by A. S. Deller
And could it be possible for anyone else to have survived on Mars during the Ravaging?
The hair on the back of Rhodes’ neck rose.
Could it?
He paged to the AI Core interface application on the tablet, simultaneously pinging Gulliver over his comm, “Gulliver, please run all conceivable scenarios which might have resulted in any people living through the Mars attack of 2492.”
“Yes, Commander Rhodes,” Gulliver’s calm voice waxed over Rhodes’ mind.
“Also... Please analyze all UPSN records pertaining to such scenarios.”
“Yes, Commander Rhodes.”
Rhodes stood, stepped over to his dresser on which was a small heated coffeepot, and poured himself a cup.
“Simulations complete,” Gulliver said.
“How many scenarios result in surface survivors?” Rhodes thought as he sipped steaming Arabica brew.
“There are thirteen potentialities that may have left a citizen alive during and immediately after the attack. However, there are no public or UPSN records under Level 4 Classified that indicated survivors. The Alliance’s attack also prevented rescue shuttles from reaching the surface, which lowered survival probabilities,” the AI reported.
Not to be discouraged, Rhodes prompted, “And the UPSN records? You said none indicate—-“ His thought ceased as Gulliver’s words struck him. He backtracked, this time speaking aloud, “No UPSN records under Level 4 Classified indicate survivors? Is that what you said?”
“Yes, sir,” came Gulliver’s reply, also aloud.
“I’m Level 3.”
“You are correct, sir.”
“Is there anyone aboard the Talisman who has a Level 4 clearance?”
“There is no crew member aboard the Talisman with such a clearance,” Gulliver said flatly.
“No crew member. Do you have Level 4 clearance?” Rhodes asked, pointlessly looking up at his ceiling with suspicious eyes as though Gulliver was there.
“I do, sir.”
“I assume you are unable to share Level 4 information with someone who only has Level 3 clearance,” said Rhodes, emphasizing “someone”.
“From your tone and biometrics, I see that you are implying that I should willingly share Level 4 Classified information with you,” Gulliver countered.
Clever bastard, Rhodes thought. Too clever. And quite the smartass.
“Sir, please be aware that I am not unwilling, but I am unable to do so. It is contrary to one of my fundamental directives. I do, however, understand your reason for wanting access to such information.”
“You do, do you? In your opinion, what is that reasoning?” said Rhodes, downing the last of his bitter drink.
Gulliver answered, “Based on probabilities of the various scenarios, Kina and/or Valia Rhodes may have survived the Alliance raid on Mars. Valia’s odds of survival were eight hundred and forty-seven to one, and Kina’s odds were six hundred and eleven to one, calculated using their last registered medical measurements from the offices of family care physician Hernan Cruz, MD. You cared for them very much, and it is logical that you would hope they could still be alive. It would be illogical, however, to believe they might be alive, based on those odds.”
Rhodes smiled ruefully up at the ceiling of his cabin. “It’s called faith. Here I was, thinking I’d been handed the truth by the institution I trusted for so long. Truth that made me lose any hope that I did have. And guess what? I got the same truth any regular citizen of the UP got.”
“You are angry, sir. It seems to be directed partially toward me. As I explained, I am incapable of—-“
“Tell me this. Is there any way, any way whatsoever, for a crewman with Level 3 clearance to be granted access to Level 4 materials?”
“The captain of a commissioned vessel in wartime, even if of lesser clearance than Level 4, may unlock Level 4 Classified information if such material will aid in the completion of the vessel’s objective.”
Rhodes’ nostrils flared as he snorted hotly, “Thank you, and foist off!”
He disconnected Gulliver and collapsed against a wall. His coffee mug hung off at an angle from the metal index finger of his left, cybernetic arm. A few remaining drops of the umber liquid trickled over the rim and splattered on the floor just as a single, forlorn teardrop slipped down a cheek.
