Soundless Conflicts

by S. Walker

  The bridge turned into a riot of conflicting shouts. Paul's strident vocal cracks fought Emilia's angry denials, riding entirely over poor Janson's weak communication link. The exact words didn't matter anyways: The tone was a hurricane of negatives, shading into expletives from Emilia's end of the bridge.

  Siers weathered it, never looking up. "Four minutes fifty seconds, Paul. Go." Ship broadcast came on as he leaned into the console pickup. "Attention, all personnel: This is an orderly evacuation. The ship will be unable to support life soon. Every worker is to pack items, open any nearby emergency kits and confiscate anything inside. You have three minutes to calmly gather at the aft airlock." He thought for a brief moment and shrugged. "Any fighting will result in life-terminating sanctions without notice. Calm and orderly-- begin now."

  He snapped the circuit closed, then addressed Emilia and Paul as one. "I am moving up my retirement date, effective immediately."

  "Is suicidal idiocy catching around here or something?!" Emilia stomped both feet, raging. "First the Princess and now you! If you think for a second I'm going to jump off this ship while you go run around-"

  Paul agreed, rising to his full height and looking down on the CEO workstation. "Likewise. Whatever your plan is, sir, I cannot help but think we would be a help."

  Siers paused to give the tall man a serious look. "While I am deeply honored-- you'll never know how much-- I would like to point out someone needs to be here when our Engineer's lifeboat arrives."

  "Uh." Janson sounded mad and concerned at the same time. "That's dirty, cap'n. Ah don't want to be used like that."

  "Noted again, and for the record I really am sorry. Four minutes, Paul." Siers gave him a meaningful look, then glanced at the hatch. "That group will need your help, not to mention... you have a patient to evacuate, I believe? The young Minyer?"

  Paul look stricken, then angry. But he moved, long legs hurrying to the hatch. "I respect you slightly less for that. Sir."

  "I know. I'm sorry." He looked down, then at the Comms station. "Emilia?"

  She wasn't having it. "If you think for one freaking second you're going to work some magic guilt crap and get me to agree on-"

  Siers flicked an icon from his workspace to hers. "I've transferred your parent's contracts into your name, with debts forgiven."

  Her jaw dropped. "I don't- No, I mean..." She raged in placed, arms thrown over her head and feet stomping in a circle. "That is some complete and total bullshit right there! They don't deserve to be happy, not after what they did to me! You can't do that, take it back."

  "Point of fact, Comms: You are doing that. If you don't get off ship the transfer record will never make it back to Corporate." He huffed a laugh, half sad and half amused. "They'll be indebted forever. I know how angry you are they traded your Corporate contract for personal happiness; well, here's your chance. Will you do the same thing?" Siers glanced at the hatch. "Or leave the ship and hold it over them?"

  Emilia raged screamed at the overheads, visor a riot of colors. "That's not! Fucking! Fair!" Then she yanked her console completely off the workstation, turning it into a portable unit. A moment later she was at the CEO station, leaning over the edge. A small hand slapped Siers hard on the cheek. "That's for being a bastard about it. You could have done that this whole time?!"

  "I only found them when we picked up the lieutenant. Remember how long we were in-system? It took quite a bit of effort. For what it's worth," Siers patted her cheek gently, like a reverse of the slap she'd given him. "It was in my will anyways. Which is another thing you're carrying with that record-- so keep it safe."

  Emilia pulled away from his hand, face averted and shining wet. "I'm not thanking you." She stomped toward the hatch, every tiny footfall hitting like mountains of anger on the deck. "But thank you."

  "Would you like a consolation prize, then?"

  "What?"

  Siers didn't look back. "I seem to have conveniently forgotten about a certain ex-CEO. My, what an oversight. I should be sanctioned." The bridge filled with startled laughter. "Three and a half minutes... Em."

  The hatch opened, paused, whooshed shut again. Siers checked to make sure she really was gone before sealing the bridge with an Executive-only lockdown. Then he got up and moved to the co-CEO workstation, wristing it to life and frowning down at Jamet's half-busted control surface.

  "Now, how did manual control work...?"

  Chapter 44

  Final Callbacks

  Corporate playgrounds are subtle lessons in treachery.

  When she was little, before mock games took a turn to real consequences, Jamet's favorite thing to play on was the "seesaw". It was a staple of playgrounds everywhere: Just a single support post with a long piece of metal balanced across it, a seat placed on both extreme ends. Two children would each take a seat, then trade turns pushing off the ground to be the one "up". Being "down" wasn't as good: You couldn't see much with your butt on the dirt. But being on top was fantastic-- taller than an adult, feet dangling, a heady rush of victory.

  And all you had to do to secure that feeling was kick off, put the other person down. One winner, one loser, trading places by effort.

  The Corporate version had six seats and backstabbing.

