The Shattered Stars: Breach of Contract

by Vance Huxley

  “Read it. All of it.” Sarge went back to look at Magpie’s privacy screen again.

  * * *

  Out in the asteroid belt the probe went back to the site of the anomaly. The other blocs with space capabilities, all eleven of them, took note and three sent probes to investigate. The spies redoubled their efforts. As the first probe came to rest and began to transmit more pictures, the original picture was finally acquired by four space-prospecting blocs. For once true excitement ruffled the ennui of absolute power in the boardrooms at the very top of the World’s true governments. Other organisations found out in their own ways, and at third, four, sixth hand the picture spread across the globe.

  The results went up through the echelons of SEPA (South-East Pacific Alliance) bloc, the original discoverers, with almost the speed of the supplementary probe as it clawed its way out of the gravity well. The new pictures showed a piece of debris from a spacecraft, not from nature! A plate of metal just over two metres thick and averaging just over one hundred and thirty metres wide by almost three hundred meters long travelled among the asteroids in a long path around the sun. Quick calculations that the object weighed over six hundred thousand imperial tons meant it had never been lifted into space from Earth.

  The object had definitely been manufactured, so it must be an alien artefact. More, it was a piece of a larger object since the edges showed ripples and bubbling. This was alien space wreckage! Even as the probe’s masters salivated over the possibilities further pictures showed small objects, cosmic gravel and dust, being repelled before contact. Something in the wreckage remained functional!

  Some very hard hearted, unimaginative businessmen had a shiver of what came close to religious awe at that. The calculations that followed had only one conclusion. The discovery couldn’t be hidden and the other blocs couldn’t be kept from it, so SEPA traded all the pictures and analyses in return for cooperation. By the time the fifth, the Chinas bloc, agreed, the rest clearly understood they daren’t refuse. A war to stop the six allied blocs gaining control of the force field technology would be ruinous.

  The other probes that arrived made their own inspections but the original had already died, burned out when it tried to touch the fragment. The MEEC, the Mid-European Economic Consortium consisting of a swathe of old countries from Germany to Greece, contributed a partially constructed spacecraft designed to exploit an iron-nickel asteroid their probes had pinpointed. The Franco-African Corporation Space Agency admitted the secret project in their African base did involve a similar mining craft. Both blocs received funding and technology to hasten completion, with an emphasis on probing and sampling rather than mining.

  Negotiating teams sparred over who would construct a craft to take man back to the deep cold and dark for the first time in well over a century. Bobby smirked when he reached this bit, because that old instructor would have a seizure at the idea. He had time to smirk because the five pads were synched and didn’t move on until everyone had read theirs. The next part started to look familiar.

  * * *

  Several blocs released the news to their Plebs, their workforces, as a way of diverting them from their miserable lives. Some managers and directors used the interest to encourage the Plebs to work harder and longer. The black news and rumours claimed that an alien warship had crashed on its way to either colonise, sterilise, or ally with Earth. Others claimed that it had come in peace, and that one or another bloc had destroyed it so now Earth waited for retribution. In some housing complexes riots erupted over stories that Plebs were to be sold to aliens as food or slaves.

  “Complex SSAB-Tata 17D.” Bobby blinked and looked up as Hood broke his concentration. He’d come to exactly the same conclusion but kept his trap shut.

  “Where?” Sarge broke off his pacing.

  Bobby sighed. “We heard the rumour during riots in a housing complex. That rumour killed a lot of good men.” He shrugged. “One of them a Super.”

  “Your famous steel umbrella?”

  “Famous?”

  Sarge snorted. “Infamous, though even my rank doesn’t tell me more than that. Now finish reading before I start a locker inspection and cite you all for notsi violations.” He eyed up the blatantly illegal weaponry hung on the walls or laid on the spare beds.

  They all snorted at that, then bent to reading again though now the pads switched to pictures and vid and voice. Pitch blackness filled the screens, broken by tiny bright points of light. At least three gasps marked the first sight of the fragment, a genuine alien space object.

