Soundless Conflicts

by S. Walker

  It felt good. Almost too good: Like revisiting a childhood dream and finding it just as wonderful as before. The Command Executive Officer station was a staple of every ship, always raised slightly over everything else in the bridge. Supposedly it was to give the CEO direct sight to everyone's consoles... but realistically it was more about perception and authority. Whoever took this spot, took the ship. It wasn't Corporate Navy; not quite. But the feeling was the same, a throwback to when she still had ambitions and the drive to fulfill them. Before she'd given up the Navy for a lateral move into Middle Management and a tumble into ignominy.

  Jamet fell into that emotion, mentally dropping back and downward into herself until she landed at the person she was nearly a year ago. It was a tough fit: She'd changed since then and knew it, could feel the parts that didn't fit into the Corporate mold any more. She was a lumpy, heart-shaped peg trying to convince herself to be sharp and jagged again.

  Cupping hands together, Jamet rested her chin across both thumbs and closed her eyes. Mentally she gathered everything about the crew-- Janson's bearded grin, Emilia's struggle to trust, Paul's cautious oversharing, Siers' quiet confidence-- and put it away. Locked it in a box where she couldn't think about it. Empathy wouldn't help for this: Executives didn't have any.

  It took a long five minutes, but she found that old Jamet again. Ruthless, hungry, casually dismissive. Management.

  She wristed the console to life, dragging open Communications and selecting broadcast with sharp, angry motions. Her workspace lit up with a selection of frequencies, jumping bars showing which ones were actively in use. Jamet selected all of them at once, then set broadcast power on maximum to blot them out of existence with her signal. Whatever petty talks they were engaging in was unimportant now; they'd listen to her or else.

  The channel clicked open. She had the whole band to herself.

  Jamet spoke into the air with a voice colder than the space between stars and more bored than an immortal buried under mountains. "Material Extraction Station Fortune's Find: This is Executive Reals, commanding Fiscal Recovery Vessel Kipper. Cease all activity at once and surrender. Do not attempt to hide, we have pinpointed several dozen active transmissions and know your whereabouts. Do not attempt to sabotage, steal or repurpose any equipment-- doing so will be met with extreme mortal sanctions. You have five minutes to respond on any channel with a designated representative for forceful employment."

  This prepared speech was the brainchild of nearly an hour's careful wording, every phrase crafted to inspire maximum Executive fear. The keystone to this threat was rebranding the Kipper as an authorized vessel of Corporate Headquarter's Fiscal Recovery division.

  FR dealt with reacquiring assets from loss, damage or negligent mismanagement. They were the gleaners, the threshers, old-style carrion eaters crawling the remains of Corporate battlefields between every system. Recovery-branded agents held extremely wide latitude of authority when it came to reclaiming any and all property no matter what form it took: Raw ore, infrastructure pieces, natural resources... and most especially trained personnel.

  They were the complimentary division of Fiscal Enforcement, the strongarm branch that showed up after everything went wrong to see what was valuable enough to salvage. Anything with a monetary value that wasn't in extremely small pieces became immediate property of the agency, adding to HQ's bottom line.

  If Recovery showed up it was because everything (and everyone) around was already considered a loss. Which put any Executive still around on extremely thin ice, robbed of any authority in a heartbeat.

  Jamet kept a bored gaze on the clock, timing out five minutes while imagining what had to be happening aboard the habitation ring. For sure their Executive was doing everything physically possible to get her people off their skinsuit communications devices-- the absolute last thing she needed was underlings cutting deals or giving information behind her back. That was the point of broadcasting to everyone: Giving the Exec something to panic about immediately.

  It was also a foregone conclusion that a standoff was going down somewhere over there, abused workers versus their Management tormentor. Which was the other reason for claiming to be from Fiscal Recovery: If the Kipper flew in and announced they were rescuing everyone there would have been an immediate (and very, very bloody) comeuppance against the Exec as she lost all power at once. But broadcasting as Recovery changed the game, levelling the field: Now everyone had the exact same asset value, but their Executive might have enough personal pull to be able to leverage a better position for the group.

  But her bargaining chips became the workers, alive and retaining asset value. She suddenly had to care very, very much about the health of her people.

  Jamet would have laughed at the reversal, but that would require more perspective taking than she cared about.

  The clock tipped past three minutes. When explaining this plan to Captain Siers he expressed a lot of surprise about the five minute timeline. "Why such a short time limit? It seems like if something went wrong they wouldn't be able to meet it. Won't that backfire?"

  She'd grinned, delighted to explain game moves to a novice. "No, it's fine-- that's actually the point. Think about what happens if we give them something like a day to think it over." She pointed around the bridge, singling out a surprised Janson. "The engineer over here starts having second thoughts, maybe he talks a bit with comms," Emilia took a pointed finger. "They get together with Environmental and suddenly there's a power bloc. A strong group out for themselves. Meanwhile the Execs," Jamet pointed to herself and Siers. "Are trying to cut deals for their own advantage while fighting this new, upstart faction at the same time. It's a mess. Nothing gets done."

