surprise. Some speculate the outgoing administration's inability to deploy the Vallum Corps during the Egress Incident left it unpopular and vulnerable. Under those circumstances, Magistrate-elect Van Buren was able to apply enough political pressure to initiate the early relocation.

  The move has been particularly hard on the Vallum Corps, whose mobile headquarters have been relocated. The deployment of defense squadons across the Palisades are often formualted months or even years in advance according to the Perigeum's egress schedules. Outgoing Polemarkh Havenaur, also criticized for ineffectiveness during the Egress Incident, has opted to finish his term at Windermere.

  Construction has been nonstop at Castellum in preparation for Van Buren's 10-year term. Building firms from across space have contracted for lucrative projects. Some say the spending is lavish and Adams Rush representatives came under assault from overzealous construction workers. Fortunately, our own Darren Starr–former Orbital officer, hero of the Egress Incident, and awardee of the noble edge–was there to set things right. He single-handedly disarmed the illegal fracas.

  The incident also involved Consortium interests, and they released a statement: “We support Castellum's efforts to strengthen their infrastructure and provide many jobs in the process. However, we would never condone such violence, even in legitimate protest. Rest assured we are performing our own investigation and will purge any bad apples.

  "Well, that was fun."

  Kord felt exhilarated, but a little winded. He needed to increase his cardiovascular capacity. It wasn't quite so easy as increasing the capacity of the scout's infirmary. He was impressed with the craftsmanship and versatility of Alb-Sone's ship. The doctor had reconfigured interior bulkheads, easily doubling the space dedicated to healing.

  "How nice to treat conventional injuries," Torious said. "I can always count on your family for a copious supply."

  The nurse and Alb-Sone were working on Kord's back as he sat, shirtless, on the medical couch. Torious fell right into the old doctor/nurse mode, probably using routines rarely accessed since his original doctor died centuries before.

  "Don't push it, Torious. You're lucky I've meted out enough justice for one day. You receiving?" Kord lifted his fist.

  "Don't antagonize my patient, Torious," Alb-Sone said, "and scan the deep tissue again. I want to see if the micros took."

  "There's little play in his hardened ribs," the nurse said, "much of the impact force was transferred to soft tissue."

  "It's going to take a lot more than those Magellans to break these bones."

  "That also applies to your skull," Torious droned.

  "You're pushing me, machine. I'm sure Alb-Sone has an airlock."

  Vittora stepped in, as usual. "We're grateful for your ravelen, Aristahl."

  Sitting straight-backed, and seemingly oblivious to the banter, Aristahl shut down a VAD he had been examining. "I am sorry certain augmentations have been needed so often."

  "Haven't people got their hands full reaching their potential?" Alb-Sone asked. "They should spend less energy trying to hinder others." He shook his head. "Desire to control grows in the hearts of the unwise. And that's without considering the brashness of youth."

  The infirmary hatch opened to receive Jordahk and Khai.

  "Speaking of youth," Kord said.

  "And hopefully not of brashness," Torious added.

  Khai moved to aid her uncle, shouldering Torious out of the way, and handing him an instrument.

  "I was, uh..." Jordahk said, "checking the nexus."

  "You're not very good at concealing things, are you?" Torious said.

  "There is no need, Jordahk," Aristahl said. "You were checking on the proliferation of your bold message."

  Kord saw the relieved expression on Jordahk's face, no doubt grateful Aristahl had used "bold" rather than "brash."

  "It seemed the right thing to do at the time," Jordahk said. "But it went a lot farther than I thought, and faster. It's all over the sub-channels. There's no way the Consortium can squelch it."

  "We all need correction now and then," Vittora said. "I hope they have the good sense to reassess their ranks."

  A red bruise on her cheek, her only apparent injury, was already fading. Aristahl looked thoughtful but did not say what Kord surmised he was thinking. Something about times changing, but the nature of mankind staying the same. This wasn't the time to wax philosophical.

  Alb-Sone examined a VAD. "He heals fast. Torious, increase damaged tissue removal." He looked at Jordahk. "I've spent some time on the nexu
s since arriving." He rubbed his hand over his head. "When did baldness go out of style for scholarly types?"

  "That ship sailed a century ago, my friend," Aristahl said.

  "I hear it's coming back," Torious replied.

  Kord's brow crimped in consternation. "Since when have you become a fashionista?"

