Torian Reclamation 3: Test of Fortitude

by Andy Kasch

  Chapter Four

  “Rupert, where do these mini fire starters go? I thought there was a place for them at the front of the aisle.”

  “Open your eyes, man.” Rupert didn’t move from behind the computer terminal. “It’s right next to you.”

  Derek instinctively looked to his left and saw the correct bin, slightly hidden by the portable beam-hoes hanging over the top of it.

  “I see it now, thanks. Real campers don’t use these things, anyway. Jumper wouldn’t be caught dead with one.”

  “Yeah, you’re proud of your son,” Rupert said. “We all know.”

  Derek shot Rupert a scowl, but when he realized Rupert wasn’t even looking at him he laughed to himself. Derek liked Rupert. He reminded him of himself, about thirty years ago. Derek used to love a good conspiracy theory, too. But here on Banor, there wasn’t all that much to be suspicious about. In a way, that made things …boring. And it made Rupert sound insane much of the time. Derek decided to have a little fun with him.

  “Hey Rupert, you hear about this planet the kids went off to? It’s like businessman heaven or something. An entire world of pure capitalists.”

  “Not possible,” Rupert said. “For capitalists to thrive, a lower class must exist for them to exploit cheap labor from. I’m sure they have slums hidden there somewhere. And that’s where the inevitable revolutions are born.”

  “Not according to what they told Brandon. They’ve worked it out somehow where everyone on the planet is self-employed.”

  That made Rupert look up. “Interesting. But capitalism necessitates a caste system.”

  “How so?” Derek asked.

  Rupert walked around to the front of the counter.

  “In a true free enterprise environment, certain businesses are naturally more successful than others. Some must outright fail, and others are destined to become bloated from excessive profits. Failed businessmen are a burden on society. They become desperate, and are likely to fill a more obvious need in their next undertaking by running a less-desirable operation which serves the excessive profits of an existing bloated business. If you insist on assigning every individual in your economy a ‘self-employed’ status, fine—but I see that as a dubiously-conceived label. I wonder if the lower class finds any real solace in the respectable title their meager existence is attached to.”

  “I hear you, brother.” Derek got up off the floor. “Oppression is oppression, with or without a fancy explanation. The rich only wanting to get richer, without compassion for the struggling underclass, is an ugly stain on free societies. Now we have these Mparians out there flying around the galaxy in search of arbitrary profits. It makes me think about what could happen as a result. What if their economic system catches on at other worlds?”

  “Well,” Rupert said, “if I had to choose between living in a galaxy overrun by unrestrained capitalists or one controlled by unchallenged socialists, I’d have to go with…”

  “Which one, man?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “You got something against equality, brother?”

  “Of course not. Equality should be the goal of all civilizations. But given only these two imperfect choices, I’m going to have to side with the unrestrained capitalists.”

  “You disappoint me,” Derek said. “I thought you were a people’s man. Maybe in the back of your mind you’d like to be wealthy and not worry about anyone else.”

  Rupert’s face turned defiant. “I’m not tempted by that in the least. Although, I’ll admit it’s because I know it doesn’t work that way. You don’t get rich without selling your soul to the other rich people first. It’s a secret club they have to let you in to. At least, that’s the way it was on Earth.”

  “So what’s wrong with socialism, then? Everyone works to the best of their individual ability, and all production is shared evenly. Housing, clothes, food, entertainment, and whatever else intelligent beings find desirable.”

  “It’s a beautiful dream, isn’t it?” Rupert chuckled. “An even distribution of all goods among the producers and the disabled alike. Greed abolished. Incorrupt distributors who are never tempted by thievery. Ambition existing side by side with grace, the ambitious who work hardest never resenting the complacent who work only a little and yet receive the same distribution. Mutual cooperation with no need of enforcers who hold guns over the heads of the producers while receiving an uneven share. Yes, a beautiful dream never to be realized by intelligent beings because of their insatiable lusts and ever-present corruptibility.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a dream, man. The faults and failings of intelligent beings can be conquered. I mean, look where we’re living. Banor does a halfway decent job with it.”

