Torchship Captain

by Karl K Gallagher

  That was staggering. Even after analyzing demographic data and stealing Fusion documents about them it had been hard for Diskers to believe in “virtual citizens.” The Fusion gave its welfare class everything they needed: money, housing, medicine, and to save their egos from the strain of being at the bottom of society’s pyramid, a steady supply of simulated victims to be bullied, out-competed, and beaten at every game.

  In this room it was accepted as normal.

  The admiral with the most braid stood.

  “Admiral Vittelli, you may testify from the bench,” said the Parliamentarian.

  “Excellent Stakeholders,” began the admiral, “the military cannot create virtual divisions. We do not have enough experienced personnel to staff such formations. We can’t falsify such people without creating so many inconsistencies your great secret would be revealed.”

  He’d spoken in a rote tone. Mitchie inferred he’d given this testimony many times. Now he seemed to be responding to an objection.

  “You could certainly fire me, and fire them,” waving at the other brass hats on the on the bench, “and keep firing until you found some fool with more ambition than sense who’ll carry out that plan. That won’t make career sergeant majors and chief petty officers into talented actors. They can’t lie well enough to pull off your plan. We’ve trained and selected them to not be able to lie like that.”

  Mitchie scanned the faces of the Stakeholders. No one was surprised. This had to be a well-worn debate.

  Vittelli continued, “In my prepared testimony I attached recorded testimony from all predecessors predicting this policy would end in disaster. It seems we are about to see that disaster come to pass.

  “We do have an alternative to offer. Recall the combined fleet. Use the troops as trainers. Conscript the entire stipend-collecting population. Train and equip them to fight the Betrayers. That will give us a force that can fight to Old Earth and beyond. We will also give purpose to people who are wasting their lives.

  “Thank you, Excellent Stakeholders, for your time.” The admiral sat.

  A Stakeholder accused Vitelli of wanting mass conscription to enable a military coup. The Parliamentarian ruled him out of order with practiced ease.

  Someone else took the floor to advocate offering cash bonuses to new enlistees. Another proposed property awards on discharge. More variations and combinations came from later speakers until they began to blur together for Mitchie.

  A purple-haired one snapped Mitchie out of her daze. “Let’s renegotiate with the Disconnect to reduce our contribution to only what people will volunteer to do. It’s not like any of them would actually carry out an order to devastate an inhabited world.”

  The Parliamentarian interrupted. “Point of order. A request has been made that the Disconnected Worlds representative respond to Stakeholder Gonzales’ assertion.”

  Mitchie considered diplomatic phrasings as she stood. Screw it, I’m no diplomat. “The Stakeholder feels that if an order to destroy a Fusion world came down it would be disobeyed. That no one would do it. But I assure you, people who had friends at Noisy Water would do it. Bonnies who lost their homes and children to your invasion would do it. I would do it. Hell, we could probably sell lottery tickets for the privilege of doing it and make enough to build a new fleet.”

  The Dome was silent. No whispers, no rustling of datasheets.

  “Thank you, Commander Long,” said the Parliamentarian. “Can you speak to the Disconnected Worlds’ capability to carry out that threat?”

  She thought a moment. “I can’t be specific. Remember that right now the Combined Fleet is aiming an asteroid at an AI-controlled world. If the anti-missile defenses are down several missiles sent in at tenth-cee velocity would have a similar effect. That would destroy the biosphere. The weapon we used to disable the Fusion fleet in the Bonaventure System has never been deployed against an inhabited world. Simulations predict over ninety percent of the population would die if it was.”

  Mitchie sat down. That was probably still classified. Oh, well. What’s another reprimand on my record?

  “Thank you, Commander Long. Stakeholder Gonzales, you may resume.”

  The Stakeholder yielded the floor.

  ***

  The debate was no closer to a conclusion when the Parliamentarian adjourned the session. A “see you tomorrow” message from Ping popped up on Mitchie’s datasheet. She cleared the message and started a search for newly released romance novels.

