“Ok, but we have done that kind of stuff before, so what is really bothering you?”
“Two things, Skippy. No, three. First, we’ve had a good run of luck until recently. We didn’t have anyone killed or even seriously injured, since we left Kombamik at the end of our Black Ops mission to start a civil war.” That was true. People had suffered minor injuries in our raid against the Wurgalan, and on Gingerbread, and while we were flying around collecting components in the Roach Motel junkyard. None of those amounted to anything serious. People got injured worse in training. “Now, we lost people, and we have three people with injuries bad enough to sideline them permanently.”
“Not permanently. No more than four months, Joe, until they are able to resume normal activities. I have been making substantial progress with modifying Maxolhx medical technology for human physiology, and I expect to begin trials next week.”
“That is great, Skippy. Whew,” I sat back in my chair and let out a long breath. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes, absolutely. Regrowing limbs is a tricky process, but as Doctor Friedlander would say, it’s not rocket science. I am one hundred percent confident in a complete recovery for all three of my patients. We have done that before with Thuranin nanomeds, and Maxolhx technology is substantially more advanced.”
“Do they know about this yet? Your patients, I mean.”
“No, Joe, I thought they should hear the good news from you.”
“No. No way, Skippy. I’m not walking into sickbay to take credit for someone else’s accomplishment. Smythe is the STAR team leader, he should tell them. Let Smythe know ASAP, and tell him what I said. Ok, let’s get back to the subject. I don’t mean to take anything away from your accomplishment, but ‘normal activities’ has a different definition for STAR team operators. They need a high level of fitness to perform their jobs. How long until those three people can effectively rejoin the team?”
“Oh, uh, hmm, good point. Well, they will be highly motivated to regain fitness, so they will likely overdo their rehab exercises and get injured again-”
“No, they won’t,” I shook my head. “Smythe made it crystal clear that he will not tolerate any cowboy shit. Anyone who does not adhere exactly to the recommended program of recovery will be dismissed. We are thin on operators already, we can’t afford to lose people to stupidity. Assume they follow the program.”
“I think you are being wildly optimistic, but sure, what the hell. Realistically, it will be another seven, maybe seven and a half months until those people could be considered fit for combat. Physical fitness is not the only issue, Joe. Regrowing limbs requires a patient’s brain to rewire itself, to communicate with and control the new limb. That process can’t be rushed. Those people are going to feel very uncoordinated at first, that is going to be frustrating. Especially to people who are used to being elite operators. What else is bothering you, Joe?”
“The usual problem, the obvious problem. Let’s say somehow we get a batch of VPMs and we get Valkyrie fully operational. So what? We have no plan for what to do with our bad-ass battlecruiser. One ship can’t take on a whole battlegroup, can it?”
“No. The Valkyrie will be more powerful than any single Maxolhx ship ever built, but it can’t take on a battlegroup.”
“Yeah, exactly. So, we still have no freakin’ idea how to stop that battlegroup from getting to Earth,” I slammed a fist on the desk, making Skippy jump back. “Sorry about that. Listen, are you sure you are locked out from using the bagel-slicer trick again?”
“Yes, I am sure.”
“Are you sure?” I balled up my fists. “Maybe you are only locked out from doing it on that one wormhole?”
“No. Sorry, Joe, but the network has removed my access to that feature. The situation is actually worse than that. The network has now assumed direct control of that function, it is no longer available to any local source. Plus, even if I could use the bagel-slicer again, it would not do any good against a battlegroup.”
“Why not?”
“The Maxolhx are not taking any chances, ever since they learned the Bosphuraq have advanced technology.”
“Oh, crap! Did we screw ourselves again?”
“Apparently, yes. The Law of Unintended Consequences has bitten us on the ass again. Before a star carrier goes through a wormhole, it detaches a ship and sends that ship through to recon. Only after the recon ship sends an All Clear signal, does the star carrier approach the event horizon. Even if I could slice a star carrier in half, it would not do us any good. Let’s say I could slice through the star carrier’s spine, right where three ships are attached. That would leave five or six ships intact and highly motivated to kill us. Plus, the battlegroup going to Earth has two star carriers. The bagel-slicer trick only works on ships traveling alone.”