  Siers looked skeptical. "And a five minute deadline stops that?"

  "Yeah." She thought about it and frowned. "Well unless someone knew that was about to happen and preplanned. But that's unlikely in this case. Anyways," the dismissed the idea with a casual wave. "With such a short time to decide everyone just rolls with the established decision makers. The Exec will call the shots, get things moving, then promise the world to her people to prevent them from going back on the deal."

  Numbers clicked over, becoming four minutes. Jamet felt smug. "Any moment now..."

  "Fiscal Recovery vessel Kipper, this is Upper Management Executive Rachel Targer. I am the ranking member of the Fortune's Find and be aware: We have not ceded this station or its assets to any branch of Corporate, local or otherwise. I demand to know the name of your supervisor."

  Over the last year Jamet Reals knew what it felt like to be dragged down. To be taken advantage of, kicked off every opportunity, pushed out and penalized for anything and everything. Doors slammed in her face, allies and friends turning against her, spitefully denied every opportunity. She'd been on the edge of oblivion or worse, taken there by a system she'd upheld and participated in at every turn.

  And after all that time, all that struggle and hopelessness, every rage- and tear-filled night alone hunting for any position at all...

  It was all worth it.

  Jamet grinned like a shark, every tooth standing out in violent promise as she tapped the broadcast key. "You're speaking to her, Ms. Targer."

  Chapter 26

  With A Sound Like Thunder

  Fifteen miles of orbital payload tether burned an arc across the evening sky five thousand miles long, so hot and bright it was difficult to look at directly.

  Half the population of Seraherd township stood on the roof of the processing plant, hands shading concerned eyes while they talked in low tones. More than a few passed a bottle around, tipping measured draughts into offered cups as their skyhook left a smoking trail from one end of the horizon to the other. Alcohol wasn't in their resource portfolio; no official still or moonshine apparatus ever found its way onto the colony shipment manifests. But they were resourceful. Colonists always found a way to provide for themselves; it was a point of pride so ingrained as to be almost religion. Not t
o mention agro cattle feed was mostly soy and corn to begin with so half the booze supply practically fell into their laps every harvest. But the pride thing mattered most.

  The sonic boom began twenty minutes later, riding two hundred fifty miles of atmosphere to reach their town.

  Bass so low it was more felt than heard rolled across the hills, shivering bioengineered quick-grow wheat and sending anything lightweight rattling around like it had legs and a bad attitude. It was a primal sound that spoke of danger: Thunderstorms, tornados, earthquakes. The holding pens east of the quarter-mile square plant turned into agitated waves of movement, groups of cattle shifting restlessly as ancient instincts pushed them to seek cover, find shelter... or just plain run until they left behind whatever predator was coming. Which would have been quite a trick as the boom went on and on, chasing the blazing end of the tether across the horizon in a shockwave seven times the speed of sound.

  Agro cattle were huge-- twenty-two hundred pounds of meat after processing. They were immensely strong as well, easily able to flip a solid steel drone combine if one had a mind to. But they sure as hell weren't fast. And running away from that vengeful burning spike of fire in the sky would require a flat sprint of nearly a mile per second. That right there would be some supersonic beef protein.

  Oscar Hile couldn't make himself believe that was possible.

  Although to be fair he didn't consider himself to be the imaginative sort anyways. Downright practical, honestly. It was only lately (while watching the slow, spectacular death of the orbital tether) that he really started imagining things. He pictured just how much worse it would have to be from the spaceport, directly underneath the hook. In his mind's eye it was a mass of burning gantries and support structures, slagged buildings slowly toppling over on each other. Sonic booms so loud trees came right up out of the ground with the bark ripped off. Everything remotely flammable catching fire from radiant heat. Access roads so cooked construction vehicles sunk into them like soft candy, only to slowly harden into statues as the searing tether passed by. Then doing it all over again as the giant lift assist swung through again sixteen hours later, pitiless and unstoppable.

  This imagination thing might be a bit overrated.

  While Oscar considered the merits of human creativity he kept half an eye on the herds, watching for a stampede. Animals could become accustomed to anything-- humans included-- but even after three days of sonic booms you just never knew when one of them would suddenly take it as a signal to run. And when a couple thousand of anything got going it was best to get out of the way. Or start checking if your property insurance covered a hundred thousand hoof dents.

  The other half of his attention was occupied with Jeffrey Hentley, the local Colony head currently holding court from the top of a turned-over harvest crate. Between the agro animals and Head Hentley he wasn't quite sure which might cause more long term damage.

