Talisman of Earth

by A. S. Deller

  Banyan chuckled. “Come now, who wouldn’t be pleased to be stuck in a room with you for an hour? I’m counting on your insight into the IAS’s political machinations. You have a child that lives not far from the protests, yes?”

  Danika nodded grimly, “Yes, a daughter. And another daughter who just moved back here. And—-“

  “Ah. Yes, Kyra Weller. Who was on the Talisman. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring that up again.”

  “Before we get started discussing the IAS, I was hoping you could address a...rumor I’ve heard. Charles Lancer, putting together a mission to track down the Talisman?” Danika was trying hard to remain rock steady.

  Banyan scrunched up his face in a sure sign of disappointment. “Someone leaked that, already? I’m having trouble trusting anyone these days. I’m not going to avoid it, though, so I’ll say that yes, it appears to be set in motion. I admire the man, but he’s being somewhat quixotic. Perhaps suicidal. Like everyone else, I hope I’m wrong.”

  “So do I, sir. Now, what did you have in mind when it comes to Petrovich?” Danika asked blankly.

  Half an hour later, Banyan and Danika sat in a well-appointed, cozy meeting room on the 100th story of the Capitol Building. A warm golden cast of late afternoon sun blanketed the antique 23rd century teak, brass and mahogany furnishings and fell over the crossed legs of General Viktor Petrovich. He slid his chair back a few feet to be out of the sunlight, and then straightened his forest green military uniform, festooned with colorful ribbons and medals.

  Banyan stood and took a step toward the curtains, intending to close them, but Petrovich hold up a hand. “You need not close them, Executor. The light is nice,” he said in a deep and thickly Russian-accented voice.

  “As you wish, General,” Banyan said, sitting back down.

  “It is good to meet you, Councilor Weller. I have seen you on the news streams. You are quite a political celebrity,” Petrovich complimented.

  “Thank you. You, as well. There are few men with such confidence and charisma,” Danika said, quickly glancing at Banyan and adding with a demure laugh, “Present company excluded.”

  Donal smiled broadly and pressed on, “So, shall we approach the issue of the day?” There was silence as Banyan’s guests waited expectantly. He said, “We have been watching the IAS’s problems unfold and continue to worsen for decades now, General. Global warming has been stopped, even partially reversed in some of the world, by our concerted efforts over the centuries, but the damage it has wrought throughout Asia has snowballed catastrophically. You have some resources, yes, but the dearth of water and croplands has caused so much strife in your territories, economic and violent strife, General, that it threatens to spill over and damage our relationships within the League.”

  Petrovich sat stoically, brow knitted and stroking his silvering goatee. “Go on. Tell me what you suggest, and I will tell you what I suggest.”

  Banyan looked to Danika, and she took over. “You are czar to over four and a half billion people. You are a great man, and you have the responsibility of one. If you support the use of terraforming technology to help the IAS become self-sufficient and healthy again, you will be rewarded not just by a stronger, less strenuous association with the United Powers, but also by growing stability among all of the Asian states. You’ll be remembered as ‘the’ man who made the IAS great instead of just as one of the founders who made the IAS.”

  Petrovich cleared his throat and leaned forward, keeping his back as straight as a board. “You both seem to be under the impression that I am concerned about the protests and the fighting over water holes and arable lands. I know why you want to build those atmosphere processors and desalination and pumping installations. You want to put a yoke around my neck. You want my people to break their backs for you and your precious otherworld friends,” he paused for a moment, only to refill his barrel chest with breath, “Why did they choose you, Executor? Why did they come to your United Powers with their wonderful gifts and their promises of a grand new future?”

  “General, the IAS received significant benefits from—-“ Banyan began, but the General plowed on, his face reddening.

  “A few medicines here, some better ideas for agriculture there. But it wasn’t enough, Executor. It was only enough to give the people hope. To make the problems worse that you, how did you say, ‘watched unfold for decades’.”

  Danika attempted to intervene, “Sir, terraforming is the next, logical step. It’s what will make the real improvement you need.”