“Crap. You’re right,” I groaned. “Now you see why I’m not jumping for joy?”
“Would it help if I said some useless empathy thing?”
“Not when you describe it that way, no.”
“Why not?” He was genuinely surprised. “When people say meaningless shit like ‘It’s going to be all right’ or ‘He wasn’t good enough for you anyway’, everyone knows it’s bullshit. But, supposedly, it makes people feel better to know that someone made the effort to pretend they care.”
“Pretend they care?”
“Well, I suppose some people might actually care, although why anyone would waste their time on a whining loser, I can’t imag-”
“Did you not learn anything about empathy?”
“Um, I learned that if you can fake it well enough, it makes people like you. Isn’t that the point?”
“No, I – UGH!”
“Seriously, dude, why would you do anything that doesn’t benefit yourself?”
I slapped my forehead hard enough to hurt. “So, when you do something nice for me, that is all for your benefit?”
“Not as far as you know, Joe. That’s the point, duh. See? You are smiling now. This proves my theory. You know I am only pretending to care, but it still makes you feel better.”
“I feel better, because I am imagining ejecting you out an airlock near a black hole.”
“Hmm, so you do feel better. The score is Skippy one, monkey zero.”
Still pissed at Skippy, I went to the galley for coffee. One recent improvement to the Flying Dutchman was a pair of cappuccino makers. Typically, I am a Dunkin’ coffee guy, and I don’t see the point of spending six freakin’ dollars for a cup of hot water strained through crushed beans. A lot of the Pirates, like me, scoffed when the cappuccino machines were installed. But, because all you had to do was put a mug under the spout and press a button to get fresh, perfect coffee, we were hitting those machines like they were Pez dispensers. Skippy complained we were wearing out the machines, but I told him that if he couldn’t keep coffee machines working, how could we trust him with our second-hand reactors?
He muttered a lot about it, but the machines kept pumping out delicious cappuccinos.
Adams was standing near the machines when I walked into the galley, carefully picking up her coffee. “Afternoon, Sir,” she nodded to me as she reached into the fridge and squirted a tower of whipped cream into her cup.
“Afternoon, Gunny.” I looked at what she was drinking and winked at her. “Is that a coffee, or an ice cream sundae?”
She grinned, hiding her face behind the cup as she drank from it. “The coffee-to-other-stuff ratio may be skewed away from coffee.”
There was whipped cream on the tip of her nose, and I pointed to my own nose. “You’ve got, uh-”
“Oh,” she laughed, wiping the cream away. “Coffee time?”
“I need something to get me through the afternoon. Skippy and I just had a discussion about empathy.”
“Ooh,” she rolled her eyes. “The one where he is all proud of being able to fake it, because he knows so much about the subject?”
I snapped my fingers. “That’s the one.” Some
times, I forgot that I was not the only person Skippy talked with.
“How did you get on that subject?”
“Skippy asked if faking empathy would make me feel better, because I still have no idea how to stop that battlegroup from getting to Earth. We can’t use the bagel-slicer again, and there are too many ships to try the overlapping-wormhole trick we used on our Renegade mission. I got the idea for the bagel-slicer in the galley.” I looked around. “Maybe another appliance will inspire me?”
That made her laugh just as she was taking a sip of coffee, and she blew whipped cream into my face. “Oh! Sorry.” She picked up a napkin, and dabbed at my face. The intimate gesture was awkward for both of us, and she stepped back to toss the napkin in a recycling can, avoiding my eyes.
“So,” I cleared my throat. “Coffee.” I pressed a button, and the machine began to make noises, then stopped. “Ah,” it was my turn to be embarrassed. I placed a cup under the spout, and the machine resumed making brewing and spitting and foaming sounds.
