by Ben Wilson
“Why?”
“Sorry, Sir. The orders are confidential.”
Litovio knew Marsileno hated secrets in his household. Before he had a chance to intervene, his father spoke up. “Girl, you had better explain all of this. Immediately.”
Rather than speak, Khaooldro touched her headset at the temple. Her hand then dropped back comfortably to her side.
Marsileno said, “Miss, you have one beat to explain. This is Sabanoi. You're not from around here so I'll indulge your naïvete.”
A bit of a smirk emerged from Khaooldro's otherwise calm face. The entry door opened without announcement. A stick of Marine Infantry calmly walked through the door, weapons casually slung over their shoulders. A pair of them stationed themselves at the entry. The other three walked into the reception room, failing any attempt they might have tried to look casual. Full body armor stripped away any casual or peaceful pretenses.
“Captain, time is of the essence. You are on duty.”
Litovio turned and hurried up the stairs. He was followed closely by a Marine. Bodyguard? He looked back at the reception room to see that the other two Marines were “guarding” his father, rather than protecting Khaooldro. By the time he returned to his room his servant had nearly finished packing his bag. He stood for another two beats as the servant finished. The bag zipped shut, the servant looked at Litovio plaintively.
He shrugged. “I suspect it is better that I pack light.” He looked at the Marine. The visor concealed the face beyond enough that the Marine was essentially anonymous. Regardless, Litovio spoke to him. “Any hint what I'm about to encounter?” Litovio looked at the guard patiently and unwaivering.
The guard spoke, “Sir, my task is to ensure you are on that shuttle before the cycle lapses.”
“No chance I can desert?” Litovio smiled, hoping the guard would catch the humor.
There was no way Litovio would know if the guard beyond was caught off guard. The guard replied simply, “No.” The guard tried to be distracting as he unshouldered his rifle. He remained by the door and put the rifle in rest position. The blatant, albeit calm, show of force persuaded Litovio that desertion was not an option—not that he ever considered it. The guard's reaction led Litovio to smile.
“Okay, I guess we should load the bag on the shuttle. I'll be along shortly.” Litovio watched his servant carry the bag out of his room. The guard seemed to maintain his focus on Litovio, but his position was such that any threat from the servant would be easily countered. There's an efficiency to an Infantry Marine.
After the servant disappeared, Litovio poured himself a glass of ziemann juice. He drank it like a shot, not caring that the servants properly salted it. He held the glass to the guard, who shook his head.
Litovio walked down the stairs. The two guards in the reception room continued to keep his father in control. For his part, Marsileno knew rather than try to resist. Part of Litovio relished his father's submission. He walked over to his father. “Sir, I'm sorry for the disquiet brought to your house. I know you dismiss us as pirates, but I'm a Postal Marine. Maybe one day you'll accept me.”
He turned and walked out the entry. Litovio continued to the shuttle and boarded. Khaooldro sat waiting for him. The excitement of being essentially abducted from his home would have made him giddy ten years before.
“Can you tell me now what's going on?”
She smiled. “All I can tell you is you're being sent to Guna to escort an admiral.”
Me escort an admiral? “Admirals are for fleet actions. The Postal Marines don't have that rank.”
“A sign of the times, perhaps.”
Khaooldro Gojoneddus, that's what she said her name was. Isn't that an ancient way of saying glorious revolution? “Your name isn't Khaooldro, is it? Who are you, anyway?”
“A concerned citizen,” she said.
* * *
Bophendze - Temask System
Bophendze awoke. He tried to lift his head, but winced at the pain. He could not turn his head. He reached up and felt a rigid collar on his neck that was keeping him from turning his head. Within the limited range of his vision, he thought he was on a shuttle.
“Hello?” he said. His voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. He breathed deep then let out a loud moan.
“He lives. Give me a beat, Bophendze.”
Soon after, Angel stood over Bophendze, looking straight down at him. “You can still see, right?”
“Barely. Where am I?”
“We're about two cycles out from the orbital. You took one hell of a beating. I'm surprised you're still alive.”