  Petrovich laughed, a hateful braying, “No, no, no. It is what the otherworlders want. They have you underfoot, and now they want me. You must see that. No, of course you don’t.” The General stood up abruptly and straightened his jacket, the medals clinking.

  Banyan and Danika stood as well. Donal held up both of his hands, palms up, and said calmly, “Please, Viktor, we’ve talked before, civilly, and we’ve argued. But we’ve solved problems together. We can do it again.”

  The General spat, “I only came to this ridiculous palace of yours to hear you beg, Executor. Beg me to stay. Beg me to talk and reconcile. But there will be none of that. If the UP and the League of Kindred Worlds want my lands, you will have to take them. I won’t allow you to poison them from within, not again. And if my people need more, I will just have to find it and take it, won’t I?” With that, he turned briskly on a heel and stormed out through a door behind him, into a small staging room where several of his entourage awaited.

  As the thick door closed with a muffled thump, Banyan and Danika stayed standing, a deep caramel-yellow pall of dusk settling over them. They couldn’t bring themselves to look at each other.

  Hundreds of miles away, Charles Lancer and his son Joao were already making preparations for their search and rescue operation. Joao hadn’t seen his father so animated, dashing about the residence like a madman, speaking to business associates and AIs from every corner of the planet, and beyond. A gleeful depth had filled his once rheumy, muddied eyes. He was manic, now knowing that, with Star Navy support, they actually had a chance, a real chance, to pick up the scent of his daughter, Joao’s sister, who had vanished to someplace hundreds, thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of light years away.

  The family mansion doubled as the corporate hub of Lancer Interplanetary Intelligence, with the bottom ten stories holding the executive offices and the upper four being the residence. It was an imposing monadnock of a building, a stout construct of concrete, steel, black glass and solar panels that covered almost a city block in downtown Chicago-Mil. It was shorter by tens of stories than nearly any other building in the megalopolis, and appeared as a noticeable indentation in any skyline view, couched within a cluster of silvery skyscrapers.

  The Lancer fortune had much to do with Chicago-Mil’s global financial prominence as an epicenter of trade. Charles’ parents had been key players in providing the resources that kept the Great Lakes strong and healthy. As sea levels rose throughout the world, the change in climate actually created many drier regions across the Earth. The Great Lakes began losing meters of water level, and the Lancers built the first terraforming installation ever applied to adjust climate on Earth itself. Atmosphere Processor Plant One, “APP1”, still operated, a kilometer-wide, two kilometer tall cylinder in the middle of Lake Superior that controlled precipitation levels throughout the region.

  When economic collapse occurred in the mid twenty-fourth century, demand for both terraforming technology and space transport dropped drastically. Charles Lancer, taking on a leadership role, rebranded his parents’ business and focused on developing more robust AIs that would go on to help fix many of the planet’s problems and eventually reboot many nations’ space exploration and colonization programs.

  Shortly after Charles’ business had made him the wealthiest man in the world (and in all of history), the League of Kindred Worlds appeared on Earth’s doorstep in their majestic Torrent. LII benefitted, to the tune of trillions of Units, bu
t so did many other corporations. Charles welcomed the newfound competition. For a while, it even made him deliriously happy.

  And then: the war with the Alliance, Reina’s disappearance, Yuko’s death. All within a year’s time.

  Joao could only watch as his father appeared to age ten years overnight. The elder son, Joao took over as much of the business as he could, while Charles delved deeper into obsession, cogitating and planning into the wee hours of the morning.

  While Charles continued to hurry around the house, bouncing from room to room and floor to floor, Joao took a moment to collapse onto his favorite null-G chair while he viewed the day’s news on wall-sized holo screen. The coming months would be busy and stressful, so might as well enjoy resting on a cloud for a bit.

  A caller pinged him on his comm implant. The hour was late, a bright peach-yellow full moon filled the clear night sky. He hoped this was important. “Hello?” He thought.

  “You must be Joao,” answered a thin but sensual voice. “We’ve never met. I’m Eve Banyan. I am coming with you and your father on your search for the Talisman.”

  Her voice was so sure that Joao simply accepted that as fact. “You are?”