Adams had not moved any farther away. Maybe both of us wanted closeness, even if it was only talking over food. “Do you see any inspiration, Sir?”
“Not unless Skippy can make a really big spatula,” I winked, and picked up my hot cup of perfect coffee, contemplating the capital letters that spelled SHITHEAD in the foam. That was actually a nice design, compared to what the coffee machine usually generated for me. There were many options for designs in the foam, but none of them could be selected by the user, they were programmed by Skippy. That explained why my cappuccinos always had a middle finger, or a penis or a ‘DUH’ or some other insult in the foam. I noticed that women always got nice designs like hearts or flowers in the foam of their drinks. His continuing crush on Katie Frey was evident, in the increasingly elaborate artwork she got in her cappuccinos.
Of course, Skippy totally denied he had a crush on her.
“Ah, that’s good,” I said after taking a sip. “You know, Gunny. Maybe we should take it easy on these machines,” I waved my cup toward the fancy coffee makers. “Someday, if we are forced to retreat to the beta site, we may be trapped where there are no coffee makers and-”
“I’ll take your coffee, Sir,” she said with amusement.
“Huh?”
“You have got that look on your face, and you were standing there with your mouth open for like, ten seconds. You almost spilled your coffee on the deck. You just got an idea.”
“Maybe. It probably won’t work. I have already dug into the bottom of the Clever Ideas barrel, I don’t know if I can do it again.”
“Yes, you can,” she carefully took my coffee cup, which I had forgotten about. Her eyes darted around the galley to see if anyone was in earshot, and added in a whisper “Do it for me, Sir.”
“Skippy!” I shouted as I got back into my office.
“You bellowed, sahib?” He asked with a mock bow.
“Damn straight I did. We are doing this,” I slapped the desk for emphasis.
“Um, it would help if I knew what we are doing.”
“We are going to beat the crap out of that battlegroup until they beg for mercy, then we’re going to blow them straight to hell.”
“Ok, Ok, not bad as an inspirational mission statement,” he nodded. “One suggestion, if I may: you might want to fill in some part of the ‘How The Hell Do We Do This’ section of the diagram, you know?”
“Do not bother me with details, beer can, I’m on a roll.”
“Ugh. Ok, sure, fine, whatever. Can I please get a hint?”
“I was in the galley, and I was thinking that someday, we won’t be able to get replacement parts for the coffee machines.”
“Hmm. I don’t want to nitpick here, but may I point out that sounds like a problem, not a solution?”
“It is a problem, because if we are forced to retreat to the beta site, we will be trapped outside the galaxy. That is also the solution.”
“Wow. You must be using a very unique definition of logic. I am not following you.”
“We are going to hijack one of the wormholes that battlegroup flies through, and trap them outside the galaxy. Far outside, like, those motherfuckers are never getting back home to bother us again.”
“Hmm,” he contemplated the idea. “I like it, Joe.”
“Score one for the monkey, huh?” I mentally patted myself on the back.
“Can I bother you with a trifling detail?”
“Depends. Is this detail going to harsh my buzz?”
“No. This detail is going to run over your buzz with a garbage truck, back up to do it again, set it on fire, then scrape up the charred remains and shoot them into the Sun.”
“Shit. What is it this time?”
“As you already should know, only heavy or super-duty wormholes can connect out that far. So, heh heh, this is such a trifling detail, I shouldn’t bother you with it. However, since you asked, none of the wormholes along the battlegroup’s route are the heavy or super-duty type.”
“Crap! Damn it!”
“So, do you want to give up now, or keep going until your inevitable defeat is truly humiliating?”
“Ha! No way. Give me a minute.”
“Joe, I could give you until the last proton in this spacetime decays, but it will not change the facts. Oh! In case you are thinking we could mess with all the wormholes along their route, so the battlegroup would be forced to go through a heavy or super-duty wormhole, you can fuggedaboutit. There are no heavy or super-duty wormholes that connect anywhere near Goalpost, so the Maxolxh would never fly in the direction we need them to go. Plus, as I mentioned before, I need to be careful about screwing with multiple wormholes, because it risks a catastrophic shift that could affect the entire local network.”