  “Mitchie!”

  She looked up to see Guen—that is, Stakeholder Claret—approaching. Mitchie hopped down to meet her.

  The non-security cleared aides were flooding back into the Dome. Most were bookish types. The kind eager to pass test answers to the popular kids.

  Guen’s aides were different. Mitchie read them as elite infantry stuffed into suits for camouflage. The two females looked as deadly as the rest. Careful study showed where their weapons—or some of their weapons—were hidden in the dresses.

  The stakeholder closed for a hug before saying anything. The clinch was firm enough to reveal she also had a firearm under her dress. “Do you have to be anywhere now?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good. Let’s find a place we can talk.”

  The Dome wasn’t such a place. The “aides” formed a wedge around them to open a path to the nearest elevator. Nervous wonks skittered aside.

  No one else wanted to share the ride with them.

  When the elevator started moving one of the killers-in-a-dress produced a scanner.

  “Annie, she went through Council security,” objected Guen.

  “Yes, ma’am,” said the bodyguard without lowering the scanner.

  “It’s not a problem,” said Mitchie, sliding her feet apart and holding up her arms.

  The scanner went head to toe without a beep. Mitchie went back to a relaxed stance.

  Annie aimed it at Mitchie’s hips. “What’s that?”

  Her training said she should play dumb in case they’d back off . . . but Mitchie was certain that would just annoy these people. “Ceramic knife,” she said.

  Annie held out her hand.

  “Here?” said Mitchie.

  The bodyguard smiled a little. “Boys, turn your backs.”

  Shoes pivoted and clicked together almost as one.

  Mitchie sighed. Undoing the bottom four buttons of her jacket, unbuckling her belt, unzipping, and digging under the elastic produced the blade. She dropped it into Annie’s hand and refastened everything.

  Guen said, “That can’t be comfortable.”

  “No. But sometimes you really need a knife.”

  “How often have you needed this one?” asked Annie.

  “Once.”

  “Sounds like a three beer story. I’ve never seen one like this.” The blade had no handle, just three loops on the back of the blade. They were sized for Mitchie’s fingers. Annie could only fit her pinkie into one.

  “It’s a South Fuego hide knife.” Mitchie mimed hiding the blade in a closed fist then slapping at a neck.

  “That settles it,” said Annie. “I’m retiring in the Disconnect. I like their attitude.”

  “Y’all can relax now,” said Mitchie to the male bodyguards. “I’m dressed again.”

  When the elevator stopped four men went out to clear the area before calling for the rest. Mitchie stepped out to find Guen’s private subway station. A courier waited with the items Mitchie had given to Security on entry. Annie took the bag and added the hide knife to it.

  A ninth bodyguard waited in the subway car. Once everyone was aboard he started them out. The silence preyed on Mitchie’s nerves but she didn’t want to be the one to break it.

  It continued through the subway ride, another private station, an elevator up, and foyer of an expensively decorated apartment. The guards fell behind as Guen led Mitchie through a large living room into a study with a vault-heavy door.

  As the door thudded shut behind them Guen
sighed in relief. “Safe at last! Let’s get comfy.” She tossed Mitchie a silk dressing gown and disappeared behind a screen with another.

  Mitchie changed out of her uniform. She didn’t know what was going on, but she wasn’t going to refuse a suggestion from a stakeholder, trillionaire, and (hopefully) ally.

  The room had six pillowy chairs and no display devices. She’d been asked to leave her datasheet in the foyer. Apparently they’d been isolated in here.

  The silk settled on her skin as gently as a kiss. Mitchie decided she’d have to ask Guo to find her one of these.

  Guen came out from behind the screen. “No, take your socks off. We’re going to spa!”

  Presumably this would make sense soon. Mitchie folded her socks and added them to the neat pyramid she’d made of her dress uniform.

  “Sit, it’s nail time.” Guen waved her to the two chairs closest together.

