Sagitta

by C M Benamati

  They strolled around with the crowd, nodding and smiling at the uniformed men, women, and robots manning the exhibit booths. Every aspect of the ISF was represented.

  They passed space marines in exoarmor, admired a salvaged deck gun from an ancient warship, and tried on various augmented reality graphical overlay programs. Morgan had to use a visor for this. The sudden appearance of thermal gradient vision, sound source localization, plus annotated tags on everything from the model and serial number of the waiter pouring coffee to the bearing of the nearest ISF starship was overwhelming.

  He handed the visor back to the booth’s attendant with disgust. “Can't see a thing with all that stuff cluttering the view.”

  “I thought it was fine,” said Liz. “Not much more than what I normally get, minus the space ship bearings. It must be tied to the station’s sensor grid.”

  Morgan stared at her. “You have thermal vision?”

  “Well, no,” she said. “Not exactly. But I can take spot measurements. I went with the light amplification lenses instead, since I like driving at night. My car has thermal scanners that I can link to if I want a heat map overlay.”

  “Wow,” said Morgan. “I didn’t know retinal projectors had so many options.” He waited for Liz to speak. She had never asked him why he didn’t have any bioware, and he wasn’t sure how to bring it up. If she’s ever going to ask, it’ll be now.

  But she didn’t ask. “You aren’t missing much,” she said. “Sometimes I shut it all off and enjoy my base senses. That’s nice too, and it’s all you need. After all, people have been getting by for thousands of years just fine without all these silly upgrades.”

  Morgan nodded. Is she just saying that for my sake, or does she mean it?

  At the engineering tables, cadets demonstrated self-sealing millimeter-thin pressure suits, super-conducting composite heat sinks, and micro-repulsors. Morgan wandered over to a young man who was jacked into a computer simulation. His closed eyelids twitched as he piloted an atmospheric attack ship. The sensor feed from the ship was projected above the booth. The man grunted, and the small oval-shaped ship deployed flaps, cutting sharply to the left. Vapor trails condensed off its wings as it raced towards a speck on the horizon.

  There was a furious exchange of green and blue laser fire as the man engaged the enemy drone. Morgan watched, fascinated, as the enemy drone darted up into the cloud cover. The man’s ship followed, bursting into the upper atmosphere.

  “Got you!” said the man, firing lasers. But, his target banked and disappeared into the glare of the sun.

  “Crap,” said the man, trying to follow.

  There was a pulse of blue light, and the man’s ship exploded. ‘Game Over’, flashed across the holographic display.

  “That’s three times!” said the man, opening his eyes and grunting as he extracted the neural probe from his data port. “This thing’s impossible.”

  A cadet took the neural probe from the man. “Anyone else want a turn?”

  “What is it?” said Morgan.

  “A chance to fly the X-09 against a drone interceptor. Want to try?”

  “I would, but I don’t have a data port.”

  “Ah,” said the cadet. “That’s too bad, you’re missing out.”

  Morgan shrugged.

  “What about you?” said the cadet, turning to Liz.

  She shook her head. “I only have an L2 interface.”

  The cadet whistled. “Geez, you two need to get with it.”

  “So why didn’t you go all the way and get an L1 port?” said Morgan as they walked away.

  “Well, cost for one thing I’m not a gamer so I don’t need the fastest connection. Besides most ports aren’t grown organically, like my L2 transceivers, lenses, and tympanic membranes. L1 ports are just metal sockets they stick into your skull. I think they look ugly. Plus, they itch.”

  “Ah,” said Morgan. They paused as some younger teens pushed their way through the crowd. Morgan had actually thought people got data ports as a fashion statement as much as for the utility—most kids at school had ones with pulsing lights around the periphery. “I don’t know anything about this stuff, as you probably noticed.”

  Liz turned to him and smiled. “Yeah. You’re a bit old-fashioned. But that’s cool.”

  “Actually,” he said, “I’m allergic. They grafted an L4 implant into my arm for school, but my body rejected it.” He slipped his watch off and showed her the banded white scar underneath. “The graft died and they had to neutralize the implant before I lost blood flow to my hand.”