“You just love to crush my dreams, don’t you?”
“Joe, as your true friend, it is my job to keep you from getting hurt by unrealistic expectations. As you said, your supply of clever ideas is going to run out someday. This may be the day.”
“Skippy, please, please, never let one of your subminds run a suicide prevention hotline, Ok?”
“Crap. Well, damn it, you should have told me that before we left Earth,” he grumbled.
My eyes narrowed as I glared at him. “Why is that?”
“Oh, no reason. Nothing we can do about it now, anyway, huh?” He added quickly. “Gosh, how about you tell me your great idea?”
“I did, and you ran it over with a garbage truck, you asshole.”
“I’m an asshole for telling you the truth?”
“No, you’re an asshole for enjoying it.”
“Ah, Ok, I guess that’s fair. Really, of the possible types of humiliation you could suffer, that is only-”
“Types,” I pronounced the word slowly. “Like, type, ss,” I dragged out the ‘S’ sound. “Plural. Like, more than one of something.”
“What about it?”
“Skippy, what makes a wormhole a heavy or super-duty type? Is it a different structure, or just its throughput capacity, something like that?”
“Um, you just blew my mind by using the term ‘throughput’. Yes, Joe, the basic structures are the same, the difference is the amount of power that can be fed through them. That’s kind of a geeky question, why do you ask?”
“Because I want to know, it is possible to make a regular wormhole into a heavy-duty one? Temporarily?”
“Oooh, that is a good question. Very good, Joe. That was quite clever of you.”
“Ah ha! See, you doubted me, and-”
“The answer is no, but, good try. Get yourself a juice box.”
“The answer is no? Are you sure?”
“I can create a subroutine to perform the analysis over and over, and get the same negative result until the end of time, if you like.”
“I do not like.”
“Then, the answer is no. Can’t be done, dumdum. A wormhole’s throughput capacity is determined by characteristics outside this spacetime. That c
apacity was determined by the Elders when they built the network. I can’t change it. Before you waste my time with ignorant questions, no. No, there is no magical Elder device we could capture, that can increase the throughput of a wormhole. Even if there was, I wouldn’t know how to use it.”
“Crap.”
“Joe, I hate to say this- No, actually I am totally enjoying this moment,” he chuckled like the bad guy in a James Bond flick. “It is quite possible that your bagel-slicer concept was the very last clever idea you will ever have.”
“That sucks.” I held my hands like I was holding both halves of a bagel. Pulling my hands apart, I looked at the imaginary bagel, then pressed it back together. Finally, realizing how silly I was being, I clapped my hands together in disgust and-
“Holy shit,” I gasped.
“What?”
“Skippy, it is possible to connect multiple wormholes? Instead of one endpoint to another, we-” I dug a marker out of a drawer and began sketching on the wall, drawing four ovals. Two of the ovals were far apart, but the two in the middle were almost touching. “Look, wormholes connect like this, right?” I drew a line between the oval on the far right and the one of the right side of the middle, then did the same with the two on the left.
“The endpoint of a wormhole can connect to only one point on the other end, yes,” he agreed. “What are you getting at?”
Tapping the marker at the two in the middle, I asked. “What if two wormholes had endpoints so close together, their event horizons in the middle were almost touching? A ship going in this end,” I tapped the oval on the far left, “would come out the other end, and immediately go into the other wormhole without being able to stop. It would ultimately arrive here,” I tapped the oval on the far right. “Is that possible?”
“Before I answer that question, of what possible use would this concept be?”
Sometimes, it really surprised me how Skippy could not make imaginative connections in his vast brain. “Because, the kitties go into good old reliable wormhole they have used thousands of times, but it takes them to a place they did not want to go. Like, far outside the galaxy.”
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