“We sought what you do not have. We require technology to repair our ship. Unfortunately, you have nothing worthy of the name.”
The mechs turned to go, but Gersen dared to step closer. Two nearby Marines reacted, rotating their thoraxes suddenly and redirecting their projectors. The Engineer stopped too, and turned his orbs toward the thin, heavily-scarred man.
“We have something to trade,” Gersen said. “You may find it useful.”
“Give it to us.”
“I will, if you will give me one of your weapons. One pack, and one plasma projector.”
The Engineer stepped forward. He lifted a single gripper. The mandibles opened and closed once in what was clearly a threatening gesture. “You will be persuaded.”
“No,” Gersen said. “Look around you, none of my people can be persuaded. It would be simpler and faster to trade.”
The Engineer appeared to think it over. “If the item is as you say, I will trade.”
Gersen led the clanking mechs to the dome Bolivar had shown him. Inside, there was the spherical tank that showed past events. They passed by this artifact, with the Engineer showing little interest.
“I do not want your bulky display device.”
“Of course not. But you might be able to use the generator that operates it.”
Gersen revealed the system at the base of the display device. He’d noticed it before when witnessing Bolivar’s little show. The generator was far larger and more powerful than what was required to operate the display system. Like using a jet engine to power a bicycle, the power supply was overkill. It had been removed from a starship and set here for this comparatively minor task.
The Engineer examined the unit. “This is an ancient system—but very powerful. We have nothing like it in the archives of Talos.”
“It was built on Old Earth. Do we have a deal?”
The Engineer ordered a Marine to give the man his weapon and pack. As a precaution, he removed the power cable that connected the generator to the projector. Gersen didn’t argue, calculating they could fashion a replacement later.
The mechs took the massive generator away and left Faust, without discussing the matter further. Gersen watched them mount the ramp and enter the black, triangular mouth of their ship. He was glad to see them go.
–15–
Bolivar had only three fingers and a thumb left on his remaining hand, but he had survived. After he’d passed out from pain, the mechs had dropped him into the dirt and moved on to livelier prey. He still managed to smile crookedly when he heard Gersen’s tale.
“You were able to reason with the mechanical invaders when the rest of us failed,” Bolivar said. “You drove them from our village and, for this, we are grateful.”
Gersen opened his mouth, thinking to correct Bolivar on the details. But then he thought of the way these people had treated him in the past. He shrugged, nodded, and stayed quiet. He did not think of himself as a hero—but he was willing to play the part.
“We will change the laws, as they failed to protect us today,” Bolivar said with a thick tongue and slurring voice.
The rest of the villagers huddled around them. Estelle was among them, and Gersen was glad to see she was relatively undamaged. Even her hands were intact.
The villagers were dirty, their faces streaked with sweat and tears. Less than half their number had survived the day. Bolivar’s single remaining hand shook, as he removed his silver whistle. He presented it to Gersen.
“Will you give us new laws, to protect us from new threats?”
Gersen squinted at the whistle which flashed crimson in the sunlight. He took a moment to look beyond the throng—past the broken gate, the burnt field and the smoldering piles of dead. He saw the shining sea on the horizon. He knew he could leave this place and never come back. He also knew he would never forget this strange village, no matter how far he traveled.
He turned back to Bolivar, Estelle and the others. He took the whistle, lifting it high overhead so they could see it spin and shine.
“I will stay,” he said.
He then continued to speak, suggesting new rules by which the villagers would live their lives in the future. When the sun began to set, turning the western sea to blood, he’d finished his simple set of rules to live by, rules that allowed for experimentation, exploration and technological development.
On Faust, due to the high speed of planetary rotation, the sunsets were brief. When darkness overcame them, Gersen saw the gleaming streak in the sky again. The mech ship accelerated away from his world. He hoped to never see them return.
The End
More Books by B.V. Larson
STAR FORCE SERIES
Swarm
Extinction
Rebellion
Conquest
Battle Station
IMPERIUM SERIES
Mech Zero: The Dominant
Mech 1: The Parent
Mech 2: The Savant
Mech 3: The Empress
OUT THERE
Michael A. Stackpole
–1–
Greg Allen found himself having a hard time focusing on the ceremony. It wasn’t that he doubted its importance or historicity. For the first time in the recorded history of mankind, human warriors were being asked to help another species—a whole legion of them—preserve their liberty against an invading enemy. Humanity, which had managed to colonize a few planets, moons and asteroids, had been accepted by galaxy-spanning Qian Commonwealth as a partner in the preservation of freedom.
There, on the flight-deck of the Qian cruiser Unity, he stood with other members of the 301st Squadron as dignitaries, celebrities, families and journalists looked on. He smiled happily and proudly, not just because that was expected of him, but he because he was proud, and happy he could fake.
Why am I here? It had been an honor to be chosen to join the Star Tigers. Pride and honor only went so far in motivating one to abandon the world of their birth. There has to be something more.
