Tethered Worlds: Star in Bankruptcy

by Gregory Faccone

  Concentrating deeper into the object brought forth a shock, sending a prickling fire up his arm. He dropped it.

  “Whoa! This stuff's dangerous.”

  Kord remained detached from the menagerie. Jordahk didn't know if it was a reflection of his relationship with Aristahl, or habit from years of focusing on scientum. Still, he scrutinized with patience, as if a treasure would call his name.

  “Here precisely because of the danger. No doubt my father's been building this collection for years.”

  The works varied greatly. Some were beautiful. Their true function, or at least intended function, Jordahk couldn't guess. But the way the objects were placed in the room, almost on display, struck him. The Sojourners were gone, and their acolytes, the imprimaturs, couldn't do the impossible, nor did they even try.

  Jordahk's mind drifted beyond the walls. “Flawed objects, beyond today's users… yet too valuable, too wondrous to destroy.”

  “Well that's a little more poetic than I'd put it,” Kord said.

  He turned around disappointed, but perked up spotting something sitting on a sculpted flower. It looked like a large metallic insect of a kind Jordahk didn't recognize. They examined the object without touching.

  It was a flying type with a long abdomen and tail section. It had four narrow wings, two large bug eyes, and a proboscis. Jordahk was about to query Max when his father spoke up.

  “It's a dragonfly.”

  Jordahk had heard the term, but there were no dragonflies in the simple, man-made ecosystem of Adams Rush. It was reminiscent of Aristahl's ladybug espy. That little reconnaissance drone had helped them out more than once. Though they're not supposed to get emotionally attached to such things, one of Aristahl's eccentricities expressed itself with fondness for the metallic spy. He was saddened at its sacrificial loss, and Jordahk made it a priority to restore the device last year. It was one of the few things he could do for his grandfather.

  “You think it's an espy?” Jordahk asked.

  “Yeah, but I don't think reconnaissance is its primary function.”

  Most of its construction was rose tinted ruthenium, a metal favored by Sojourners for crafting extremely hard things. But of concern to Jordahk, aside from the fact that it was locked in a vault filled with dangerous relics by his mysterious grandfather, were the blue-black wings and appendages. Osmium wasn't dangerous in and of itself, but its appearance could signify potential for destruction.

  Kord reached out for it.

  “Wait, Dard, you're not going to touch it?”

  “Can you think of a better way to figure this thing out?” He paused. “One that doesn't involve your grandfather?”

  Jordahk had no answer. It was a strange situation. He'd always been the one fascinated by mystic technology. The one with the desire to collect it, although not necessarily use it. Mystic could burn out your mind. But events had forced him to delve into that world within an object. His father, on the other hand, had to act the role of a scientum guy, but truth be told, he really did like advanced technology. And this little gadget was proving irresistible despite the danger.

  They winced as Kord lifted it. The dragonfly stirred to life, curling and straightening its tail, measuring them with its bug eyes. The wings buzzed aggressively once, then again.

  “Well, it reads functional down the line,” Kord said.

  “That's good news.” Maybe they'd hit upon an exception.

  “I don't think so. Not with this collection. It just means the trouble's going to be on the operational side.”

  Kord didn't put it back, but instead continued to marvel at it. He could get that way with unusual or cutting-edge technology.

  “Dard, is now the time?”

  Kord concentrated for a second and the dragonfly curled into a metal ball which he pocketed. They searched for a few moments more to see if anything spoke to Jordahk. They found some ammunition for the autobuss, not dangerous legacy shells, just regular cartridges. But nothing in this vault was “regular.”

  Kord didn't want Jordahk leaving with just the cartridges. The old war had come to them twice now. His family needed to be prepared as only they could be.

  “It's no use,” Jordahk said, after more searching. “I could probably restore a number of objects here, but should I? And just as many have the potential to blow up in my face.”

  Perhaps the largest private collection of mystic relics Jordahk ever saw, yet he dare not touch them. The wondrous, and the beautiful. The amazing, and the just silly. But all flawed in some way. Jordahk was ready to pack it in when the suit of armor glimmered in the corner of his eye. It seemed the same as before, but this time he noticed a dark belt, out of place with the ancient style.

  He hesitated, unwilling to initiate contact. It looked like an old-fashioned greather belt from the war era. Definitely not Age of Chivalry. The greather was a dark brown. It used an old-fashioned belt buckle, an empty circle with wings coming off the sides. Close inspection showed the greather crisscrossed in diamond patterns with purple gray wire…

  “Well, are you going to leave with a handful of cartridges or are you going to pick that thing up?” Kord asked.

  A few moments later back in the entry way, Jordahk wondered if he'd made the right decision. He brushed the back wall, at once detecting it housed an incredibly complex safe designed to hold just one object. He just knew it was the single most important thing the vault contained. He maintained contact.

  “It's empty,” Jordahk said.

  His father's expression took on boyish innocence. “What is?”

  Jordahk saw through it, not necessarily because he was an expert on reading people, but because what he touched was so clear.

  “Come on Dard, do you know what was in here?”