  “Geez,” said Liz. “That must have hurt.”

  Morgan shrugged. “I don’t remember it much. I was only six.”

  “Did you ever try getting something else?”

  “No. They ran some tests and said it would just happen again.” This is the part where she’ll say ‘I’m sorry’. They always do.

  “You’re lucky.”

  “Don’t be—what?” he stuttered.

  “You’re lucky,” she repeated. “You can’t waste your money or your time on bioware. You won’t get sucked in. Instead, you can go out and experience things for real.”

  “I guess so,” he said, unsure of what she was referring to. Sucked into what?

  They resumed walking, skipping past the exhibits on ISF history. “I can look any of this stuff up on the internet,” said Liz. “I could have downloaded any of the thousands of archived feeds from tourists who upload recordings of amazing adventures. If I had L1 circuitry, I could feed all five senses of other people right into my brain. But that’s cheating. When I told you I’d never been to space before, I meant it—in person, or otherwise.”

  Morgan had never thought of that prospect. “I guess I didn’t realize people did that,” he said.

  “All the time,” she scoffed. “You can climb Mount Everest safely from your armchair and bounce around on the moon while sitting on the toilet. Bioware augmentation is awesome, but it also makes people lazy. And for some people, especially those with data ports, it destroys your life.”

  “You mean sim-stim addiction?” said Morgan.

  She nodded, then pointed at a booth demonstrating the evolution of EVA suits. A few young men in blue cadet’s uniforms were passing space helmets around to curious onlookers. Another cadet poured coffee from a thermal carafe. “I keep forgetting it’s night here,” she said. “Those cadets look asleep on their feet.”

  “They’re probably getting credit for their classes,” said Morgan. She obviously wanted to change the subject. “Want to go find those Fireflies?”

  “Sure. I saw a table on space ship design, and the officers from the command school, but not the fighters. I’ll pull up the map.” Her eyes flashed. “Ah, no wonder. All the fighter demonstrations are taking place on the hangar deck.”

  “Oh, I guess that makes sense.” The hangar deck was one deck above them, set slightly towards the center of the station.

  “Elevators are over there,” said Liz. “Come on.”

  ∆∆∆

  The hangar deck was packed with civilians, station security, and ISF officers. The ISF had gone all out and turned the deck into a museum of historic air and space craft. Fighter planes dating all the way back to the twentieth century were on display. At the various stations, holographic presentations told stories of the craft and the brave men and women who had flown them. The area around the elevator showcased early twenty-first century fighter jets. A MiG-31 was positioned right across from them. Morgan went over to check it out.

  “Is it me, or are things lighter here?” said Liz.

  Morgan looked up from the MiG’s plaque. “Yeah, less gravity.”

  Liz looked puzzled for a moment, but then her face lit up. “Ah, right. We’re one level closer to the station’s inner core, so there’s less centripetal force.”

  “You mean centrifugal.”

  Liz frowned. “No, I mean centripetal. You know, F equals mass times velocity-squared over radius.
”

  Morgan nodded, although he hadn’t remembered the actual variables. “Right, except it’s called centrifugal force.”

  “No it’s not!”

  Morgan pulled out his phone to look it up, but it was frozen midway through trying to pair to the station’s data relays. He scowled and rebooted it. It was almost two years old, and he kept forgetting how glitchy it was. “Eh, doesn’t matter anyway,” he mumbled.

  As they strolled between aircraft, Morgan scanned the faces of the crowd. As far as he could tell, Victor wasn’t here. Where did you sneak off to? He didn’t like it. It would almost be better if Victor were still following them around, if only so that Morgan knew what the creep was up to.

  The exhibits soon gave way to primitive space craft from the early days of lunar colonization. Directed audio blared at them as they passed the nearest booth.

  “The new ion engines allowed for the construction of colony ships capable of faster travel to the Moon and to Mars. However, problems arose when the nations of Earth turned their focus inward. Colonial uprisings and piracy grew unchecked. After the Martian succession wars and the third cold war on Earth, an organization was needed to ensure peace and cooperation both at home and abroad. Today, the ISF is what makes planetary and interplanetary relationships possible. Formed in 2179 from the combined navies of the Commonwealth, Russia, China, and …”

  “Hey, I see something up ahead,” said Liz. “There’s a huge crowd. Come on.”