  With six chairs and a single pivot the seesaw became warfare, a hexagon of social combat. Balanced on a central point only two children could ever be "uppers" at a time. The unfortunate lower pair with their rears in the dirt could work together to push off and force the other side down, of course... but they had to overcome the last third of the group. The middle seaters.

  Balanced sideways between the uppers and lowers, middles were neither high nor low. But they did influence change. When lowers pushed off to claim victory middles could lean against the effort and drive them back down. Or help by throwing weight into the push, sending uppers crashing downward without risking their balanced position across the center.

  As a social lesson the hexagon setup was brutal in teaching aspiring climbers necessary skills to remain on top: Always alliance someone below, working them to sabotage a partner, ensuring you never lose your spot on top. Failure to breed fratricide in the ranks resulted in painful falls.

  The child version of Jamet was a legendary terror of the teeter-totter.

  As an adult it was much less enjoyable.

  But at the end of her life, sitting in a sadistically comfy chair and riding the edge of a drugged-up psychotic break, those long-ago playground skills came into new practice. In the wake of the Tulip's superweapon firing so close the flow of time seemed to be broken... or least extremely non-linear in nature. Jamet felt like she was riding that seesaw hexagon again, but now a version of herself was in every single seat, ghostly visions intersecting with hers in barely-visible angles. Upper copies were pain-free, older and wiser, looking backwards from distant futures with silent concern. Lower seaters suffered in misery, shattered arms and boatloads of overdosed medication making it hard to think at all.

  Which put her back in Middle Management again, balanced between a horrible near-past and a possible bright future. Leaning side to side, throwing her weight as possibilities opened and closed with every moment.

  And she wasn't alone.

  "These are some insane painkillers in these kits." Jamet stared upwards at the ceiling of the smelter, watching a dead artist's final portrait flow between expressions like it was a video conference call. "I really have to warn Paul about mixing medications."

  The portrait seemed just as confused as she was. Stylized eyebrows came down in worry, eyes tracking back and forth like they had trouble focusing on the woman trapped in the control chair. Realistically shaped lips moved, a powerful suggestion of voice without any volume. I can hear you talking. I can feel you, but from where? From when? Then, tellingly: How are you here?

  One of the Lower, downstream versions of herself glanced at the console, noting an angry swarm of hostile red dots approaching the smelter in pursuit of the Tulip. This informati
on trickled to Middle in waves, causing a lot of fear along the way until one of the Uppers disappeared in a flash of lost possibilities. Another took its place, looking significantly more beaten and weary.

  Jamet had a feeling that wasn't good. How many more of her future selves could she lose before the seesaw didn't work? Actually, that was the perfect question to ask. She gave it a shot, looking upwards and feeling extremely stupid addressing the ceiling. "Can you help me?"

  Confusion in thousands of black lines. I don't know. Where are you? Is your present near me, now?

  That was an easy answer, considering there was only a single unaccounted-for ship in Pilster-3 right now. "Probably. Are you piloting the Tulip? The uh, big ship with a huge plasma weapon? Are you some kind of CEO on board? Or a passenger, maybe?" Wow, Jamet really hoped Emilia wasn't recording this somehow. In fact-- she glanced at her Lower, who wearily nodded and used her (their) heel to mute the comms link.

  Another flash of possibilities, another Upper replaced. A glowing version of herself this time, face full of laugh lines and humor, wearing a uniform she'd never seen before. A future reopened-- which interested present-her very much.

  Overhead the portrait was going through several fast expressions. Surprise and disgust, then a deep sort of thoughtfulness before settling on introspective concern. Yes, I have been on the Tulip. Many times. But I have not been a... CEO. This came across with a wary sort of concern, like insulting a host at their own party. Nor am I ever a passenger. Can you narrow down your present?

  "That's kind of a weird request. Can you narrow down your present?" Which was apparently the wrong thing to say: Upstream Jamets blazed by like a paired lightshow in a double kaleidoscope of failures. "Ack! Come back!" A new pair settled into place, identical gray hair in braids over their shoulders. One looked tired, arms crossed and lonely. The other seemed surprised, dusting red clay off both hands.

  Come back to where? I am present in a research facility, with many others. If we are meeting at the sh- Tulip I need context. What is your present?

  Jamet metaphorically looked across at her Middle counterpart. They shrugged, then consulted the Lowers, both of whom pointed chins at consoles full of raging drone swarms across a backdrop of asteroids.

  Realization hit. Talk about a unique situation. "Oh! Right! I'm at Pils- no, that won't help. Double asteroid belts! The system has two asteroid belts! That's where I am!"

  Oh. Three, seven or eight planets?

  Maybe it wasn't that unique. "Two! There's only two planets here! They're both gas giants, with big facilities in orbit for resource extraction."

  Streaks of shading pursued both lips as he looking slightly off to one side in thought. A perfectly outlined scar came and went, gracing the left cheekbone for just a moment before disappearing. Yes, I think I know that place. I forgot the third was artificial. What is going on, when you are?