  "It's not my fault you don't keep up with trends. What will you do when pistols go out of style?"

  "Your bot's pushing me, Father."

  "Yes, thank you Torious," Aristahl said. "That is enough commentary."

  "I think you look wonderfully dignified, Uncle," Khai said. She didn't smile, but there was warmth in her gray eyes.

  The doctor stood straighter, his height seemingly growing by 20 percent.

  "At least it wasn't Archivers," Jordahk observed. That brought a pall upon the room, but it would have been worse if it were not true.

  "Adams Rush has made waves in the Asterfraeo since the Egress Incident," Aristahl said. "Their push for austerity and strong defense will not be received by everyone, even in the Palisades."

  "Maybe we should stay, Arh-Tahl," Alb-Sone said.

  "The disarray within Perigeum territory makes this the best opportunity in years."

  Alb-Sone turned to the young girl. "What do you think Khai-aLael?"

  Her expression didn't change, nor did she seem taken aback. She just stood thoughtfully for a moment.

  "When too much is happening on stage, it is difficult to focus on any one element."

  It was an interesting analogy. It brought home the reality of what little Kord knew about the girl's background. Aristahl nodded his approval.

  "I've got a job to do here," Kord said. "Maybe notoriety from that fracas will help me force reason upon the magistrate-elect's office. If not, I'll exploit every contact to go direct to the Vallum Corps. I hope we're all wrong. This whole transition's out of control. It's needless risk."

  "I'll comm Patram," Vittora said. "I know some people. Maybe Stannis can pass the word."

  Jordahk looked his mother and then back to Aristahl, deep in thought. Kord didn't want his son to second-guess.

  "You're right for the Hex mission, Jordahk," Kord said, forcing a lighthearted smile. "You like digging up relics, and all that antique mystic dross."

  Jordahk said his goodbyes to Kord, but Vittora lingered in the infirmary with Khai. Maybe he had allowed it to work out that way in case his mother had something else to say. They clasped hands.

  "No special messages? How about a goodbye, Patram style."

  "I'll pray for you," Vittora said.

  That was classic Patram, yet Jordahk found himself nodding inexplicably. Maybe mystic experiences over the last year were altering his opinion about matter and the Creator. He didn't share his mother's beliefs, but he was starting to believe something. And knowing she was praying for him brought unexpected comfort.

  Vittora was strangely somber. She programed her bolero jacket as dark as her red/black bodysuit. Khai was staring at her leaf brooch again. His mother covered a careworn expression with a faint smile, then took off the brooch and handed it to the girl with long, dark hair.

  "I'd like you to hold onto this," Vittora said. She paused. "For the duration of your trip."

  Khai's expression opened up in a way Jordahk had not seen since their exhilarating sparring in the bay.

  "May I?" Khai said tentatively.

  To Jordahk's surprise, Vittora gave her a hug. It was strange. Outside of her father, Vittora rarely hugged anyone. Maybe Solia.

  He was pleased, but he also felt uneasy in a way he didn't understand and couldn't explain.

  A depressing system for a depressing situation.

  So this is what a destroyed life looks like.

  Pheron was amazed by the objectivity through which he could observe the end of his career and, as his deployment progressed, quite possibly the end of his life. He began a self-imposed confinement to the bridge and adjacent quarters. If the crewroom fight and accompanying contusions had taught him anything, it was that the corridors of his own ship couldn't be roamed without his vets for protection.

  Such a thought turned his stomach. He couldn't enforce authority among the malcontents seeded into his squadron with Commander Moron overturning his disciplinary actions. He felt more empowered as an ensign early in his career than he did now as... whatever he was.

  "Logistics reports stores insufficient," his sub-ensign said, "but the collier is refusing to transfer any more."

  Oversight of the dozen—now 11—troubled, misfit frigates of Commander Moron's wing had become increasingly burdensome. Officially, he was still just a gruppe-lieutenant with direct responsibility only for the two other frigates in his gruppe. They also received similar treatment from the collier. Meanwhile, the commander played with the cruisers and destroyers.

  The stingy supply ship prepared to undock as the frigates plied a slow, straight path. They plodded beneath numerous dark clouds blocking out the rest of the universe. He called up VADs to check his gruppe's supplies. Even after what the collier transferred, they barely had enough nutriment stores to keep the food-jerks going, and perhaps insufficient consumables for the old recyclers.