  As Mitchie sat the chair leaned back and adjusted to hold her arms at a comfortable angle. It’s like a very fluffy acceleration couch.

  Guen clapped her hands. “Nailbots, we have a guest!”

  Pink boxes on wheels emerged from a cabinet. Mitchie glanced at her hostess. She was staying calm, so this must be a good thing.

  Still, it took some willpower to hold still as her hands and feet disappeared into the open sides of four boxes.

  “Oh, I needed this,” said Guen.

  Gentle rubbing started on Mitchie’s hands and feet. Then pressure pulses in the cushions started working on the tensest muscles of her back and shoulders. Mitchie let out a slight moan.

  “I know, isn’t it great?” responded Guen. A few moments went by. “You said you heard about my father.”

  “I was shocked and sad. I’m very sorry for you. Um . . . the news said it was an accident.”

  A bitter laugh. “An automated delivery van turned off its transponder and accelerated straight down at full power. No accident. It was hacked.”

  “They couldn’t track it back?” The upside of the Fusion’s ubiquitous surveillance was quick apprehension of criminals. Or so she’d always heard.

  “Pintoy’s cops are in the pocket of the Sinophone factions. They’ve always hated us Dynamists.” The Clarets were long-term supporters of the pro-growth faction.

  That put a chill through Mitchie even with the warmth being applied to her hands and feet. “Do you have any idea who was behind it?”

  “We have a list. Ping is number four on it.”

  “That’s . . . yeah, I can see him ordering that.”

  “Who isn’t the most important part. Why we know. The Sinophones want to keep the lid on, enforce every rule as is, even while everything’s changing.”

  “That’s why you wanted to become stakeholder? To change things?”

  Guen let her grief show for an instant. “I didn’t want it. Daddy didn’t want the job either. But the Council was going to deny representation to the Demeter refugees, just dilute their votes as residents of wherever they wound up. Daddy was the only one with the clout to force his way in.

  “Me . . . I only took the job because the rest of Demeter’s politicians are cowards. We had a meeting to pick a successor. I was just there to make the donations. They kept nominating each other and declining. Then someone said me, might’ve been a joke, and I said, ‘Yes, if nobody else wants to.’ And here I am.”

  Mitchie studied the younger woman’s face. Guen was nineteen, still a child by most Fusion rules. There were no lines. But tension pulled some parts tight enough for Mitchie to see where lines would appear in the future.

  “You should have more friends in here. This is a really nice lair.”

  Guen tried to match the lighter tone. “I used to. All my friends who made it off Demeter would come over. But since the election their parents think it’s too dangerous to be around me.”

  And they’re probably right. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here. When the reinforcements are settled I need to take Ping back to the fleet. Until then I’m happy to come visit.” Guo’s busy with his book anyway.

  “Great! There’s a new Guianan place you have to try. I’ll have them send some up. Have you seen Fated Love?”

  ***

  “Sorry I’m so late, honey,” said Mitchie as she came through the door.

  Guo looked up from his new book. He was typing notes into his datasheet. The tabletop display showed multiple Chinese documents. He was in history mode.

  He said, “Hi. I was wondering if the Stakeholder was going to keep you overnight. Did you eat?”

  “God, yes. Guen was stuffing all these little delicacies into me. Shame you weren’t there, you appreciate that stuff more than I do.”

  “Maybe I could come along some time.” Guo’s stomach rumbled.

  “Did you have dinner?”

  “Um . . . no.”

  “Lunch?”

  “I’ve been reading. Ping’s cousin published some papers based on the marginalia . . .” he trailed off. “I had breakfast.”

  “I know. I ordered breakfast for both of us.” She pulled up the room service menu on her datasheet and ordered a meal. “When this arrives you close everything and eat it.”

  “Yes’m.” He took his eyes off the book long enough for a hug and kiss.

  “Go back to your project. I need to do some writing too.”

  “Who gave you homework?”

