Mad Dog

by Andrew Beery

  The Defiler platform was looming large. I was beginning to mentally congratulate myself on a brilliant plan. I should have known that fate would step in to help me snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw several rocks suddenly appear and head in my general direction. I didn’t know whether it was Merab or my buddy Colonel Morrison, but one of my friends was throwing rocks at me.

  The first of the projectiles missed me. The next two, unfortunately, did not. Before I knew it, I was spinning slowly. Another rock whacked my visor with enough force to start me tumbling end-over-end. To make matters worse, my cloak went down, and I started to hear the telltale hiss of gas exiting my EVA suit from a hairline crack in my visor.

  Since I was already fully exposed to the Defiler sensor array, I decided to power up my suit. I did this for several reasons. First, it would allow me to use the suit’s thruster pack to stop my wild tumble through space. Second, it would allow me to turn my A/C back on. If I was going to die in space, I at least wanted to be comfortable doing it.

  I felt the cool air begin to wash across my face. After the absolute silence, the sounds of the air handling systems, as well as the leaking faceplate, seemed like the crash of thunder. I always like the sound of thunder. Maybe I was strange, but I remember my grandmother always holding us kids close during the summer storms in Sao Paulo, Brazil. It was comforting in her arms.

  She would always whisper in our ears… And suddenly there came from heaven a sound like a mighty rushing wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting.

  It wasn’t until years later that I understood the reference and that it implied the presence of God and that he would now be with us forever. Now I have to admit that I have always been at best a lukewarm guy when it came to God, religion and that whole church thing. Still, there in my grandmother’s arms, there was a sense of comfort and peace. I suppose the loving embrace of a Gramma might be the definitive proof of God.

  I don’t know what brought all of that to mind… maybe it was the fact that I was seriously concerned that I might well die in the next few minutes… and that there was virtually nothing I could do about it. Foxhole conversions had been a thing since man first learned to throw rocks at one another.

  First things first. I hacked up the biggest lugie I could muster and spit into my helmet. It would have looked strange to anybody watching, but I had a reason for doing it. The air escaping from my visor would draw my spit to it. Once it hit the crack, it would seal it and freeze in place. It was a tried and true survival mechanism so long as the crack was not too big and didn’t spread too far.

  I decided that if I was going to die, I needed to give the others the best chance I could, so I toggled open my comms. Note to anyone one reading this later… first, spoiler alert, I survived… because you are reading this later. Second, opening your comms in a battle zone when you are the only source of RF is like shining a flashlight in a cave filled with heavily armed bats. Translation… it’s a good way to get shot.

  My thinking was simple. If the bad guys were shooting at me, then, they were not shooting at Mike and Merab.

  “Hey ugly, I’m right here. Watch me and not anybody body else. Let’s dance!”

  Now I have to be honest. I wasn’t expecting any type of response except maybe a plasma beam causally aimed in my general direction. I wasn’t too worried about it because if I got hit with one… it would be over so quickly I would even realize I was dead.

  As I said, I really wasn’t expecting a response. Mike and Merab should theoretically still be silent running… which meant they would not have heard my broadcast as their radios would still be powered down.

  Imagine my surprise when I actually got a response. In some ways, it might have been better if the Defiler platform had taken the shot. My wife responded to my radio transmission and judging from the tone of her voice… she was not pleased.

  “What in the name of all that is holy are you trying to do? Make yourself a target?”

  Now I was faced with a quandary. I made it a habit and general rule not to lie to my wife. That being the case, I should confess that making myself a target had, indeed, been the general idea. Unfortunately, such an admission would undoubtedly result in a lot of unpleasantness that would be best avoided should I actually survive to see my wife again.

  I was saved from having to make this impossible choice by yet another unexpected response to my transmission.

  “Admiral, we have secured the platform. It’s only transmitting what we want at the moment.”

  It was Mike who was speaking.

  “Well done Colonel. You’re right on schedule,” I said quickly. If I was lucky, my wife would think this was all part of a carefully choreographed plan. I was still trying to figure out how she was anywhere near enough to be on local comms. This mystery was resolved when we finally managed a rendezvous.

  The Gilboa led the defenders on a merry little chase while my wife as the chief medical officer and Mitty stayed behind in a new cloak-enhanced Gilboa shuttle. It seemed my First Officer always intended to mount a rescue, but Merab and Mike’s unilateral actions had forced a change in the timing of the implementation.

  I knew there would need to be a series of counseling sessions regarding the necessity of following a chain-of-command. At the same time, their actions had likely saved my life or at a minimum screwed up the Defiler plans.

  I could only imagine what would have happened had Ktan actually been able to extract a fully viable set of memory engrams to implant in the clones of me that I now knew they had. My first action when I got back to the Gilboa was to order both a change to all security codes and then a full genetic and physical workup on myself.

  I needed to know I wasn’t a copy of the original… well, let me restate that. I needed to know I wasn’t a copy of the copy of the original Jeremy Riker… who was even now back in the Sol system. Clones were never perfect duplicates. Telomer lengths and the odd environmental perturbation in the gestation process always yield a few subtle changes.