  At least the ammunition bunkers were full. He'd like to hyper-accelerate a rock right into Commander Moron's stateroom. He smiled despite himself at the juvenile thought.

  He opened a command channel to the collier captain. It was rebuffed immediately with an automated message, "All designated supplies have been delivered. Further inquiries must be made to the wing commander."

  "Transfer ports closing," his sub-ensign said. "Airlocks sealed. They're ready to disengage, sir."

  "Disengage," Pheron said wearily.

  There was a minor tremor before the viewport showed the blocky collier easing off the port side. Their presence in the system was another data point for which there was no clear reason. The conundrum was bothering him more as the days went by, not that he could do anything about it.

  The dim place was new to him, a planet without prospect of being arability terraformed. No egress was here, and never would be. The only thing going for it was a magnetic field. Enough to shield a small dome on its surface and a cheap station in orbit. The locals were only there because the nearby molecular clouds had materials worth collecting.

  He scanned them, wondering if it was something exciting like the alcohol clouds mined by Aquarii for their high-end intoxicants.

  "Cyanamide. Ugh."

  A short list of boring components usable, ironically, for arability terraformation.

  He didn't know why they didn't just wait a week at their last egress and transit to a system more befitting a Perigeum Starmada wing. Why the unnecessarily long downhill run to another remote nowhere? His intuition screamed that something was going on, but he was too isolated to pull clues together. He needed information, the elements upon which his abilities could be applied.

  Was the Prime Orator going to make a move on Aventicia? A number of rumors had reached even his ears that the banking planet had fallen out of favor and was in danger of being "reigned in."

  The bridge hatch opened, and sub-ensign Nels, an Adams Rush veteran he knew by name but little more, entered. Pheron had been reduced to running the ship's key hatches in security mode. They would only pass authorized personnel. Nels, next on bridge duty, looked red-faced.

  "Diplomatic packet for you from the collier, sir," Nels said, his speech slurred.

  When he handed the packet over, Pheron smelled alcohol. For centuries, sailors had concocted ways to get drunk aboard ship, but the prevalence among these destitute frigates was out of hand.

  The sub-ensign whose shift had just finished was another of his vets. He gave up the watch seat but didn't leave the bridge. Instead, he took another station near the rear. Nels murmured something indecipherable.

  Pheron thumbed the physical packet's lock to provide the biometric match for opening without destroying the contents. A micro eye built into it
also scanned his retinas. Finally, it wanted his security passcodes, which he dictated behind the secure sound shields of the command station. They were not accepted. He tried again and got the same result.

  He squinted at a thought, the gray colortat around the back of his head moving slightly with the gesture. He dictated his old command authorization, the one from when he was in charge of the task force at Adams Rush. The packet, a rarity these days, opened. He took out something just as rare. A message hand-written on pulper. It was a note from Aetaire. Beyond a signature, he had never seen the man's writing. But the neat, almost machine-like, blocky print fit his former First's personality.

  Aetaire began by apologizing for putting them both at risk with the message, but he was confident in his knowledge of the Logistics division and reasonably sure the message would arrive below the notice of command.

  Reasonably sure? Not entirely comforting.

  Aetaire painted a picture of an overwhelmed Logistics division. There were not enough colliers to resupply squadrons in so many non-stationed, out-of-the-way places. With so much backtracking and egress transiting, it was hard to make heads or tails of all the unusual deployments. But he seemed convinced the trend was outward.

  He also spoke of much activity even farther out on the Asterfraeo side of the border. The Vallum Corps had relocated their headquarters. Had it been 10 years already? Pheron had stopped keeping track since Adams Rush. No, Aetaire implied the move was premature, and many squadron movements along their border also seemed atypical.

  Doesn't anybody know how to run a starmada anymore?

  He pondered the question. The Svalbergen Blacksea Corporation did. It was true, and a sad reflection on the two major powers in inhabited space.

  Aetaire wrapped up his letter. "I've left headquarters for a Logistics field assignment and have been joined by more of our comrades from the Adams Rush deployment. I hope to meet you, Field Commander, before your tour is completed."

  Calling me Field Commander? No doubt a purposeful choice by calculating, elitist Aetaire. That, as much as the other information, confirmed things were getting serious. Deadly serious. He felt sorry for for his old First, plunged into the base world of logistics and perhaps witnessing firsthand the politics of fleet management.