  “Nobody. I want a log of everything happening here. Admiral Galen expected this to be a touch and go. Instead these people will be arguing for days.”

  “Crap. We need those ships.”

  “Agreed. And speaking of which I should. . . .” She inflicted a flurry of typing on her datasheet. “There. A message to Galen letting him know we arrived. No excuse for him to complain now.”

  Guo chuckled. Admirals didn’t need excuses.

  Eight Days Later

  “Hi, baobei, I’m home,” Mitchie called out as she entered their hotel suite.

  Guo wrapped her in a hug. “Hey. Anything new today?”

  “I wish. It’s been a whole week of repeating stuff they said the first day. Nobody wants to tackle the real problem.”

  “They might have to. Let me show you something.” Guo led her over to the suite’s display wall. A wave activated a video labeled ‘Recruiter Is a Sockpuppet.’ Guo said, “This is four hours old.”

  A young male narrated over imagery of a player-vs-player battle in a virtual reality game. “Our rivals the Exurbs tried to raid one of our convoys. We kicked their asses. They whined at us. One got on my nerves by saying if we wanted to fight so much we should join the Navy. Well I checked. Four members of my guild have signed up and not a single member of the Exurbs has. So when that Akheeley guy started up again I told him the numbers and said he should make his own guildies enlist. He just logged off. After weeks of harassing us about that.”

  The view changed to the side of a typical Pintoy apartment building. “I was so mad I decided to confront him in person to make him save his recruiting efforts for his buddies.” The camera view entered the building and took the elevator up. “We back-tracked his account to find his apartment.” The apartment door yielded to boots when the buzzer wasn’t answered. “And we found . . . nothing.”

  The camera swept through a fully furnished apartment. Three bots stood idle. There were no clothes, decorations, clutter, or other signs of an actual human presence.

  “So we figured the hack gave us the wrong apartment. Then the creepy thing happened.”

  The video showed a deliverybot piled high with food boxes entering through the ruined door. It stacked the boxes in the kitchen and left. A close-up showed the label had the supposed occupant’s name and address.

  “We’re all, he doesn’t live here but he gets food delivered? What’s with that? Well, watch this.”

  The kitchenbot popped out of its niche. Its arms stripped the packaging off a box and stuffed the wrappers in the trash. It held a pre-cooked meatloaf in a metal grip as it moved o
ut of the kitchen. The camera followed it into the bathroom.

  A second arm with a cutting blade sliced the meatloaf into tiny bits. Every one fell into the toilet. The kitchenbot flushed then went back to open another package.

  “That is the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen,” said the narrator. “We kicked it around. Our best guess is a Navy recruiter made a sock puppet identity and rented this apartment to back it up. Paying for food for someone who doesn’t exist is some serious devotion to accuracy, dude. I don’t know who you really are. Just seriously, stop bugging us.”

  The video finished with an elaborate logo proclaiming it the work of Death From Shadows. Mitchie wasn’t sure if that was the narrator’s virtual identity or his guild’s name.

  “I’m pretty sure they can’t blame that on the Disconnect,” she said.

  Guo pulled up an analysis of the video’s dispersal through the network. “They haven’t figured out the whole secret. But some observers are trying to find the creation date for the sockpuppet identity. They’ve traced it back for years.”

  “If it’s one of the Ministry of Social Control’s virtual citizens it’s documented back to birth. Once they start asking why and how many more there are . . . I need to make sure the big guys know about this.”

  Mitchie linked it to Guen and Ping with a vague but urgent message. Guen’s secretary bot promised that the Stakeholder would view her message as soon as she concluded her meeting.

  Ping called back. Mitchie hastily switched it to her datasheet. His face was far too large on the display wall. “Yes, we know. My aides jumped me as soon as we left the executive session. It seems having all our virtuals become Navy recruiters was a strategic error. Now this building is full of Social Control experts infinite-looping.”

  “You don’t have a contingency plan for this?”