  Kord's face became serious. “Son…” When he used “son,” it was serious. “Your Investiture is almost upon us. I promise we'll talk about it then.”

  Those words echoed in Jordahk's mind as his father steered the fanicle through the last of the rough terrain between terraformed and non-terraformed Adams Rush. With a final bottoming out Jordahk released his grip and rubbed his neck. He'd always trusted his father's judgment, and he wasn't going to stop now.

  Before them was a landscape far different. The vastness reached out to the horizon. Distant colorless mountains blended into the atmosphere. No roads or trees offered scale. The bland surface was only marked by ridges of windswept dark dunes, looking like waves on a dry sea. Nothing grew here, and no living creature left a trail.

  “The rawlands have their own stark appeal,” Kord said.

  What was it like on Earth where no area was completely devoid of life, even if just insects or bacteria? How alien the rawlands, and places like it across every colonized world, were in comparison. But his father was right. Away from it all, where quietude reigned, the stillness brought one closer to the founders.

  Thule-Riss must have appreciated it, for two centuries earlier Adams Rush was like this and not the woodlands they left behind. Jordahk nodded, understanding his father's sentiment, and perhaps those of the legendary Sojourner.

  He took a sip of water and held up a mystic autobuss cartridge from the vault. “You're serious about trying this stuff out?”

  “We didn't take them for a collection.” Kord accelerated the fanicle, relishing the speed attainable on sterile plains. They left a wake through the black ridges and a dissipating tunnel of dust. “We were going to practice anyway. Besides, if anything goes wrong out here, no one will get hurt.”

  His father's nobility left out one small factor. “What about us?”

  Chapter Two

  ACETIC SENTINEL

  The Premiere News Service Dedicated to Adams Rush

  FALLOUT FROM THE

  INCURSION AT WINDERMERE CONTINUES

  Monticello, Adams Rush, 285/2615

  The costly battle at Windermere is largely considered a victory for the Cohortium. This despite the decisions of Magistrate Van Buren, which
many consider criminally negligent. The recall of his administration continues, and until the final vote, his power is limited. The damaged egress, once in orbit here, and then at Windermere, is being relocated again off the Palisades.

  In the Perigeum, the administration of Prime Orator Janus continues to reap consequences. Although facts are hard to come by, continued rumors of financial insolvency trickle from their outer sectors. It seems neither Perigeum nor Cohortium will be fielding great fleets anytime soon. Of course, Adams Rush continues its commitment to the Vallum Corps despite reports of contributing to a new envoy fleet with the Banking Confederation.

  On the home front, local hero Darren Starr has returned to promote his postbook, “For the Honor of the Asterfraeo: How We Beat Them in the Egress Incident.” He recently added a new chapter documenting his encounter with thugs at Castellum, where he saved our observers from corrupt intimidation. Today Starr will be touring the Orbital facility where he worked during the Egress Incident.

  ▪ ▫ ▪

  A starferry approached Adams Rush. Scans and recognition codes were exchanged. The bulky ship took its usual high orbit. Those who worked at Orbital and on the ferry knew the familiar routines.

  Inside the ship's cavernous interior a hundred shuttles, yachts, and buses were anchored. Most were small ships lacking downhill drive for dashing between the stars. Many who plied these routes by starferry did so regularly. Small business owners, transporters, even specialists like medical imprimaturs, all got to know each other during the weeks between inhabited worlds.

  Treibart Howsten traveled this route many times. He wasn't a very outgoing man, and spent more time in his shuttle than the starferry's eateries or facilities. He was, however, a regular user of the ship's pool, and over the years developed numerous acquaintances on a half dozen ferry routes.

  For the last two weeks of this voyage he did not leave the shuttle. No one is required to. Users of the starferry pay for their berth which covers use of all amenities. They can choose to use them as much or as little as they please. Polite inquiries as to Treibart's well-being were answered with terse audio dismissals.

  When the starferry reached its assigned orbit, its enormous front bay doors opened the interior cavern to space. Treibart's shuttle, as usual, was one of the first out. A small rented transport remained berthed. Its fare was paid to the end of the line. It would be months before it was finally boarded and found to be empty.

  In the meantime, Treibart's shuttle steered for the Orbital cursory screening apparatus, lining up with the others.

  “This is Adams Rush Orbital. You're number five in the queue. We anticipate no delays today, just stay on the flight plan until the beacon. If you don't hear from us you're good to go.”

  “Acknowledged Orbital,” replied Treibart's voice.

  Later voiceprint analysis would uncover high quality audio simulation of the shuttle's owner. For the man himself was dead for some two weeks, in a bag next to his control chair. And the man at the controls, although some questioned using the term “man” for these individuals, was certainly not Treibart Howsten.

  ▪ ▫ ▪

  “Darren Star, how nice of you to visit our humble offices.”

  Durn Stobahn had never heard his old boss so deferential, nor use his fashion name.

  I could get used to this.

  “How could I pass up an opportunity to brighten the day of my old coworkers?”