The flight deck had been made over into an Art-deco masterpiece, with warm wood planking everywhere, gentle curves replacing straight lines; brass fittings harkening back to an age of European elegance which Earth hadn’t seen over two centuries. At least, not in the original—the style got revived every so often. Greg felt familiar with the brass trim and plush velvet cushions, but they didn’t impart any sense of peace.
Even the ceremony’s attendees had gotten in on the act, wearing fashionable suits and gowns which hinted at the early 20th century stylings of their surroundings. Tails on jackets abounded, along with cravats, but top hats had vanished. That was just as well, as the President of the United States would have looked a bit too much like Woodrow Wilson were he to have worn one. As it was, he did affect Wilson’s glasses, giving the tall, slender, hawk-nosed man a scholarly appearance.
The pilots, by way of contrast and at Colonel Clark’s order, had donned slate-grey flight suits graced with each pilot’s name and rank insignia. Flag patches had been embroidered in shades of black and grey, but sank into obscurity on the pilots’ shoulders. The martial clothing marked them as creatures apart; and Greg found himself comfortable with that role.
The President, being the last speaker, moved to the podium. It had been centered on a dais which had the openness of space behind it, with the crescent moon just peeking in from the side. Greg had no doubt that the Qian had set the stage for specific effect, and it did make for a grand backdrop to the president’s address.
Greg shifted his attention to the families of the people chosen. The Earthers, if old enough, appeared intimidated. Children basked in the wonder. He fixed on the smile of one little golden-haired girl and decided his daughter, Bianca, had she been there, would have been equally as enchanted.
The President began to speak and weariness swept over the pilot. Greg’s slender gold wedding-band grew suddenly heavy. His wife, Jennifer, and their daughter, would have been in the front row, beaming proudly for love of him, never betra
ying the fear and sadness his departure stirred up. Though they’d died nearly two years previously, time since the accident had moved achingly slowly. He keenly felt their absence, and hated that memories eroded as time passed.
Fleeing to the stars won’t arrest that process.
The American President smiled as he looked to the right, to where the 301st’s humans stood. “When I was a boy living in New Mexico, watching rockets reach for the stars, I used to dream of a day like this. Mankind has always looked to the heavens for inspiration and guidance, or help in times of trouble. And here, the heavens have come to us in their time of need. How humbling and rewarding for us, that they trust our love of freedom and our courage enough that they would invite us to join them in this most holy of crusades.”
The man adjusted his glasses with a skeletally slender hand. “The Qian, having watched us from afar, having protected us for many years from conquest and exploitation, revealed themselves at a most opportune time, and did me a great service for which I will forever be in their debt.”
He turned back and nodded to the small Qian female on the dais to his left. Her robe covered her from the floor to throat and was cut from a cloth which looked deep blue or purple depending on how she moved. Her lavender flesh-tones complimented the robe’s color. Her dark eyes and black hair made her appear almost Asian, though there would be no mistaking her for someone like the 301st’s Lieutenant Sun Lan. Little lights winked beneath the Qian female’s flesh, as if twinkling freckles, and her straight black hair had other glowing strands woven through it.
“The men and women who have volunteered to join the Qian are the first of many—a valiant vanguard who make this sacrifice to show their dedication to freedom—and their love of the world from which they were drawn. This is the most bold journey any human has ever made, and yet they undertake it with the determination and confidence which should have their enemies quaking and lovers of peace rejoicing.”
The President raised his hands, poised to clap. “I applaud you all, and commend your service in the name of humanity.”
As he clapped, the attendees joined in. Applause filled the flight deck with a pleasant sound. Greg wondered, then felt certain, that it was the most joyous sound the space had ever hosted, or ever would again host. From this point forward, this will be a place of war and lamentation.
The finality of that thought sent a shiver down his spine, then he caught himself. Pretentious, much? He hid his smile for as long as he could, not wishing to ruin the solemnity of the moment. The President led the applause and waved the attendees to their feet. The ovation increased in volume, and some of the other pilots, blushing, glanced down. That gave him the cover to smile at his own failing—certain others would see it as self-effacing modesty.
Like there’s ever been a fighter jock who’s that modest.
The President stepped away from the podium, signaling the end of the ceremony. A military band, composed of musicians from each nation on the Earth, began a soft progression through nations’ anthems. Dignitaries and families began to sort themselves out, approaching the pilot representing their nations. Greg clasped his hands behind his back and turned toward one of the portholes, gazing out at the blue-white Sphere spinning below. He knew none of the visitors would intrude on his isolation, through holographers moved into position to immortalize it. He added melancholy to his expression for their sake, and did not have to fake it.
Earth. The world of his birth, and death, and now rebirth. Through the clouds he caught the edge of the North American continent glowing golden as night nibbled at it. He didn’t wonder, as others had, as journalists had asked him, if this was the last he’d see of Earth. He knew it was. Even if he survived the Qian-Zsytzii War, he’d not be coming back. No one would want me back.
“I’m very proud of you, son.”