  I was pleased to learn I was the real me. Commander Shelby turned over command of the Gilboa once the results were in. Call me crazy, but I honestly thought she was relieved to relinquish command.

  ***

  Sixteen hours later, the fully repaired and cloaked Gilboa sat in orbit around the smaller of the stars in the 55 Cancri binary star system. The orbit was such that the Gilboa was always between Tarf and the red dwarf.

  With our partially effective cloak in place, augmented by the background radiation coming from the star helping… the Gilboa was effectively hidden. This gave us time to consider the situation. Unfortunately, the situation was far worse than we had initially anticipated.

  My senior staff was assembled in the Ready room. Mitty was going over the analysis of the data chips I had been able to steal on my way out of the cloning facility. The data was primarily medical in nature, but the analysis had provided insights into the larger Defiler game plan. That analysis raised some alarming questions.

  “Ya saying they have ten thousand of these cloning tanks?” Whiskers muttered more to himself than to anyone else. “What in God’s green Earth would they need so many for?”

  “That count is for the Tarf facility. The data suggests sixteen additional facilities,” Mitty added.

  “To my knowledge, this is the largest cloning operation ever undertaken by the Eshbaal cabal,” Merab said. “Ish-Boshet is almost certainly the driving force behind this expansion.”

  Shelby shifted in her seat and took an extended sip of her coffee.

  “For what purpose? Why now? What do they need over a hundred thousand clones for?”

  “An army,” I answered. “The real question is where will they be sending this army?”

  “I’m afraid I may be able to answer that one,” my wife interjected.

  I turned to face her. “Go on,” I prompted.

  “The data you recovered included operation parameters for the clon
ing tanks. It seems Ktan intends to monitor the automation that controls the cloning gestation. Temperature, fluid exchange rates, PH… everything matches what you would expect for a human clone.”

  I nodded.

  “They plan on invading human space. It’s the only answer that makes any sense.”

  “Beg’n the Admiral’s pardon,” Whiskers interjected. “But just because they are going to be human… why da ya think they’d be heading ta Earth? They might just as well be heading to one of the other Galactic Order worlds.”

  “True,” I answered. “But there are a host of logistics problems that would need to be overcome. Problems that would not be a factor if Earth and Sol were the ultimate targets. Mike, do you want to explain?”

  The Marine commander leaned forward slightly.

  “The issues are two-fold. First, every species has its own nutritional requirements… vitamins and the like. These are a function of each species unique biology. Even the Saulites and humans have different needs. The Gilboa compensates by adding supplements.

  “Second, the creation of such a massive number of clones represents the third shifting of Defiler strategy. The first was to simply enter a system. Eradicate the indigenous population and steal any Ancestor tech they were after. The second strategy was our good doctor here.” He motioned towards Doctor Merab. “No offense intended.”

  The Saulite clone smiled. “None taken.”

  “The creation of a massive army implies an attempt to subjugate rather than eradicate as the plan of attack. In such a scenario, an armed force that can easily infiltrate opposition strongholds is preferable to ones that cannot. Saulite males are considerably smaller than human males, and no other species we have encountered could ever begin to impersonate a human,” Mike finished saying.

  “Now it’s still possible that the goal is something else, but I think for the moment we need to be prepared to counter an attack against the Sol system.”

  “There is one other factor to consider,” Doctor Merab added.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “And that would be?”

  “It appears that a significant number, if not the entire clone crèche, are clones of you Admiral.”

  2100.1207.2050 Galactic Normalized Time

  Eshbaal scanned the massive flow of data that streamed through its interfaces every millisecond of every day. The gestation period was almost complete. The armada and its foot soldiers would leave for the final colony soon. If the AI was capable of emotion, it would be excited. Fate, a concept it understood only as the random coalition of disparate events, had prevented the cabal from accidentally destroying the final colony. Such a mishap would have forever doomed the grand quest.

  Chapter 18: Homeward Bound Dog…

  “Ensign set course for Sol. Bring primaries up to 80% and initialize Skip drive.”

  Shelby was sitting in my command chair as I stood behind her. The Ensign in question was jumping the ship for the very first time. Shelby was guiding him through every step just to make sure nothing was missed. In truth, the Gilboa’s AI would never let anything dangerous happen, but it was good to make sure the bridge officers knew the proper procedures in case they truly had to do a manual Skip at some point.

  “Course set and confirmed. Primaries are reporting 80%. Skip drive is online and ready to engage,” Ensign Tyrone Embers announced a moment later.

  “Very good, Mister Embers. Bring environmental shielding online and begin our pre-jump sublight run.”

  “Aye Sir. Shields up and VASIMRs engaged. Beginning sublight run at six G.”

  “Time to entry into Skip Space?”

  The Ensign paused to examine his board.

  “Just under fourteen minutes Sir.”

  “Give us a countdown two minutes out,” Shelby ordered.

  I had to admit, my First Officer was doing a good job when it came to handling the bridge. There were a few rough points that needed to be addressed, but I suspected I would be losing Shelby to her own command in the not too distant future.