  “What? You’ve got to be kidding, Derek. This is a capitalist society, through and through.”

  Derek shook his head. “No, man. I’ve tested the Torian social programs. All you have to do is say you can’t afford something and the natives give it to you. It’s supposed to only be for basic necessities. But I took a bunch of students in my sociology class out one semester to conduct a research project, and the results were encouraging. Very few charitable requests were refused, even for luxury items.”

  “I’m sure those results were skewed. The people you guys hit up probably pegged you for a university experiment. And you can throw your personal experiences out the window, being a minority race with a persecuted history. Also, since beggars are so rare in this society, the natives are more likely to give just for the novelty of it. Either that or they have some kind of ulterior motive.”

  “Man, you’re impossible to please.”

  “What about your float suits?” Rupert asked. “You give one of those away to anyone who asks?”

  “That’s different. I’m not allowed to. It’s a military contract. No one else is even supposed to have them.”

  “Then why do I see some hanging on the wall here?”

  “That’s just a perk they afford me, since they know my son runs this place. And I guess they aren’t uptight about a few Banorian campers having them. Which only supports my point. They don’t get all weird over minor violations of every rule, like on Earth.”

  “Right.” Rupert went back behind the counter. “If you need to get back to the factory and make more flying suits for soldiers, go ahead. I can handle things here.”

  “No, I needed a break. This is a vacation for me, too. Which reminds me. Casanova never came back to his pen last night, like Jumper said he would. I haven’t seen him at all, in fact, and his food and water bowls are untouched. Do you know some trick for calling him in out of the field? I’d go out there and look around, but I’m getting too old to be tackled by him.”

  “Well I sure as hell ain’t going out there to be his toy, either. Didn’t Kayla leave you an instruction video? I’d wager tips for taking care of her cat is the main topic.”

  Derek laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. Why don’t you play that for me?”

  “Okay.”

  Derek arrived behind the counter as Kayla’s face came on the screen.

  “Hi Derek, and bon voyage from your future daughter-in-law. Now listen.” Her head turned from side to side before continuing. “I took Casanova with us. That’s why he’s not there with you. So you don’t need to worry about him. Have fun in the store and we’ll see you in about a week!”

  *

  “When’s the last time you were on board a military vessel?” Perry asked. “A real ship, I mean. Not a shuttle.”

  Brandon looked up from his lightpad. “Five years ago. I flew an ITF1 with a ‘special crew’ in defense of Banor during the dark enemy’s first attack. You?”

  “The Latia campaign,” Perry said.

  Brandon had forgotten about that.

  “Didn’t see any action on that one, did you?” Brandon asked with a coy smile.

  “I’m certain we’re all happy about that.”

  Brandon quit smiling. “Yes. We are. And I’ll be just as
happy if this mission ends the same way.”

  Brandon watched Perry look around the main cabin of the Class-3 transport ship.

  “Never been on one of these?” Brandon asked.

  Perry shook his head. “Seems downright cozy compared to those big ones. Will you be spending much time in the cockpit?”

  Brandon laughed. “No. I’ll be here in the main cabin with you. Or in the gym, most likely—when I’m not trying to get some sleep. I’d like to get a good amount of sleep. But I know I’m going to make myself crazy trying to rehearse a speech instead, when the best thing for me is to not rehearse at all so I can stay in the moment and react.”

  “Maybe a drink or two would help with that,” Perry said.

  Brandon was about to agree with him whole-heartedly when his lightpad buzzed. It was the High General, wanting to give them a send-off message.

  “Come on,” Brandon said. “Looks like we’ll both take a trip to the cockpit.”