Greg turned slowly. His father’s Secret Service detachment formed a semi-circular cordon around them, keeping the holographers at bay. Two Qian males had already been admitted to the service—a precaution demanded because of the Human entry into the war. As a rule they were a bit taller and broader than humans, their flesh darker than the female’s, yet running to blue where flesh tightened over cheekbones and forehead. They had none of the freckles and, by all accounts, completely eschewed the cybernetics their females embraced.
Greg didn’t offer the President his hand. “Thank you, sir.”
The older man removed his glasses, deliberately folding them and slipping them into a jacket pocket. “Greg, I know you and I have never had the closest of relationships, but here, now, I find myself regretting …”
Greg shook his head. “Don’t. You know as well as I do that that blue ball wasn’t big enough for the two of us. You’ve won. You had a head start, and made good use of it. I’ll just go off and make my way out among the stars.”
“It would have been different, Greg, if …”
Nice, Dad, no protesting my choice.… The pilot smiled and rested his hands on his father’s shoulders. “I think you’re missing it. I understand. After what the Qian had to do to bring me back, no one could ever be certain of me. I’m no longer a way to secure the Allen dynasty. You have Bradley for that, and plenty of time to train him correctly. He won’t disappoint you as I did.”
His father searched his face, eyes narrowing.
Greg smiled. “There’s no trap, sir; no hidden meanings.” He lowered his hands, then turned to stare at the Earth again. “Do me a favor, one favor, please.”
“Of course.”
Greg swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. “Just see to it that their graves are well tended. Flowers on their birthdays, and Mother’s Day and our anniversary. On the anniversary of their deaths.” He covered his mouth with a hand, willing himself not to cry. “I didn’t do my duty by them and …”
The President’s hand rested on his shoulder. “I will see to it. Personally. And, so you know, there will be a monument to you, to the 301st. United Nations Plaza in New York. A small group, staring up the stars. Jennifer and Bianca will be among them.”
Dedicated just in time to remind people what sort of sacrifice you’ve made for the world. He wanted to turn and snarl, but didn’t. Jennifer had never liked his anger—that he remembered clearly. “Please make sure Bianca is holding Mr. Bear.”
“Of course.”
“She loved Mr. Bear.”
“I know.”
Greg turned back, swiping at the one tear that had defied him. “You have official duties. I suppose we should hug. Give them a shot someone can turn into a postage stamp or holo-montage.”
The President drew him into a embrace and held on longer than Greg expected. “Despite our differences, Gregory, I do love you.”
Greg smiled. I’m sure you believe that. “I love you, too, father.”
The two men slipped from each other’s arms slowly, almost reluctantly. Greg actually did feel reluctant. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he was slipping from his father’s grasp. Once outside the solar system, he would be alone, no longer a pawn in his father’s games. He suspected, as the President pulled back, his father was realizing that he was losing a pawn. It was this loss of as possession which gave him pause.
A momentary pause only.
The President pulled back, then drew himself up straight and tall, chin high.
Greg, as circumstances demanded, snapped to attention and saluted.
His father returned the salute smartly, and holographers filled terabytes with images. Then the President turned away and a journalist slipped through the phalanx, no doubt asking how it felt to be sending his eldest off to fight war lightyears away.
The answer, Greg did not doubt, would make a stone weep.
“So why is it you’re really out here, Captain Allen?”
Greg tried to keep his face impassive, but his eyes tightened because of the journalist’s tone. “You’re aware of all the storylines, Mr. Yamashita. Pick one.”
Jiro Yama
shita lifted his chin. Of Asian descent but American breeding, he was a bit shorter than Greg, and whipcord lean. His black hair had been cut short and, truth be told, he looked more like he belonged in the squadron than Greg did. “Those are too easy, so they’re crap. Most folks think you’ve volunteered because you want to set an example, at your father’s urging. Others think you’re being sacrificed to raise his profile. The gossip mags are playing up the whole family tragedy. If this was a holodrama, maybe, but it isn’t. So why?”
Greg clasped his hands behind his back. “You’ve got every right to ask that question, but no right to expect an answer.”
“Nice dodge.”
“Setting ground rules here, Mr. Yamashita. I could be asking the same question of you. Sure, you won the lottery. You’re the journalist who is embedded with us. You cover us for a year, return, do a book, have a documentary, get global network shows. You’ll be a star and rich and have it made. You’d be a moron to do it for that, but there’s the storyline on you. Fact is, your reasons, my reasons, really don’t matter much. We’re here. We’re stuck.”
The journalist frowned. “So, what, you want to set up some quid pro quo deal? We play ball. I keep your profile clean, make your father happy, and you give me some juicy stuff, let me co-write your memoirs, pull me into your Administration when you follow your father into the White House?”
“Neither of us will live that long.” Greg smiled. “How about we start here? I’m Greg Allen, 301st.” He extended his right hand to the man, but as he did so, he let his hand change. It went from appearing to be normal flesh and blood, all pink, soft and warm, to an icy-blue crystalline construct with hard, sharp edges and little lights playing through it. Then it flowed back to flesh and blood, the transformation so quick it could have been a conjuror’s illusion.
Jiro’s hand, which had come up by reflex, had stopped before sliding into Greg’s grip.
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