  Durn could care less if he saw any of them again, and he suspected the feeling was mutual. He never thought he'd come back to this hole of a government office, but his waning Egress Incident fame needed boosting. The Noble Edge, awarded to him afterward, was affixed to his chest as conspicuously as taste allowed. But those who valued celebrity above all, knew even important things faded in significance over time. If not for his fight at Castellum last year, he may have been forgotten already.

  Two reporters joined their tour of the retro offices. One from Ascetic Sentinel, and the other a government employee in Public Relations. Espies buzzed about, looking for just the right angle. They should find it easy enough. He had a lot of work done since his days as Durn Stobahn, Orbital controller. The stains were removed from the finger he used for his stimgar habit. Formally grayed teeth, also from the habit, were now extra white. His hair was cut and colored in a way supposedly trendy.

  “I see the offices are just the same as I left them.”

  That positive ditty was for public consumption, but in his heart he meant it with disdain.

  “Of course,” his former boss answered. “We keep things orderly in here so that they remain orderly out there.”

  It was a line Durn heard many times.

  Such windbaggery.

  Durn tried to keep his good side to the espies as they entered an all-too-familiar section. A pit formed in his stomach as bad memories assaulted him. A horrid romantic breakup, and being passed over for promotion. His old work area was a dumping ground. A cell from which he'd finally liberated himself.

  “Won't you take a seat at your former station for old time's sake?” his boss asked.

  It was the last thing Durn wanted, especially for his new heroic image, but a refusal now would be bad press. He was desperate to sell his postbook and stay ahead of new lifestyle expenses.

  “Why certainly. After all, from the humblest roots any of us can play our part in things larger than ourselves.” He put on his winning, fake smile.

  His workstation was as dreary as ever. The mental muscle memory required to do the job came back as if it never left.

  I've got to get this place out of my system. Why did I come back here?

  The AIs stacked up all the information and recommendations waiting for human decision. A starferry had just disgorged a flotilla of small ships. As they passed by the cursory screening apparatus parameters of every sort were scanned, crunched, and compared to the enormous datalattice of past entries. Trouble was often detected by deviating from the norm. It rarely happened.

  “Starferries always generate a little excitement around here,” Durn said, trying to play up the moment. “One ship turns into a hundred, and we have to make critical decisions in a timely manner.” He worked the controls with confidence. “Much like my encounter in High Castle at Castellum.”

  High Castle was the newest and one of the most grand stations in all the Asterfreao. He'd been looking for an opportunity to mention it and share its cachet. The board beeped subtly. The AIs brought up a Visual Air Display of the fifth ship passing cursory screening. It showed a slight anomaly which could mean anything.

  That's why humans still work here you doltish thinker.

  The AI thought it was worth noting that the pilot was augmented. Since the ship had made this passage numerous times, this change stood out. But lots of people were getting augmentations these days, albeit ones not easily seen. Cursory screening could show little more through shields, even low-power ones. The AI had begun querying the logs of the starferry. This could turn into a runaround.

  Marking the ship as a possible security threat and sending it over to the deep scanning arrays was just going to keep him in the chair longer. And for what? A man who had an accident and didn't have time for organic replacements?

  He put on his thinking face for the press, and then confidently pressed the green “Pass?” query. This Treibart Howsten could thank him later for being spared the hassle.

  ▪ ▫ ▪

  The man in the pilot seat looked down at the bag on the deck. It hadn't moved in two weeks.

  That's because he's dead you ingot.

  His mind wasn't free of strange thoughts. Ever since augmentation and his new life, they plagued his resting periods. That's when he often saw dead people, but in his dreams they moved.

  He grabbed his skull. Even that felt different. Two avenues of thinking constantly vied for supremacy.

  A light on his displays flashed green. The shuttle passed cursory inspection. It was a relief, or would have been if he st
ill felt such things. His backup plans for passing the deep scanning arrays were 50-50 at best.

  “I told you I'm just borrowing your shuttle.” The bag did not answer. “You can have it back when my mission is done.”

  Most of the traffic was going to ride the beam down, but he forked away from them, plotting a manual reentry to a particular mountain range.

  “No, I'm not taking the beam. Your ship is just going to have to withstand the extra stress.”

  Orbital entries over non-terraformed regions weren't scrutinized. The ship should remain hidden until he returned with his quarry. And if his secondary target of opportunity presented itself, all the better. Although the elation he should feel at the prospect of a successful mission eluded him.

  The man spoke to the cases behind him. “Engaging the secondary targets is what we're really made for, and you're going to help me with that, aren't you?”

  Something within the cases powered on, sounding an acknowledging growl.

  “Indeed. Then start assembling yourself.”

  He should have no problem staying off the grid in a low central security society like Adams Rush. The drawback was that targets from such places were vigilant, and had a tendency to fight back.

  The atmosphere buffeted the shuttle, as if the planet itself was trying to expel a virus.

  ▪ ▫ ▪

  Kord was impressed by how far his son had come in two standard years, but of course it wasn't something said overtly. His son, like most young men, needed inner strength and perseverance building more than effusive praise. But in the casual way they'd always interacted, there was mutual respect, and a touch of healthy competition.