That makes two of us. Why not just throw me out of the ship? “What happened?”
“Somebody is trying to tell you they don't like you. The ship has basic medical facilities, but the doctor there thought you should be taken to the orbital. You're going to need a little re-constructive surgery.”
Re-constructive surgery? Were they wearing their battle armor when they beat me? “I know who did it. They put a sack over my head, but I know—”
“Too late. Chrachen's finished the investigation. The official report finds that there is no conclusive evidence of the identity of any of the perpetrators.”
“No! Corporal Makaan spoke to me after they beat me. I know it was him.”
“During the time of the beating, Chrachen said Makaan was with him. They were in a staff meeting with all the team leads. It would be your word against that of every non-commissioned officer and Chrachen himself. Had you fought back, you might have hurt somebody enough to leave evidence. But nobody even looked like they broke a nail.”
“I couldn't. As soon as the sack was over my head the beating started. It's nice to know the entire cadre want me gone. Maybe I could get a transfer.”
“To get a transfer, you'd have to prove deliberate, continuous aggression against you. If you're right and Chrachen's in on it, I don't think they're going to allow your to prove that.”
“Having my face beat in is not deliberate aggression?”
“You have a lot to learn about the Marines. On ship, the captain is like a god. You can lay odds that he let you get beaten to prove a point. He's not pressing the investigation, just the same as Chrachen is covering it up. It's not hard to cover up something like this. Marines get into fights all the time.”
“Then why didn't they just kill me?”
“To be honest, I don't know. Maybe they're hoping you'd do them the favor. They're anthorphs, so it's hard to figure them out sometimes.”
“I've heard that term before. What is an anthorph?”
“Genetically enhanced humans, except they've bred themselves into a bona fide species. They get recruited into various militaries because they tend to be stronger, faster and more aggressive than normal humans. I'm surprised you've never heard of them before.”
“That makes two of us.” His vision improved. The light overhead steadily brightened, hurting his eyes. He tried to lift his arm to block the light, but the arm could not reach that far.
“The light's too bright.”
Angel stepped away, then returned. “I'm putting this cloth over your eyes. These are the combat night lights. There's nothing dimmer short of turning them all off. As much as I know my bird, I can't get around in the shuttle with the lights completely out. Like I said, we're still a few cycles out. There's a surgeon at the orbital, he should be able to get you back to normal. The good news is you'll be off the Spaka for a few months to recuperate. You know, I thought it was a light-hearted joke that they started calling you Scitan after the hangar shooting.”
“Why? What's it mean?”
“It means dung-eater on Johor.”
“I feel like I have been singled out since I got to the Spaka.”
“Maybe so. Sometimes the infantry picks a runt out of the litter to torment. Just rest.” Angel walked away.
Bophendze closed his eyes, but could not go to sleep right away. I wonder if the surgeon will be Ramford? “Angel,
did they at least change me out of my greasy uniform?”
Angel yelled back, “No. Stuff stinks and the scrubbers couldn't purge the smell. I'm going to have to air out the shuttle for a week just to get rid of it.”
Bophendze sighed. That means I should have both the implant and the quid chit. If Bingaffles Ramford is the surgeon, maybe I can persuade him to do the operation. Then maybe I can get some payback. Finally relaxed, he fell to sleep.
* * *
Smee - The Manticore Trial - 110 years ago
Maijoi, Sirom N.M.L.Sirom was asked two months after his meeting with Bowdoin, DorseyLord Dorsey Bowdoin for the simulation data for the Trial. Over the next year, he fumed as the Manticore-Class Trial was delayed. Even during the journey to Ŝipfarejio (The Barns) the Imperial Navy's Headquarters, Sirom was beside himself with anger. Finally, a year after Sirom's last meeting with Bowdoin, the trial was about to be underway.