  One of her Lowers actually facepalmed, pulling her good arm off the reader and disappearing in a down-time negative flash of light that took Jamet's middle version with it. They both reappeared an instant later looking severely beaten up: The Lower now sported a broken arm, bloody lips and two black eyes. Her Middle counterpart had the same injuries, but met Jamet's worried look and painfully mouthed Janson by way of explanation.

  Huh. So it could have gone a lot worse in the lifeboat. Nice to know.

  "What's going on... uhhh. There's a drone swarm here. It's attacking you-- or the Tulip, I'm getting confused on that. The drones already took out a bunch of infrastructure here and tried to disassemble our ship. Does that help?"

  Raw anger and concern this time, dark eyes growing like the portrait tried to lean in and see better. Consumers. You are describing machines that self-replicate, aggressive and nonresponsive?

  "Yes! Triangle bastards!"

  Hexagons, actually.

  Jamet wondered if hallucinations were allowed to be pedantic twits. There didn't seem to be a regulation or checklist item that covered that particular case. "Sure. Those. You're getting attacked by a ton of them and doing a really, really bad job of fighting back. The Tulip is just coming right for me, dragging everything right into my lap."

  Coming right for you? Your present? Why?

  "Yes! I turned on the magnetic bottle for the fusion smelter. There was this idea of baiting the drones here and blowing them up. Well it was my idea, but I didn't do it. But I tried. There was a big argument with my crew while they sabotaged me, then this stupid pop up quiz stopped me from blowing up and before I could take care of that your ship-" Every version of herself gave Jamet the exact same flat look at the same time. One of her Uppers appeared to flash out of existence voluntarily, replaced by a confused-looking copy with some wild facial tattoos. "This is probably too much extra information." They all nodded. Except Tattoo, who was examining the clean-cut elderly Upper with a look of horrified disbelief.

  A magnetic fusion bottle...? He said it distractedly, as if many things were going on at once. Then the mental voice sharpened in realization and a growing sense of worry. The portrait leaned back in perspective, eyes looking downward warily over shaded cheekbones. A fusion bottle, in a system with two gas giants and double asteroid belts being harvested by Consumers. With one person operating it?

  "No!" Jamet thrust her chin at the console like that would indicate everyone else. "There's other people here, too. Janson, Paul, Siers, an angry dwarf, a bunch of habitation ring survivors and some actual garbage in human form. But right now you're headed for me on some kind of... suicidal rescue mission!"

  Rescue. Mission..?

  The portrait suddenly looked terrified, then snapped out of existence. Black marker lines condensed into a solid ball of darkness, deeper than the lightwell of a singularity and pitiless as the space between stars. Then it vanished entirely, leaving the overhead clean and smooth. Mostly.

  "Oh shit." Jamet took a sideways look at the other versions of herself on this time-assisted trip, hoping for an explanation. Both Lowers and her Middle shrugged, lost. But the Uppers looked amused, the elderly version inaudibly saying something that made Tattoo laugh and offer a fist bump of solidarity. Even without being able to hear the exchange Jamet's ears started burning. "Well, I guess it can't be that bad?"

  The elderly Upper blinked out of existence. Jamet panicked. "Oh shit! I take it back, it's bad! It's bad!" She popped back into place again, looking rattled. Tattoo leaned away like non-existence might be something that was catching.

  Downstream of her the Lower versions were watching console screens with increasingly worried expressions. Jamet checked both displays and then looked at her own, finding them all fairly similar and equally bad. The Tulip was nearly on top of the smelter, less than two minutes out. The vessel did not look like it was doing well, at all: Of the numerous original plasma-equipped petals less than twenty remained, all of them sporting the chewed look of high speed drone hits. Superstructure slashes across the base were so deep and numerous they combined to reveal interior details: Broken support structures twisted outwards, showing something like corridors packed with blue and green lights. One entire side of the Tulip vented bright white cones of energy that looked suspiciously plasma-like from three long, ragged cuts.

  But still it came on. Immense, damaged, cut and slashed from every direction. Never stopping, defensive strikes growing weaker by the second.

  Jamet was stricken, both angry and deeply worried all at once. "What are they trying to do? Just turn and fight! Solve the problem, then come if you still want to! You're acting like this is all completely new, doesn't anyone know how to fight?" Which seemed completely bizarre: Why the hell would you even have a weapon that insane if you didn't know how to use it properly? That would be like the Corporate Navy forgetting how to-

  She led the group in a chorus of groans, even the upstream versions of herself giving off 'what did you expect?' hand gestures. "It's manual navigation all over again, isn't it. This is some kind of stupid thing like Fiscal Enforcemen
t and their warships-- all power, no idea what to do when something happens. I am being rescued," Jamet rolled her eyes at the overheads. "By amateurs."