Lieutenant David Ayler was 26, tall, lean and fit, with short brown hair and blue eyes the color of a robin’s egg. He sat at his desk in the stateroom he shared with Lt. Jordan Fogg, who was currently on duty two decks away. Ayler liked having a roommate that worked a different shift. It gave him more time to himself, and he needed it. When he wasn’t logging flight hours in a sim, he liked to relax at his little steel desk with his tablet and write. Plus, Fogg had a certain odor that seemed to linger about him, making for entertaining, ongoing puns that revolved around his last name, many of which Ayler provoked.
He was on Chapter 3 of his serialized World War II story. It followed the (literally) high-flying adventures of United States fighter pilot Lt. Wilfred “Barnstormer” Barnes. His current predicament had ended on a cliffhanger during the Battle of Midway during which he was blocked in by three Japanese Zeroes. One was at 10 O’clock, one at 2 O’clock, and the third at 6 O’clock. It was a tricky situation, but Barnstormer was known for finding a way out of tricky situations.
Now, Ayler just had to figure out how in the hell Barnstormer could actually live through that.
Two long, toned arms reached up and over his shoulders from behind, and Lt. Lille Altzen peeked her head up next to his. “Please, Foul Fogg is going to be back here in less than an hour. Just enough time to have another quick romp,” she said, nipping at his earlobe with hungry, carmine-red lips.
Ayler smirked and stroked Lille’s hands, her fingers locked around his bare chest. “I really need to get this chapter moving, gorgeous,” he said.
I’m never going to finish the book at this rate, he thought.
Lille was a real treasure. Beautiful, smart, a great teacher. Ayler was learning things he never heard of in flight school back at the Academy. A lot of it was tactics Lille had learned helming under Captain Lancer, but she had invented some new moves all by herself, ways of piloting a starship that might actually find their way into textbooks one day. If they ever made it back to the Solar System.
David Ayler learned to fly in gravity, as a pilot with the United Powers Air Force. By the time he joined, at 18, there weren’t many opportunities left in that area of flying, as most military and enforcement activities were performed either by drones or via the use of orbital watch stations. Every country had both, but the United Powers had the most of everything. The traditional air force was no longer a mainstay. The future was already there, and it was the Star Navy.
He transferred to the UPSN hoping to helm starships one day. He started with shuttles, along with every other wannabe starship pilot. The possibilities, with the UP being part of the League of Kindred Worlds, were limitless. He didn’t just dream about zipping around the Solar System like many others. Ayler dreamed about cruising the byways of deep space and seeing wonders that no other human had ever glimpsed.
Being trapped on the Talisman wasn’t great for his career. There was no path to being the helmsman. That was Lille’s job. At least she spent much of her time training him, and he was her official backup pilot.
She licked his cheek and whispered into his ear, “No...more...writing. Until I’m done.”
David swiveled around, grabbed her waist and lifted her over to his bunk swiftly. You asked for it, he thought.
Half an hour later they lay spent and cuddling, Ayler spooning her and Lille lightly kissing the back of his hand. At that moment--book be damned, helming his own starship be damned, returning to Earth be damned--Ayler was as happy as he’d ever been.
“Marry me some day?” Lille questioned, twisting her head around to look David in the eyes.
“Hmm? You mean, married?”
“You wr
ite stories, run verbal laps around most of your buddies, and that’s your response?” Lille cracked.
Ayler grinned, “Ug.”
Lille slapped him across a cheek playfully, and then kissed him on the nose. Her tone suddenly became very sober as she said, “We could move to the frontier, somewhere quiet and calm, like Freya maybe. I hear they have nice seasons there, real season like UP North America. And children. I want two. Or three. Maybe more. There’s a lot of farming to be done. We can settle down, make a home. You could work as an air pilot again. Drop fertilizer, carry supplies. I could teach physics. And you’d have a lot of time to write.”
Ayler stared at her throughout her wandering little speech, face still but mind racing. Shoot me into a star, she’s serious, he thought. What was he going to say to that?
Lille’s million-watt smile shattered the dread as she layghed, pushed against David’s chest and rolled out of the bunk. “I had you going, Ayler! I had you!”