  She led the way around a cluster of booths and past a stage where a holographic space battle was taking place. They passed more modern fighter craft as they walked.

  As they came closer, Morgan became aware of a video feed being projected in the air overhead. It was what appeared to be point-of-view camera footage from a fast moving ship. Starlight station was in the background, illuminated on one side by the sun, which was out of frame. A small craft darted into the field of view, its ion trail momentarily blinding the camera. It was a Firefly fighter!

  “Is that going on outside right now?” he said.

  “Don’t know, but check those out,” said Liz, pointing.

  They had emerged at the inner wall of a semicircle of people, who had stopped to admire the main attraction. There they were, right in front of him. Four polished Firefly starfighters. The ships were surrounded by a perimeter of green-uniformed security guards. Signs indicated that this was a display-only, no touching exhibit.

  The sculpted fuselage of each ship was an elongated oval that flattened out at the edges, vaguely resembling the shape of a garden trowel. The noses of the ships towered over the crowd.

  To the right of the Fireflies was a row of the older ZX class fighters. These ships, with their harsh angles and stubby wings, paled in comparison.

  “The Fireflies look like blackbirds,” said Liz, her eyes alight.

  “What?” said Morgan.

  “You know, the SR-71 reconnaissance aircraft. One of the most beautiful airplanes ever built. We passed by one when we first came down here.”

  Morgan pulled out his phone and looked it up. “Ah yeah, I see the resemblance.”

  The crowed murmured excitedly. Morgan looked up at the holographic projection as a second Firefly entered the view of the camera ship. It flipped on its side and fired thrusters, executing a roll over the first ship.

  Morgan nudged the man next to him. “Is that live footage?”

  “Yeah,” said the man. “There’s a demo flight looping around the station right now. They’re taking a bunch of rich guys out every hour.” His face fell. “Man I wish I had the money, but at least they’re letting us connect to the feed. It’s on channel two.”

  “Where did they launch from?” said Morgan.

  The man pointed past the Fireflies on display. “A couple hundred meters farther along. They’ve got the partition bulkhead down on each side of the active bay, but there’s pressure glass you can look through. I watched them take off, it was whippin.”

  “Let’s go check it out,” said Liz.

  They came to a pressure bulkhead that extended across the deck. People were pressed up against it in a dense pack. Liz stood on tip-toes next to him, trying to get a glimpse through one of the large rectangular windows in the bulkhead.

  “I love this low gravity,” she said, jumping and landing lightly back down. “There’s a VIP lane about twenty feet to the right. Red ticket holders. Let’s do this.”

  Morgan followed her through the crowd. We’re actually going to do this! “Excuse me, sorry,” he said. It was like being in the pit at a rock concert. He glanced up and saw that the fighters were on final approach.

  A massive door set into the edge of the station’s ring was parting, revealing hard vacuum beyond. Four gray dots were rapidly approaching. Blue-white fire flashed as the ships fired their engines in reverse-thrust configuration.

  “Jack ‘Jumpin’ Jones,” sniggered Liz. “What a silly name.”

  “What the heck are you talking about?” said Morgan.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Liz. She tapped her ear. “There’s an announcer giving a background on each fighter pilot. I just tuned into the channel.”

  The crowd cheered as the three Fireflies switched to repulsors. They floated to a graceful stand-still in the middle of the bay and touched down on shock-absorbing struts.

  The holographic view switched to a different part of the bay. Four other Fireflies were taking off. In each ship, an elated passenger waved at the luckless crowd. The ships rode out on a shimmering cushion of energy, hanging a moment just outside before rocketing down towards Earth. Soon all that was visible was the fierce glow of their engines.

  “Switch to channel two,” said a woman with glowing eyes next to Morgan. “The POV cam is awesome!”