  Moments later they were both standing before the main video screen on the ship’s command bridge. The flight crew members were all seated at their stations and looked ready to go. Class-3 transport ships were flown by a crew of four, but there was enough room on the bridge for nine or ten natives—so it was hardly a “cockpit.” Perry tended to use that word to refer to the pilots’ seats on any vessel. He was a capable fighter pilot himself, and held the official status as a reserve ITF1 copilot. But Perry had never actually been part of a flight crew, or had ever even flown a conventional fighter.

  No, his specialty was ground assault. Being an old U.S. Marine, that seemed appropriate. The High General held Perry in high regard and greatly admired his abilities, though he hadn’t had much opportunity to put them into action. That was, of course, best for everyone, as Perry had just alluded to. The most successful military force is one that never needs to be used. And most campaigns were fought in space. Ground forces were something you kept at the ready as a matter of prudent preparedness, but didn’t expect to deploy much. Although you certainly didn’t want to be caught without them should the need arise. Olut6 acknowledged that, which is why he and Perry got along so well.

  Perry was the one Earthling who made a lifelong career of the Torian military. He held the current rank of Major, though Brandon couldn’t get himself to use it in addressing him. He spent most of his time organizing training exercises on the Banorian ground bases. Tagging along on this mission was almost like a vacation for Perry.

  The screen flickered for a second and then displayed a live image of Olut6 standing in the middle of the Cardinal-5 REEP bunker.

  “Ah, my two favorite Earthlings,” he said. “How do you like your ship? I had her fixed up special for you.”

  “She’s sweet,” Perry replied. “Thank you, General. It’ll be nice to get away for a bit.”

  “Glad to hear you say that, Major. How are you both feeling today?”

  “Old,” Brandon said. “Maybe too old for this kind of craziness.” Perry looked at him, cocked his head for a second, but then nodded and snickered.

  “Older means more experienced,” Olut6 said. “And wiser. That’s why we rise to positions of authority when we age, becoming directors and diplomats. And why I’m running the entire extat Torian military. You think this little errand you’ve drawn is tough, you ought to try that. Besides, age commands respect. You two are the perfect agents for this task. It’s not like I’m sticking you in fighter cockpits.”

  “Not yet, anyway.” Brandon pointed at the floor. “But there’s a few in the hangar, plus an ITF1, and somehow I always seem to end up—”

  “You’ve got pilots with you for those,” Olut6 said. “Good ones. Young ones. You old guys just worry about the shuttle. Unless…”

  “Unless what, General?”

  “You saw what else was in the hangar?”

  Brandon nodded. “Yes. I must say you’re a sly one with your surprises. I assume a fully trained crew comes with her?”

  “As fully trained as we have, Brandon. These units are still pretty fresh off the assembly line. Only a handful are in service so far. The operation is mostly the same as what you’re used to. There’s a new simulation in the game room for you—restricted of course, but your implants will give you access to it in flight simulator 3. I recommend you get familiar with it, in case your mission takes you to Dirg and you end up seeing action. Only as an emergency preparedness measure. You have crews for all the fighters, including that one, and Major Perry can step in and help with any command decisions should a battle situation arise. You never know what circumstances may dictate, so it’s best to be prepared on all levels.”

  Brandon had mixed emotions and didn’t respond. Perry eyed him curiously.

  Olut6 laughed. “As if I could keep you away now that I’ve told you of it. I expect we’ll have one additional expert pilot for the new unit before you reach Azaar. Don’t let the simulator rob you of sleep. Remember why you’re here. I need you to arrive sharp. If all goes according to plan, you’ll never see the inside of a cockpit again.”

  “If only things would always go as planned,” Brandon mumbled.

  Olut6 heard him. “If only, yes. All right, that’s it. I’ll see you or your messenger back here in about a week. If not, I’ll send a full-sized fleet to come looking for you. Don’t let the Azaarians intimidate you. Remember, we’re the feared ones now.”