Lord Bowdoin was the Trial's judge. Sirom suspected Bowdoin supported the Cel-Tainu design, despite a lifetime of friendship with Microdyn. He tossed aside the loyalty and friendship of Microdyn to join who he thought would be the winning team. Sirom had long wondered what the price of honor was, but knew better than to confront Bowdoin. The entire process was stacked against Organization!Macrodyn Tectronics UniversalMicrodyn. Sirom did his best not to pace the conference room waiting for the Cel-Tainu representative. Bowdoin would even allow Cel-Tainu to disgrace him by arriving late.
A cycle later, Ryante, BertinRyante Bertin arrived. He was flanked by four employees.
Sirom spoke up immediately. “Hold on. We're not supposed to bring an entourage. That is explicitly called out in the simulation terms.”
Bowdoin looked at the entourage then back at Sirom. “Four is hardly an entourage. Had you asked, I would have told you that you could bring up to six without it being an entourage.”
Besides, two of them are bodyguards.
Sirom looked carefully at the four that accompanied Ryante. None of them looked like they were capable of a firefight. Are you sure?
At some point, you are going to have to trust the insights of an artificial intelligence. I am far more capable than you are in picking up on things. A faint halo appeared in Sirom's vision outlining two of Bertin's non-entourage.
Sirom pointed at the men Smee had outlined. “Bodyguards? Ryante, did you think I was going to shoot you?”
“I'm sorry, Mister Maijoi, did I give you leave to call me familiar? I've had several threats on my life. I don't go anywhere without some protection. How could you even think me capable of assassination?”
Sirom tried to find the words. Smee took over. “When the Macrodyn Manticore destroys yours, who knows what you're capable of. Especially after the process has been stacked in Cel-Tainu's favor.”
Bertin laughed. “You really are delusional, ‘Prophet.’ I have every confidence that our design will prevail.”
Smee continued to speak in Sirom's place “Is that because you've had a year to run private simulations against our design? A chance to find the weaknesses.”
Smee detected the subtle shift in Bertin's face, something that might have been picked up by a trained human expert. Smee's attack cut through the veneer of class etiquette, which the likes of Bertin relied upon to cover his unethical actions. Frauds who know they can't win will use society to cover their actions. Bertin was such a man.
“How dare you.”
“I dare, Mister Bertin, because it is clear this process has been rigged in your favor. No offense to Lord Bowdoin, who is clearly surprised by this revelation.” Smee sought to give Bowdoin coverage to his own culpability. Sirom had complained before that data on the Macrodyn Manticore had been given to Cel-Tainu. For Cel-Tainu to have the data, Bowdoin had to give it to them. “I've taken the liberty of bringing to the Trial a recent revision to our design. My information says you provided your data only last week. So, the rules are only properly served if we can bring our update.”
Bowdoin frowned. “Mr. Maijoi is right. He can submit revised simulations.”
What are you doing, Smee? There are no revised simulations.
Relax. When are you going to learn to trust me. After all, who designed the ship? I have the complete designs in my memory. Besides, when you were putting together the simulation, I added an obvious design flaw. It was something that Cel-Tainu could discover and tweak their design against. All I have to do is comment out the block of code that implements the flaw in the design, and our Manticore will thrash theirs.
How can you be so sure?
Remember when your communications team picked up the Cel-Tainu design that they submitted? I had a chance to look at the design. There was an obvious flaw, beyond its having the flight characteristics of a lump of senrima dung. All I did was tweak the simulation code of our Manticore to feed into that flaw. I made their flaw a strength. Unless I missed my calculation, they will have accentuated that flaw to exploit the one I coded in.
That's evil.
That's business. You need to give up your chimera that business is a noble enterprise. Maybe at the shopkeeper level. But, you can't keep a two-thousand year-old corporation in business without a little underhandedness—or a lot of underhandedness. Why else would you call your corporate spies your ‘communications team?’
Bowdoin spoke. “Fine. Sirom, I'll give you a cycle to produce your simulation. Then the Trial will begin,”
Smee let Sirom take over. “I just need a few beats with the data we submitted. The changes weren't that significant.”
“You really are full of yourself. Do you really think you can change the simulation from your memory?” Bertin said.