  “Attempts have been made to touch the surface, and any unpowered objects have been rejected.” Onscreen a succession of objects were launched to impact gently on the plate. All were rejected without touching. “Powered probes on wires were employed.” Two more dead probes floated in the void. The cameras zoomed in on the melted ends of the wires coiling and looping lazily as the hulks spun gently. “Eventually a probe fired a ball-bearing at the plate to break what appeared to be a relatively weak repulsion field.”

  A probe spat out the small steel ball, and almost instantaneously a flash of intense light emanated from an innocuous dimple on the fragment. Once again some squad members gasped. The ball-bearing flashed into oblivion as a thin beam, only visible as it burned through the vapour, continued deep into the probe itself until the fuel supply exploded. “No further attempts were made until the adapted mining vessels arrived.”

  Onscreen the two mining craft were bigger than a probe. The front section of one detached and approached the fragment, dwarfed by the expanse of steel. At the established limit of the repulsion field, the probe attempted to contact whatever still lived in there. “This probe is using a laser beam to maintain contact with the mother craft, to prevent the alien artefact from reaching the larger computers and the information and instructions they carry.”

  “Shite!” Siflis spoke but Bobby couldn’t have put it better. A fine net of wires snagged the sacrificial probe, and the close-up showed them punching through the casing and burrowing deep inside. Moments later a hatch opened in smooth steel plate, launching a small pointed missile trailing a wire. The missile struck the mother probe, punching through the outer plating.

  “The mother craft computer was programmed to self-destruct to avoid capture or interrogation, but the alien artefact has already overridden that.” A second tiny missile neatly skewered the other converted mining probe and that didn’t have chance to self-destruct either. “On investigation the Franco-African Space Agency, FASE, admitted burying a special instruction deep into their core programming. If the computers were invaded, all probes would be instructed to launch a kamikaze attack on the alien artefact.”

  The close-ups disappeared. A long-range camera showed probe after probe starting their engines, then falling cold and silent. A flickering blur of lights on the artefact heralded probes exploding in rapid succession. The explosions, short sharp flashes without the flame and smoke so beloved of vid makers, died away leaving the two specialist craft still firmly snared. “Nothing further happened for just over one minute, during which time it has been assumed the artefact ransacked the electronics aboard the two craft for information.”

  Onscreen the fragment sprouted ports and hatches to become a very strangely shaped spacecraft, before slowly but smoothly turning to align one flat side at ninety degrees to Earth. “Nineteen hours and fifty-seven minutes later, the screens on Earth that fell silent when the probes were attacked came back to life.” The screen showed a schematic of the solar system highlighting Earth, the Alien craft, and a point well out into space beyond the last planet, Neptune.

  “Within an hour observatories reported a strong signal that seems to emanate from the third point, which is located in the Kuiper Belt approximately seventy-three AU from Earth. The signal will have taken almost ten hours to reach Earth, and we assume the alien craft contacted another craft or facility.”

  “Shite Sarge, Beebi, how am I supposed to follow this?” Bells looke
d round and threw up his hands in despair. “Can’t someone just tell me what to do? Are we being invaded or what?”

  “Everyone else feel the same?” Three other heads nodded with varying expressions of relief.

  Siflis didn’t. “Not yet. I understand it so far. The mining probes found a bit of alien spaceship, and it’s still working and talking to us. The blocs are combining to deal with it instead of killing each other.” He looked at his pad. “I want to see what they found and what that other signal is.”

  Bobby scowled. “You might, but we’d rather someone told us in small words so hard luck Siflis.” He looked at Sarge and waved the tablet. “This is way above our pay grade Sarge. If something isn’t in range of something I can hit it with, why do I care?” He glanced back at the pad in alarm. “Are they invading, or does some bledrin maniac want us to attack them?”

  Sarge laughed. “I asked more or less the same question.” He looked at the screens. “At about the same time. Hit escape, then confirm you watched up to the interrupt point.” He looked around the room. “Take what you need from here, because you won’t come back.”

  “That sounds much too familiar, and the last time meant a bledrin rough year or two. Is this one a real Gaza Taxi?” Bobby glanced at the pad. “Gaza spaceship?”