  The High General signed off. Brandon and Perry stayed on the bridge while the flight crew locked in the targeting screen and engaged the dag. The stars began contracting, expanding, and zipping by as the Class-3 transport ship bent space away from Tora towards the outer edge of the Erobian Sphere.

  Brandon and Perry hit the nearby lounge and sat down with two glasses of argim.

  “I’m not sure if the High General grasps the inherent danger of being ‘the feared ones,’” Brandon said.

  “I understand what you mean.”

  “You do? That surprises me, to be honest.”

  Perry took a sip of his drink and said, “When you’re the dominant force, you have a target on your back. There’s no denying that. Your security depends on your ability to justify your reputation. You actually need to be the toughest kid on the block when tested.”

  “Are we the toughest kid on the block?”

  Perry chuckled. “There’s no doubt about that. Especially with this super light weapon we’re supposed to possess.”

  “Which we don’t actually have, which means we aren’t really that tough.”

  “Aren’t we?” Perry asked. “Who’s tougher? Even without us having the light weapon?”

  “The dark enemy, maybe.”

  Perry shrugged. “I only said we were the toughest kid on our own block. When some unknown kids from some other block show up and want to fight, all bets are off.”

  Brandon thought about that for a minute before responding.

  “It seems to me that there’s always an unknown block nearby. When word gets out about a tough kid in another neighborhood, sooner or later the other toughest kid from across town is going to show up at his house to test him. And who knows what kind of gun the other kid might bring to the fight, especially if he’s heard we have a big gun.”

  “What would you have us do?” Perry said. “We weren’t bothering anyone, and had no particular reputation for toughness before the dark enemy attacked. Would you have us roll over and be conquered or destroyed?”

  “No,” Brandon confessed.

  Perry nodded in appreciation. “It’s a wise parent who enrolls his kid in boxing lessons when a bully shows up in the neighborhood. With governments the scenario is predictable. They resist military spending until a threat presents itself. Suddenly, nothing else seems important. Self-preservation quickly becomes the highest priority when your way of life is in danger. Even I am impressed, though, at the speed of the Torian buildup after the politicians pulled their heads out of the sand.”

  “Is that what happened on the Latia campaign?” Brandon
asked. “The Latians were so fearful of our reputation they simply capitulated, and surrendered 75% of their fleet upon the asking?”

  “Essentially, yes. We asked for 90% of their fleet in our initial terms. You should have been there. We showed up with an overwhelming force. There was nothing else for them to do.”

  “They could have fought,” Brandon said. “Especially as ones defending their home soil. It may have been a more difficult battle than you suppose.”

  “We came prepared for a hard fight.”

  “I know. And I’m sure that coming prepared for a hard fight is a good way to prevent one. But I can’t help but wonder what role the light weapon played in their immediate surrender. The Latians had witnessed it twice already. That’s enough to put the fear of Erob in anyone.”

  “We’ll take whatever breaks we can get.” Perry stretched and put his hands behind his back. “I’ll agree with you on one thing, though—maybe we are getting too old for this stuff. You know I’m 65 now, or close to it, as far as I can figure? That doesn’t even count my cryonic preservation time.”

  Brandon did some quick calculating in his head.

  “That means you’re 59 in Earth years, plus whatever the downtime did to you. So call it 65. I’m only a couple years younger than you. With a life expectancy of 150, we’re not even middle-aged yet.”

  “Then why do I feel so much slower? It’s like gravity is starting to win the fight against my bones. Even the artificial gravity of this ship.”

  Brandon laughed. “I know what you mean. Getting older is living up to its reputation. And we have a long ways to go, hopefully. Sometimes I feel like asking Derek to make a special lighter version of his float suit just to keep me on my feet all day. Give him another ten years to catch up to us and he’ll probably be all over the idea.”

  Perry shook his head. “I still can’t believe he’s the inventor and manufacturer of those things. You know I take entire companies on exercises with them now?”