Sirom smiled, though he was not entirely sure it was he who flexed the muscles. “What difference is that to you? I'm The Prophet, don't you know? If I can't change it from memory, then you'll have little difficulty in the simulation. Does that sound about right?”
Bertin threw his hands up. “If a sound thrashing is what it takes to get you to stop being called The Prophet, then so-be-it.”
Sirom was given access to the simulation control room. They sat him down at one of the more private terminals. In a little over six beats, Smee had accessed the simulation, located the planned design flaw, and commented it out. He then proceeded to input a bunch of needless comments to conceal just how easy it was. Smee added an escape clause that would revert the changes after the simulation began. If anybody tried to analyze the design after the simulation started, they would be left wondering. Satisfied, Smee stood Sirom up and spoke. “I'm finished. Can we proceed to the Trial?”
How dare you take over my body.
You didn't know I could do that?
I suspected you could. But, I didn't think you would be so insolent to actually do it in front of others.
Oops. You didn't seem to mind when I interrupted your limp-wristed complaining a few beats ago. You can thank me later.
The group moved to the Trial's viewing room. The Naval High Command used the viewing room to review battles as part of its after-action process. In most cases, it was a gag reel of opposing force fleet failures against the Imperial Navy. Only rarely did the Navy have real opposition that merited a true after-action review.
Sirom and Smee listened to a quarter cycle of speeches by admirals and bureaucrats about the importance of the Manticore-Class. The next generation of battleship. Harbinger of a foundational redesign of all martial shipping. A paradigm shift that will reverberate to all human interstellar shipping. Blah. Blah. Blah. Smee saw through the posturing. All the while. Bertin of Cel-Tainu looked smug. The fix was in.
The Trial started. Each side brought its own fleet designed with ten of its prototype battleships as its core. The supporting fleet would be designed to conform to standard fleet practices. To that end, each side was awarded one-million points to buy ships for its fleet. Different ship classes had different point values based upon the class' combat characteristics.
As Sirom promised Lord Bow
doin, the Macrodyn fleet comprised more third-generation cruisers than was standard practice, but within the rule's parameters. With the points saved by doing so, Macrodyn bought additional fourth-generation battle cruisers. The Macrodyn fleet included auxiliary ships, which were common to fleets and often a prized target. In violation of the Trial rules for standard fleet practices, Cel-Tainu did not bring auxiliaries. From a straight statistical analysis, the Cel-Tainu fleet was much more capable.
Except, Smee knew how the AI running the simulation would think. He watched gleefully as the two fleets inched toward one another, each side traveling a simulated few percents of a speed of light. The AI playing Cel-Tainu's fleet would play the long game and gravitate toward the jump ship and auxiliaries. By taking away the opponent's $R^{3}$— Resupply, Repair and Retreat —capabilities, a fleet commander had a decided advantage in protracted campaigns. Smee thought of them as attractive distractors. The Cel-Tainu fleet was short-term designed, so the AI playing Macrodyn's fleet was able to focus on its primary objective, destroying the Cel-Tainu Manticores.
The two fleets finally came into range. The simulation played out much as Smee expected, having spent the past few years on a design that would thrash any opponent. As the Macrodyn fleet shredded the Cel-Tainu fleet, in his glee, Smee inadvertently forced a smug smile on Sirom's face.
The smugness was apparent to all in the room as the lights came back on. Nobody spoke for a few beats as they processed the carnage that they had just witnessed. While the Macrodyn fleet was heavily damaged, only one Macrodyn Manticore was lost. The entire Cel-Tainu fleet was obliterated, with all of its Manticores destroyed in the first fifteen beats.
Chapter
Bophendze - Temsek Orbital
He awoke heavily sedated. The light was blinding, though Bophendze could feel a blindfold in place. The light crept through the gap left at the bridge of his nose. The lights came and went at regular intervals as the gurney carried him through the orbital. At least it smelled like the orbital. The sedation and pain killers were strong, but he remembered the implant in his pocket.