by Joseph Lallo
“Yeah, sounds good,” he said, finally, “Get up, we’ve got work to do.”
With that, Karter stepped over the downed guest and marched with purpose down the hall. The mechanical arm gingerly helped Lex to his feet.
“Karter can be made to behave reasonably when given the proper incentive,” she explained.
Before Lex could respond, Karter’s voice bellowed from down the hall, “Let’s go! Just because I’m helping you out doesn’t mean I want you hanging around any longer than you have to. Move it!”
Chapter 21
Eight hours had passed, and Karter was just dusting off his hands after finishing the final piece of equipment. They were in the lab’s repair hanger once more, loading the inventor’s contributions into Lex’s ship. Karter had a broad grin on his face. On a normal man, a smile was a good sign. Considering the sort of things Lex had seen Karter say and do in just the short time he had known him, seeing him with a smile on his face was like seeing a chimp with a butcher knife; very unusual, and seldom a good thing.
“Man, it has been a while since I took that many alpha level projects and pushed them to feature complete beta in a single day. Hey, Ma. How much time before Lex here launches?” Karter asked.
“Based upon our current data acquisition rate and the distribution of debris in processed data, reliable windows suitable for Lex will be identifiable in less than twenty-five minutes.”
“Good, time enough for a celebration. Ma, hit up the stash. Two packs, and a couple of adult beverages.”
“Look, Karter, not that I don’t appreciate it, but if you were planning on offering one of those packs to me, you can skip it. I’m not sure I’d be able to survive whatever it is you celebrate with,”
Lex objected.
“Shut your face and grow a pair. I’m feeling hospitable, indulge me,” he said.
A door opened and one of the seemingly endless supply of mobile robotic arms that represented Ma when she needed to interact with physical objects rolled in. It was bearing a tray with a small stack of colorful packages carefully arranged on it, and the speed at which it had been fetched suggested that she had anticipated the request. Karter grabbed one and quickly tore the plastic wrapper off, unfolding an old fashioned paper carton and slipping out a dark red, rough looking cylinder, leaving five behind in the package.
“What is that, a cigar?” Lex asked, snagging a box from the tray and inspecting it.
“Better than that,” Karter said, running the item beneath his nose and inhaling the aroma in a decidedly cigar-like manner, “Cigars are inefficient addiction vectors. These babies are streamlined.”
It took Lex several moments to actually identify the product name. Whereas most things you’ll find on a store shelf have an attractive package with a clearly visible name, this one seemed to be composed entirely of multicolored fine print, detailing a list of health risks that ran from increased blood pressure to chemical dependency. Finally he realized that the lines and rows of colored letters were arranged like pixels to form the product’s logo.
“RJ Slims Vice Stix?!” Lex said scoffed.
Ever since the day man first dripped a coffee bean in chocolate, society had been heading down a slippery slope. It began a quest to combine all of the tiny, legal highs that the average person craves into a single, mass produced package. The inevitable conclusion to this noble pursuit was the very product that Lex now held in his hands. A result of the unholy union of tobacco companies and the snack industry, the “classic” RJ Slims were nicotine infused, caffeinated, maple cured, smoked meat sticks. Combining all of the best (and worst) parts of bacon, cigarettes, coffee, and candy, the only significant addictions they didn’t cater to were alcohol, opiates, and cannabis. These oversights were solved with “RJ Slims Kentucky Colonels,” “RJ Slims Orient Blend,” and “RJ Slims Herbal Blend” respectively. Their popularity was immediate, and despite a veritable arms race of warnings and taxes, they continued to sell exceptionally well for a number of years. First warnings on the packages, then commercials 90% composed of warnings of the consequences of over consumption. Sales slowed a bit once the clerks were legally obligated to deliver a 300 word verbal warning with each purchase, but it wasn’t until a certain event some years later that they were finally shoved from impulse counters around the galaxy.
“I thought these things were outlawed after that twelve year old’s heart exploded,” Lex said, recalling the news reports.