  “No Beebi, you’ve got a thing about Gaza Taxis. By not come back I mean the same as last time. You’ll go someplace else but in theory you’re supposed to survive. Get your kit.” He looked at the privacy screen. “Who’s bashful?”

  “Me, I wear frilly underwear.” Magpie got her voice as deep as possible but Sarge still stared suspiciously.

  “Didn’t take you long to get their sense of humour, did it? Just a hint, flickin me isn’t smart.” He smiled happily. “Bring the underwear, it’ll liven up the trip.” Sarge didn’t watch to see what underwear everyone packed, though he did frown at the sheer volume of notsi and ammo they all tried to stash away about themselves. “I’ve heard nasty rumours about you, Beebi. I reckon some might be true, especially after seeing this little barracks tucked away in the middle of no-place just for you and yours. What’s the Super count now?”

  “He got a Lord, but we share the Supers and Managers around.” Sarge blinked, the first time Bobby had ever seen him thrown off-balance, and stared suspiciously towards the screen and Magpie’s voice.

  “I warned you about flickin me.” Then he caught the grins from the rest and annoyance turned to curiosity. “Later, and you will tell me.” He waved them out through the door. “Take me to your leader. Area Manager Gunnar Eriksson I’m told, or his office at least.”

  * * *

  Bobby hesitated at the door into Guns’ office, because the room already seemed to be full enough. Inside were Area Manager Eriksson, looking a cross between worried and pissed off, Bobby’s old Line Supervisor, the lawyer Area Manager Jakkob Bryant, two of those mystery men who followed the Duchess about, and a man in a suit who looked to be in charge.

  The suit spoke up. “Just the two sergeants. They can tell the rest of the squad.” Bells tensed but Bobby shook his head just a little. “If you give your squad your weaponry, Sergeant Bobby B, that will make it much easier to fit in here.” Bobby didn’t know the man in the suit, but the little smile looked pure Duchess so he passed his weapons to Hood and Bells. “I suggest your men stay in the corridor, and make themselves comfortable.” The voice wasn’t asking.

  A half hour later Bobby came out in some sort of daze, and Sergeant Major Bjorn Kelsey didn’t look much better. Line Supervisor Steven McKay looked sick and terrified, and very reluctant to be alone with the rest. Bobby collected his weaponry while Sarge picked up another heap, then waved towards the door at the end. “Straight out and into the bus. Do not talk to anyone you see. The Line Supervisor will drive the bus, and we’ll talk.” The rest looked startled. Line Supervisors didn’t usually act as taxi drivers. Though as soon as they climbed aboard this Line Supervisor started driving, while Hood’s squad started asking questions.

  The simple answer, that Beebi’s almost original Basteds with the dick in charge were going into space, only brought more questions. Though even the detail didn’t help much. The six of them would be trained in low-grav and working under heavy acceleration, and in using spacesuits as well as specialist weapons. By then there would be a destination, though somewhere in space seemed to be a given. Bobby laughed. “I hope that basted lecturer finds out Timer Bobby B is a Space Marine, and bursts a blood vessel.” Hood explained to Magpie while the rest laughed, even Sarge.

  “Can the Army do that, move us to the Kingdoms Air Force, or Space Marines?” Bells frowned. “I chose Army. I don’t fancy flying in planes, and those space things don’t look safe.” True enough, Bells hated the planes that took them all on missions.

  “The Army might not be able to, but we’ve all agreed to become private contractors working for THULL or some space prospecting subsidiary of theirs.” Bobby grinned. “The pay and bonuses are better than even Squaddies, and any time on this job counts towards our promotions and pensions.” They all laughed at the joke, because only cripples ever drew pensions and any promotion seemed to have got lost in the paperwork.

  Siflis sobered. “When did I agree?” He grinned. “Though I will. Real Space Marines!”

  “In a minute. You really don’t want to say no.” Bobby pulled out the contracts and activated the electronic versions on his pad. “We were asked for, very specifically.”