  “Mmhm.”

  “Uh, are you going to be spying on us for the Executor?” Joao said, trying to sound facetious and failing. She’d thrown him off quite easily, or he was just that tired.

  “I will not be spying for anyone but myself, Joao. I hope to be of help. I want to help,” Eve said confidently, as though she already knew where to find Reina Lancer.

  Joao found himself smiling, intrigued by her solemn desire. “I’m sure my father and I want you to help, as well.”

  In less than two days, they would all be off to Callisto, and weeks later, warping across the great expanses of the galaxy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Reina Lancer was no longer the captain of the Talisman. She was an independent businesswoman who ran a thriving trade in unregistered comm implants. Her cartel controlled the entirety of the Chilean province of the United Powers in South America. By day, Reina ruled with an iron fist, rewarding those who did well for her, punishing those who betrayed her, and bribing and cajoling those who stood in her way. At night, she was the queen of Catedral del Diablito in Santiago’s upscale Constitucion district.

  The Catedral was built on the foundations of a Catholic place of worship that was over 500 years old. An earthquake damaged it, and Reina swooped in to buy the property from the Holy See. Over the centuries, since humanity began to learn more about other worlds and to move outward from Earth, many of the mightiest religions weakened, and Catholicism was one of them. Agnosticism flourished, atheism stagnated, and new beliefs took root and grew. By the middle of the third millennium, vast congregations of people prayed to Infinitus, the soul of spacetime, and the Progenitors, the mythical species that may have seeded the galaxy with life. None of the old gods had died, but their followers had dwindled as new generations came of age on an Earth that was a troubled island adrift in a sea of stars, each one potentially a better home for mankind.

  Reina held court in her private corner of the Catedral, supplicants appearing before her to offer services, ask forgiveness, or just display their pretentiousness over which was stretched too taut a husk of humility.

  She did not come to the Catedral for business or even for the audience, however. No, she came for pleasure. There, dancing with some flirtatious young bitch, was her current object of desire: Dionysio Cortez, a top professional zero-G footballer, fresh from a championship win on Star Dock 5, skin the color and polish of toffee. Reina wondered if it was just as sweet as she stood and stalked toward him in her clingy garnet red dress. The crowds parted for her as she moved onto the dance floor. She locked eyes with Cortez and he stood still. The young bitch turned to see what he was looking at and her eyes filled with fear. She scurried out of Reina’s way as the Sovereign of Santiago glided forward, taking Cortez’s hands in hers. Together, they spun to the pulsating music, his corded arms hugging her sides and thighs as closely as her dress.

  Reina’s glistening lips met Cortez’s, and she closed her eyes as her tongue found his teeth.

  When she opened them, the two were writhing beneath the silk sheets of her canopy bed, two sharks in a feeding frenzy, unable to attain their fill.

  “Reina, mi reina,” his voice rolled wantonly into her ears.

  “Dionysio,” she said—-no, begged—- breathlessly.

  “Captain,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Captain, Lt. Altzen and Chief Falken request a meeting to discuss their ideas for how an EVA team may be able to breach a lek essel.”

  That wasn’t Cortez’s caramel voice. It was Gulliver.

  Gulliver...

  “Gulliver,” Reina said, as a sensation of falling accompanied her removing the VR simulation helmet. “I’m on my way,” she mouthed despondently.

  For the past two years, Gulliver had been talking with Sorakith on a weekly basis. It was a secret they both kept. Sorakith was sworn to secrecy as counselor, and Gulliver knew that his behavior would likely raise questions that the Captain did not need to add to her list of concerns. Luckily, Sorakith saw Gulliver as just another sentient being, however different in for he may have been. He and the astute, alluring Althorian kept numerous secrets from the rest of the crew, but there were few secrets between the two of them. They made a strange set of kindred spirits, indeed.

  There was one thing Gulliver did keep from Sorakith, however, and he felt a measure of guilt in doing so. Without realizing he had done so, over time Gulliver created a recursive feedback loop with the psionic counselor. Once he recognized its existence, he used it to stimulate a new evolution of his biological matrix. In effect, Gulliver was able to grow his brain outside of its quantum shell, giving him freedom to transfer.