David collapsed onto his back, oxygen flooding back into his brain, relieved. “Altzen! Foist’s sake!”
“Now get dressed, starman. Fetid Fogg’ll be here any minute,” Lille said as she pulled a t-shirt down over her breasts.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Gulliver was “born” twelve years prior, from a combination of League and human technology. His intelligence was grown by allowing a stew of algorithms to replicate in a contest of superiority. It was an evolutionary war that spanned billions of generations of code, though the final product only took a few weeks to gestate.
Once Gulliver was complete, he was stored in a biological matrix of DNA and artificially grown neurons, and connected to the Talisman via a quantum computer shell. His functions were many. He served as an archive of all human knowledge and relevant League / Galactic Catalogue information. He was adaptive, able to learn from errors and adjust future actions based on those experiences. He was in charge of complete surveillance of both the inside of the Talisman and everything as far as his sensors could reach. He governed all autonomic functions of ship. Gulliver monitored the health of every crew member around the clock. He processed all inter- and intraship communications. He followed Star Navy and League regulations and procedures, and was bound to help officers enforce them.
Every AI core was tied into its ship via a biological matrix and could never transfer its intelligence outside of the ship. If the Talisman was ever in danger of being destroyed, the AI core was committed to dump all of its data collected from day one of the mission and begin an AI self-destruct mode that only the ship's captain or XO could countermand. If its ship died, the AI died with it. Always.
Gulliver’s tone carried with it amiability and also an authoritative note, like a respected uncle might have over their nephews and nieces. He said, “Captain, your presence is requested in the AI Center.”
Lancer thought, “Who requests my presence?”
“Lt. Ming, Captain.”
A few passageways and hatches later, Reina found herself standing in the AI Center, where the quantum and DNA matrix computer named Gulliver was housed. Carly Ming sat in front of a workstation, poring over a detailed holographic monitor full of complex equations and a diagram of multidimensional space in a dozen colors. “Lieutenant, I’m here,” Lancer said.
Carly almost jumped in her seat as she turned, “Captain!” She began to rise and salute, but Lancer nodded her back to her seat.
“Please, no need. This looks important.”
“It is, Captain. Gulliver, will you please recite the findings you and I have made?”
“Indeed, Lt.,” Gulliver intoned. “At 0830 hours, Lieutenant Ming began to quantify some radio signals that had been fragmented by a solar flare in the LM-32 star system located at coordinates approximately 4 light days from our current location. She was unable to filter them properly, and so handed the task to me. I resolved them and found that they included a standard distress message delivered in all League languages. The source of the beacon is LM-32f, fifth planet from the young yellow LM-32 sun. It registers as potentially habitable, and the gas spectrum analysis I was just able to complete confirms that there is some life on the planet.”
Ming’s mouth parted but she stopped as Lancer held up a hand. Being interrupted by the Captain was getting on her nerves.
“I know the question. Do we respond to this in some way, or just keep going on our merry way?” Reina said, thinking about how it was just their luck that they got saddled with an SOS when they were in the middle of their very own survival situation. There was little time to tarry. She projected through her comm implant, “Rhodes, Weller, Falken, Rax--meet me on the bridge double-time.” She then turned to Carly and said aloud, “Follow me.”
Two decks and as many minutes later, everyone had convened on the bridge. Lancer stood before them, hands clasped behind her back, face as grim as ever, as she recapped the discovery of the distress call. Sorakith, Rhodes, Ming, and Rax stood at their stations, waiting. Dr. Weller and Chief Falken sat, resting a bit after a long day on their feet.
After some moments of soul-searching, Rhodes was the first to speak. “It won’t take us far off course, yes, Lieutenant Altzen?”
Lille confirmed, “No, sir.”
“I say we go after it,” said Rhodes confidently.
“There is some risk involved,” Rax played devil’s advocate.
Rhodes winked up at him, “Isn’t there always?”