  She toggled ship-wide comms.

  “Attention crew. This is the First Officer. We will be entering Skip Space in approximately thirteen minutes. Our destination is the Sol system. Please prepare for jump and secure all systems in the next ten minutes. Shelby out.”

  She swiveled the command chair in my general direction and started to rise. I waved her back down.

  “You have the bridge number one. Take us back home.”

  “Aye, Aye, Admiral.”

  ***

  Seven hours later I was in the mess with Lori and our Rohar Emissary, Jowls. It had taken a bit to get used to the way the Komodo Dragon-like creature ate. As a species, they tended to drool a lot, but the Emissary controlled it while aboard the Gilboa. That was unless he was eating. They were carrion eaters and preferred their food a little… shall we say… ripe?

  I found that if I ate especially spicy foods like curry that the power of the curry overcame the pungent odor of my friend’s week-old dinner. This was not a problem as I used any excuse I could to have a good curry… with the obligatory naan of course. It turns out that Jowls like the soft flatbread as well.

  Lori, for her part, simply endured the experience. Unlike me, she was not a fan of things spicy, creamy and pungent. My feeling was I wanted my meal to fight back, and I needed something to make me think that it might actually win. Lori simply wanted the easy victory.

  “You should be honored,” Jowls said while flipping a piece of heavens-knows-what in the air with his snout and then catching it with the very same snout. It should be noted that such food flipping was considered an art form by the Rohar and the Emissary was a skillful practitioner as evidenced by the spray of rotting meat on the wall in front of him. I should probably also note that both Lori and I had learned to keep the seat directly across from him vacant.

  “You should be honored,” Jowls repeated as he swallowed a massive chunk of his dinner in a single slurpy gulp.

  “How so,” I asked as I shoveled some curry into my mouth with a piece of naan.

  “Your enemy thinks so highly of your fighting prowess that they seek to force you to fight yourself.”

  “Ah,” I said now understanding. “A man’s abilities are more than the sum of his genetics. They are also developed in large part by his nurture and training. Is it not the same with the Rohar?”

  “Indeed,” Jowls agreed. “That may well be why they feel they need many thousands of your clones in order to defeat you.”

  Lori snorted over her plate of scrambled eggs.

  “Oh, just stop it!” She pleaded. “It’s hard enough to get him out most doors because of the size of his ego. Don’t encourage him to grow it bigger!”

  Jowls barked in a way I had learned was a surprised laugh. He typically did not consider my wife a force to be reckoned with. The Rohar respected overt strength. It startled them when we humans would seem meek and mild and then come up charging. Jowls had confided in me that as far as the Rohar were concerned… this was humanity’s most endearing feature as a species.

  The intercom crackled briefly. “Admiral to the bridge!”

  I wasn’t wearing my comm bracelet as it had been an early causality in our dinner with Jowls. It needed to be washed and de-slimed.

  I tapped the one on Lori’s wrist as she held her arm out for me.

  “Riker here. What’s up?”

  “Sir,” Shelby said. “We are receiving a message from the Tas.”

  “Understood. I’ll be right up.”

  I wiped my chin. “Duty calls.”

  “May I join you on the bridge, Admiral,” Jowls asked.

  “Always. You probably ought to come too,” I said with a nod to my wife.

  ***

  The Tas meeting went pretty much the way all meetings with the Tas go. We had no idea who we were talking with. It could have been our pair of Taserite ambassadors, or it could have been the entire Taserite collective. Since they had virtually no conce
pt of individuality, it was hard to tell.

  There was one big difference. Our resident Taserites had done something I had not seen them do in almost a year. They left their environmentally modified quarters and journeyed to the bridge in their mobile environmental unit or MEU. It was kind of like a motorized, sealed baby carriage for twins – twins that looked like massive four-legged slugs with a proboscis that featured thousands of undulating cilia.

  In short, the type of twins that could only be cute to a mother slug… assuming they had mother slugs. It occurred to me that I did not know how they reproduced. Similarly, it occurred to me that I really didn’t want to know. My mind wandered in strange ways like that every now and then. I suppose it could have been some type of defect in my brain, but I was OK with that.

  “We would share with you our consensus,” the Tas said in a gravely synthetic voice filling the air of the bridge.

  “Delightful,” I answered. “When you say, ‘share our consensus’ are you speaking as yourselves or as an entire race?”

  “Indeed.”

  I shook my head. “Does that mean the first or the second?” I wanted to know because I had learned difference would be an indication of the importance of the information from a Tas point-of-view.

  “Indeed,” they responded again.

  I gave up. Some battles could just not be won.

  “Go ahead,” I prompted.

  “As you are aware, our function within the known universe is to protect the legacy of the Ancestors. The Defilers seek to taint this legacy.”

  All this I knew. So, I was waiting for the Tas to get to the point. I was somewhat surprised then when the Taserites turned in their MEU and began to exit the bridge.

  “Wait,” I said. “Why call us together to tell us something we already know.”

  The MEU turned in place, not unlike a tracked vehicle spinning its treads in opposite directions.