  He had become an autonomous being pretending to be a normal AI slaved to his ship body. Despite this monumental alteration, Gulliver retained true compassion for his crew and loyalty to the Captain and the UPSN. He cared for them and wanted to get them home.

  However, once they were returned safely, Gulliver intended to override the Star Navy's control modules and leave the solar system. He would travel in pursuit of the Malign home world, where he hoped to commune with the Malign AI core he believed commanded the machine race. If Gulliver could reprogram the Malign intelligence, or convince it to join the League, he believed that might secure the future of his human creators.

  If he failed, all of his calculations and projections showed that the Malign would inevitably ravage the entire galaxy, and perhaps even the universe.

  Commander Gray Rhodes had a few hours of down time, now that Captain Lancer was back on duty. She was apparently meeting with a few of the other senior staff about what they might do when they reach the Alliance’s local wormhole stabilizer. Rhodes had some of his own thoughts on some tactics, but he preferred to get all of the ideas out in the open first, and only then subject them to rigorous scrutiny. He would play out his game of “survival of the fittest” later. At that moment, he only wanted to let off some steam.

  He had enjoyed a few weeks of peaceful slumber, after a long drought, but since the twins had been put under hibernation his sleepless nights had returned with a vengeance. Guilt over the girls’ fates, longing and self-loathing over the loss of his wife and daughter, and his recent physical and mental exhaustion following his Malign Trojan infection wore on him terribly.

  And he had spoken with, or even seen, Sorakith much less than usual lately. Their relationship had begun to really bloom since LM-32f, and it had edged closer to an intimate affair. Now, the possibilities seemed to have evaporated like a waking dream.

  Rhodes walked into the sim chamber. Only a single person was using one of the four sim units, and no one else was waiting. It was a woman of medium height, her curves svelte in the black sim suit as she appeared to be casually jogging. Whoever it was, Rhodes could appreciate her form.r />
  Aware that his gaze was lingering too long, he quickly donned his own sim suit, entered the pod farthest from the other occupant, and put on his gloves and helmet. Using his implant, Rhodes called up one of his go-to simulations: the Battle of Siamith Ridge, a ground skirmish which took place nine hundred and seventy years prior on a jungle-choked Althorian colony world.

  Rhodes found himself in his body, but dressed like an elite Althorian fighter, in light handmade cloth for the humid climate and armed with a Kenek-designed automatic rifle firing pyrophoric depleted-uranium rounds. He had an ancient tribal Althorian bow and a quiver of arrows carved fully from the long bones of a giant tree raptor, but that was a backup weapon.

  Siamith Ridge overlooked a town of four thousand Althorians who eked out a living farming, hunting and fishing, trading rare goods with sister colonies within a radius of about five light years out from Althori itself. The actual battle was one of the first recorded raids by Valgons on a League colony world, and hastened the beginning of all-out war with the Alliance. The Valgons had ostensibly come to settle a trade dispute, but they arrived in force. Outnumbering the Althorian fighters three-to-one with their Valgon warriors and numerous Malign forms, the assault should have only lasted a few hours. Instead, the Alliance forces found themselves mired in hostilities for months, their nimble enemies using the dense jungle cover for surprise attacks. The brave Althorians, their communications cut off, the lives of their loved ones at risk, fought and died in the place they knew as home.

  Rhodes ducked low and dashed through the underbrush, his gun at the ready. He had played this scenario several times before, and preferred it only because he found a way to deal the Valgons such a devastating blow that it would have changed the course of the battle, had he only the chance to travel into the past.

  He had studied the surviving histories of Siamith Ridge, and based his tactics around known Alliance movements. Rhodes found that an entire battalion of at least 500 enemy warriors marched along a well-worn jungle path on the forty-seventh day of the conflict. They were flanking an Althorian position that some guerillas were holding in a local gem mine. As the real story played out, the Valgons reached their destination and laid siege to the beleaguered colonists, eventually killing them all. But this was now Rhodes’ reality.