  Morgan snickered to himself as hundreds of people stared off into space, slack-jawed with faint streaks of blue-green light dancing in their eyes. Zombies everywhere.

  “Come on,” said Liz, turning away from the bulkhead window. “Now’s our chance.”

  They slipped between a few preoccupied onlookers and came to a roped-off area next to the pressure bulkhead. A short ISF officer with close-cropped black hair stood by the airlock, surveying the crowd. Morgan recognized him just as the man turned to address Liz.

  “Captain Batson?” said Liz.

  Batson’s expression went from military deadpan to friendly recognition. “Liz, Morgan,” he said, extending his hand. “It’s good to see you.”

  The captain was dressed in a crisp blue uniform, accented in places with dark gray trim. Four gold bars were embroidered on each one of his shoulders.

  “You too,” said Morgan. Batson’s grip was just as firm as he remembered. “About those Fireflies.”

  “What about them?”

  Morgan pulled out his ticket. “You never said these were special tickets. I thought everyone could fly them.”

  Batson regarded the ticket for a moment, then smiled. “I must have forgotten to mention it.”

  Before Morgan could respond, a light above the airlock door switched from red to green. There was a loud clunk as the door swung into the bulkhead.

  “Good timing,” said Batson.

  An ISF officer stuck her head through the door. She saluted Batson. “Sir, flight group one is back on deck and ready for another run.” She looked at Morgan and Liz. “Just two more riders?”

  “There’s the one already inside,” said Batson. “Tell Ricky he can take a break, he’s been at it all day. Andy, Yin, and Jack can run these kids out.”

  “Yes sir,” said the officer.

  Batson looked at Liz and Morgan. “You’re up.”

  “Sweet,” said Liz. She prodded Morgan and hissed in his ear. “Thank him, you idiot.”

  “Uh, great!” said Morgan. “And thanks.”

  Batson motioned them through the door. “Follow Lieutenant Kirkwood, she’ll direct you to your craft.”

  “Hey, they’re just kids, why do they get to go?” shouted
a man from the other side of the VIP barrier. “I’ll buy those tickets. What do you want for them?”

  “Not for sale!” shouted Liz.

  “Come on baby, name your price,” yelled another man.

  “Stuff it,” said Liz, and she slipped through the airlock into the hangar bay.

  Someone made a catcall. Morgan grimaced and followed Liz through into the bay. The air was fresh and cold, as if it had just been pumped in.

  “This way please,” said Lieutenant Kirkwood.

  She set off across the deck at brisk pace towards the four fighters that had just landed. The fighters had their canopies raised, and the pilots’ heads were visible in the front seat of each craft. They were wearing helmets with energized shades that obscured their faces.

  The previous riders—three middle-aged men and a young woman—were walking back towards the bulkhead airlock on wobbly legs. “Have fun kids,” said one of the men as they crossed paths. “Hope you didn’t have too much for dinner.”

  “Alright” said Lieutenant Kirkwood, pointing at the nearest two Fireflies. “You, mister, over there. You, miss, over there.”

  Liz cleared her throat. “What, no safety training? No suits? We just get in?”

  “That’s right,” said Lieutenant Kirkwood. “Climb on up and sit in the seat behind the pilot. The Fireflies have pressurized, field-reinforced cockpits so you don’t need a suit. Just sit back and hold on.”

  Morgan turned to Liz. “Well, this is it then.”

  “Yes.” She turned towards her ship, paused, then doubled back. Before he knew what was happening, she hugged him. “Thanks for today,” she said. “It’s the best day I’ve had in a long time.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, as she let go. She twirled around and bounded off towards her ship. Morgan stood as if welded to the deck, watching her go, his whole body tingling. Wow.

  He turned slowly and walked to his fighter in a daze. He climbed up the short ladder and up onto the front of the left wing. This is absolutely bananas, I’m actually going to fly in this thing!

  The pilot turned to greet him as he finagled himself into the rear seat. “What’s up kid?” He was young, probably mid-twenties. He wore a green uniform, and was looking over his shoulder at Morgan with an amused grin. He had his visor up, revealing tufts of sandy hair at his temples and brown eyes.