  "-preemptive attack! That's right; I heard it from the GravComm not even two hours ago. Corporate headquarters issued an advisory that our entire system is being invaded in a hostile takeover! Can you believe it?" Jeffrey certainly could. His black eyes and ruddy face pointed at everyone in the small crowd, energetic and animated. Some people saw adversity as a reason to buckle down and find solidarity with their neighbors. Others, like their colony head, saw it as opportunity. "But what is even better-- even better, hear this!-- is the bounty for aiding in the fight! For every person that signs up, a generous stipend will be added to our entire colony balance every week, to be redeemed when Corporate regains full control of the system! And I, for one, will be-"

  "Who's invading?" That was Pat Irons, yelling from the back of the crowd. Oscar knew without even looking around. Pat had a voice made for calling fieldhands across a Colony mile-- raw, rough, undeniable. He didn't yell; he just sort of refused to acknowledge the existence of obstacles in between his mouth and the person receiving the words. It helped he was built like a rain barrel with four limbs attached, hands rougher than old leather. "Who 'xactly are we fighting with? We're a Colony, for crying out loud! Our value is our production!"

  The crowd muttered about that, agreeing. It was true: They made what they ate, sold generous leftovers by the megaton and in between their planet grew more habitable every year. On the Corporate ledger they were firmly in the black, even with hundreds of atmosphere processors running and high altitude terraforming bombs every year. But as a target to attack? Ludicrous. How do you seize crops that aren't grown? Cattle that haven't calved?

  Hentley hesitated, derailed from his personal speech at the interruption. He squinted at the dark crowd, picking out Pat from a sea of rough denim and stained work jackets. "Well, Corporate says they're-- I mean we are fighting drones. That's right! Drones. The enemy is so cowardly they sent machines at us!" He picked up steam again, pointed outward toward (presumably) space. "Right now two warships are holding off the invaders, but even their best efforts couldn't keep them off our resource stations! I'm told the system headquarters is nearly overrun and now we're seeing landings on both Colony planets. Not to mention the loss of our shuttle tether: That will set us back decades!"

  Another mutter through the crowd, rippling loud enough to be heard over the continuous rumble of the skyhook entering atmosphere. Corporate stations and system transit was one thing; they didn't get involved and the spaceheads returned the favor. It was widely accepted that for anything in vacuum they could expect Corporate to handle it (at a premium, of course), which also included an unspoken caveat to keep cutthroat budget fights far away from their gravity well. But bringing the fight Colonyside was another matter: That was personal. A betrayal of the silent agreement.

  "So we're fighting drones? Metal boxes, with weapons on them?" Gerald Garner that time. Oscar could almost picture the old timer nervously plucking at his overall pockets while he talked. "How are we supposed to fight that? With what? Farming machinery and cattle prods? I got two daughters at home, how can you expect-"

  Oscar tuned out the debate as he noticed Harland Gum come up the stairwell and onto the roof, floppy boonie hat thrown back and an annoyed frown on his bearded face. He paused briefly at the top, knocking mud and manure off his boots, then caught Oscar's one armed wave and ambled over with an easy grace. "Hey there, Prickles." He thrust a hand out in a crushing handshake, then plucked a sheaf of papers from one front pocket. "Got them maps you were asking for. Most of the western range here, where all them ships crashed a while back."

  "Any trouble getting copies?" Oscar accepted the folded maps, flipping them open to the range markers with a prospector's deft touch. "Corporate on you for it?"

  "Nah, I know Sandra down at Archives. Used to see her on the side-like when we first settled in. Quit off it a couple of months in, but we're still a bit sweet." Blue eyes roamed the crowd, then settled on the Colony head. "He pitching them on being some kind of militia?"

  "Seems like it." He unfurled maps along the edge of the roof, lining up markers until they were staring down at hill ranges with a birds-eye view. He spotted Seraherd colony right away, a small dot for seven thousand souls nestled right at the bottom of the north hills. Flat country bordered them on the south, hundreds of miles' worth bioengineered grasslands and micro-seeded waterways that abruptly ended at the edge of the terraform markers. All of it marked off with seasonal rotations for the herds. West of them was more grassland, bisected at a distance with a long red scar over the remains of Palos-1's spaceport. Hazard and danger symbols covered the map over there, warning of imminent collapse of the skyhook. But east..

  He tapped the map to the east, just over some alluvial hills. "That's them?" Four small red circles encompassed an area about fifteen miles square. It was a lopsided pattern with small gaps, like someone flicked red ink onto the map and smeared it while cleaning up.

  Harland glanced down and nodded. "Yup. Ships crashed down in that area. Can't get a better reading-- satellites stopped responding. Whatever got the tether station must have al
so snapped our birds out of orbit. Speaking of which, did our Head over there explain anything about that?" He pointed unsubtly at Hentley, who was currently in the middle of a wheedling argument with a coalition of produce farmers.

  "Drones." Oscar grunted the explanation. One slim finger traced a path from the crash sites to Seraherd, tapping small black dots along the way. "These farming homesteads; they reported in lately? Anyone visited, talked to them?"