“This isn’t a matter to take lightly. There are potentially serious repercussions, not the least of which is that responding will require a landing party to set foot on an uncharted planet in the middle of hostile territory,” Lancer said. Rhodes put his hands on his waist and opened his mouth to say something, but Lancer stopped him before he could get it out. “And I know how much you want to make contact with the enemy. We’re not going to base this call on that.”
“Sir, with all due respect, we can’t base everything we do around the strategy of running scared,” Rhodes said. He immediately regretted it.
Captain Lancer straightened, if that was even possible considering her ever-square posture, and fixed her XO with a laser beam stare as she said, “Deputy Commander, you do recall what CPO Hu said to me last week, which ended in his ass meeting the deck?”
“I do, Captain,” Rhodes said warily.
“You are treading perilously near his reckless use of language with your superior officer.”
The other senior officers on the bridge, having never seen their commanding officers disagree in public, couldn’t take their eyes off of them. Sorakith, in particular, was honed in on their psyches and couldn’t believe Rhodes’ sudden disregard. Everyone else tried their best to pretend they hadn’t heard anything out of the ordinary.
Rhodes didn’t necessarily feel like supplicating, but he did respect Lancer, and realized he had made a mistaken. He bowed his head slightly and said, “It won’t happen again, Captain.”
“Good. Now, we’re not going into this hot-blooded. Doctor Weller, your best conjecture on this SOS?” Reina Lancer eased the conversation back to where she wanted it.
Kyra spun around in her chair and gestured at her holo screen, bringing up a three dimensional model of the planet in question. “LM-32f has, remarkably, an atmosphere that is quite unique. It’s naturally breathable by humans without assistance. Less than one percent of life-bearing worlds fall into that category. It would take some hunting to find one.
Next, the SOS itself was sent in League languages. A very simple ‘we are here and we need help’ message. There is a good chance we have humans on that planet, and post-League ones at that. Maybe from the 2485 colonization wave. Almost five hundred thousand people left Sol System on the first non-military Alcubierre warp ships that year.”
“How is that possible? It would have taken them a century to get this far,” Lille Altzen asked.
Dr. Weller said, “It’s not...impossible. They could have ended up on LM-32f through a similar accident that brought us out he
re.”
“Gulliver has generated several dozen viable scenarios, but he suggests that the one with the highest probability is that it is a trap,” Sorakith said, looking questioningly at the Captain.
“Gulliver’s sharing important insight with you, before anyone else, now?” Lancer said, eyebrows arched.
“I’d already been in a conversation with him,” said the Althorian.
Rhodes thought he heard something strange in Sorakith’s voice, like she was hiding something. It wasn’t like her.
Kyra added, “It might seem that way. Probability-wise. But it’s a rare world. It’s not a place the Alliance would bother looking for just to place a trap. But it is a place human colonists would look for, if they had time. And why a trap, out here? There’s no reason for it. There’s no League presence for hundreds, thousands of light years, minimally.”
“If people, humans, whoever are down there, I think we need to try,” Rhodes wound up.
“Agreed,” said Cassidy Falken, lounging at an ensign’s station.
Kyra said, “We’ve been operating under the assumption that the Alliance doesn’t know we’re out here. But the Commander found visual evidence that the Valgon battleship we destroyed after our stranding had actually managed to shoot something out at FTL speeds before it exploded. So every day is a risk. The Talisman’s foremost duty is to fly in the face of that risk to help others.”
Lancer paced while everyone remained still, expectant. Finally she spoke, “Then we go in. But we go in cautiously, and we go in hot. Small strike team, one shuttle, and the Talisman in geosynchronous orbit on high alert.” She glanced to Rhodes.
“Aye, Captain,” said Rhodes, definitively.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Arno Jecky hung limply from a bar while Greg Hu kept on pumping out upside-down, hanging sit-ups. He had to give it to him: Hu really made you work to catch up to him. He made a great Chief Petty Officer.
“I’m gonna need a little help getting down without breaking my neck,” Jecky huffed. “Whenever you get around to it.”