  “The Ironhills?” Hood hesitated and glanced from the Sergeant-Major to the dick.

  “They know now. We are here because the Ironhills believe we can be trusted.” Bobby smiled. “Do you want to say no thanks?”

  “Not a chance.” Bells grinned. “Nobody ever trusted me before.” He looked at the document and his grin widened. “Nobody ever paid me like that before.” The rest agreed once they’d looked, then four thumbprints on Bobby’s pad settled the contract signing.

  Or maybe not. “Sarge?” Hood frowned as two heads turned. “The first one. Sergeant-Major is a mouthful.”

  The original with the steel knees, now a Sergeant-Major, smiled. “Smaj works. What’s the problem now?”

  “What if a thumbprint doesn’t match the original on record?” Smaj didn’t have a problem working out whose, because the rest looked at Magpie and she blushed.

  His face hardened. “What happened to the original Trooper Nathaniel Wright?”

  Bobby shrugged. “Killed in action. I gave Trooper Magpie the tags at the same time as we threw the stripped body out of the back. You know what happens to our dead.”

  A scowl answered that. “What will the thumbprint come up as?”

  “Nobody. I’m not on the records.” Magpie kept her voice low. “I really do belong in the squad, I earned my place.”

  “Even topped a Super to qualify.” Bobby grinned when that diverted Smaj, as intended. “We let the cherries have one as soon as possible.” He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “How much dirt do you want to have to keep secret?”

  The Sergeant-Major thought hard. “I want to know, but I don’t need to. Judging by that meeting either the Ironhills know or won’t care. I’ll add a note saying the original thumbprint might not be right because someone in the office was flickin Trooper Nathaniel Wright, but I’ve witnessed this thumbprint.” He grinned. “I’ll bet the original matches by the time they’re compared, and the Army will never see the note because you don’t work for them.”

  Bobby shook his head. “No bet.” Even Bells refused that bet, though Bobby had to explain what happened in the meeting to him twice more. By then they’d arrived at the airstrip. Another of the suited bodyguard types, already waiting there, took the contracts and a copy of the electronic ones from Bobby. Sarge passed him the electronic note.

  “A Line Supervisor with only five Troopers? Will there be more men?” Hood looked at the small plane waiting nearby. “Not in that.”

  The dick scowled. “I’m a Supervisor again, one
with only five men instead of a hundred. The basteds demoted me to lead you lunatics, before giving me the same bulsh non-Army contract as you. They reckon I’ll keep the seniority and pension and get the rank back, but demotion is on my record.”

  Bobby stared. “When did that happen?” The officer still had Line Supervisor badges on his uniform.

  “As soon as you assholes put your thumbs on the contract. Thanks a lot.” The Super spun on his heel and climbed onto the small private plane. The rest followed him inside, sank into the luxury seats, and disappeared from Army records.

  * * *

  The Army might have lost them, but Army training stayed right with the Basteds. For three weeks they all worked harder than they ever had before at old and some entirely new skills. “But why can’t I kick off a wall?” Magpie glared at the trainer.

  “Because there are no walls in space. You train in here because we can’t train you up there. Now, use the jets to move and take his knife.” He indicated Bells.

  “Fat chance, with or without jets.” Bells laughed. “Won’t we be using lasers? If we’re fighting in space?” At the moment the squad were in a room on a jet plane that stayed more or less weightless for short periods.

  “You learn about lasers in a while. Right now you’d start tumbling, pull the trigger, and cut all your squad mates and your life pod in half.” The trainer sighed. “As I tell you every time you ask. I can see the signs and you’ve had enough today. Finish this exercise and when the weight comes back we’ll land and revert to theory.”

  “No, no, anything but theory.” Siflis rolled his eyes. “I’d rather go for stress acclimatisation.” Both Bobby and Bells got to him despite being virtually weightless, pinning Siflis against the wall. Stress acclimatisation meant being pummelled by a machine that crushed them with up to five times normal gravity but expected them to carry out set tasks.

  “He doesn’t mean that.” Bobby glared and Siflis kept quiet.