“Nah, you just have to buy them factory direct now and sign and notarize a waiver. Which, if you ask me, is total crap. One pansy-ass tween bursts a ventricle and suddenly I have to get lawyers involved at snack time,” he said, snapping into the concoction and reverently chewing it. The look on his face was utter bliss, “Oh, that is bad in all the right ways.”
Lex looked at the pack doubtfully.
“Come on, it’ll put hair on your chest,” Karter prodded.
“It is statistically more likely to cause your teeth to fall out than promote hair growth,” Ma corrected.
“Yeah, I’ll pass,” Lex said, sliding it back onto the tray.
“Suit yourself, more for me,” said his host, taking another bite, “So you must be excited about this whole project, huh? Finally found a worthwhile thrill.”
“... You think I’m looking forward to this? You think I WANT to risk my life?”
“Pff. I KNOW you do. It’s who you are. You’re a thrill seeker.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, you became a freelancer. You don’t pick a job like that for the retirement options.”
“Hey, you said it yourself. I’m a good pilot. The only thing I ever wanted to do was race, but I’m not allowed to do that anymore. It was either freelance or let my skills go to waste.”
“Oh come on.”
“Name one other job I could have done that would have put my skills to the test.”
“Test. Pilot,” Karter stated, raising a finger with each word, as though counting off.
For a moment, Lex was silent.
“Don’t even pretend like you hadn’t thought about it. I’ve worked for plenty of legitimate engineering firms in my day, and we sent recruiters to all of the tracks. I guarantee you heard from them. High pay, health care, the works. Good pilots are in ridiculously high demand, so they pay top dollar.”
It was true. No less than three different companies had contacted him during his racing days. One of them twice. Even after the disgrace he’d had someone show up at his door. He’d turned them down without so much as a second thought because... because...
As though he’d been listening in on the struggling line of reasoning, Karter chimed in. “You couldn’t do that because it isn’t exciting enough. Too much safety net. Too much stability. Too many rules. Too much structure. Not only that, but it isn’t visible enough, either. The chances of someone getting really famous doing it are next to nil, and you are all about the spectacle. You want to be the center of attention.”
“Now that’s just a lie. You don’t get famous being a freelancer! The LAST thing I want is public attention.”
“Buddy, you dove off a building into traffic during rush hour. What was that supposed to be, low key?”
“That’s different, I didn’t have a choice.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But do me a favor, think back to the last few weeks, the last few months, and see how many times you put your life on the line, and how many times you did it in full view of a crowd of spectators. I found a burnt up tuxedo in your wrecked ship, for God’s sake. I’m going to repeat that. A burnt up tuxedo... in a wrecked space ship.”
Lex had no intention of actually indulging this man and his idiotic accusations, but unfortunately the surest way to think about something is to try not to. Thus, he recalled the whole mess on Tessera, and the escape after. He thought about his stunt with the limousine and Diamond Nick. He thought about the pointless risks he would take as a hand courier, the excessive danger of the jukes he
took as a freelancer. Steadily, a sequence of foolish, adrenaline charged stunts he’d pulled in the past that he didn’t strictly have to do began to form. It was a long list, and the dawning realization showed on his face.
“I... I mean... I admit, that’s not normal, but-”
“Stop. You’re going to make an excuse for not being normal and I have no interest in hearing that. Honestly, people always talk about ‘normal’ as though it is something to aspire to, but that’s a load of crap. Normal isn’t an achievement, it’s a baseline. Normal is something you end up as if you never get around to doing something interesting. You crave attention, speed, challenge, and wealth. Racing was the only thing that fed all of your needs at once, and you’ve been piecing together a replacement ever since you got muscled out of it. I say keep at it. If nothing else, it’ll make for an interesting obituary. Which would you rather read about; some hundred and eighty year old family man who went quietly in his sleep, or a lunatic in a souped up spaceship getting gunned down while armed to the teeth with untested technology?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I know which one I’d rather BE.”
“Really? Are you now?” Karter said doubtfully. He twisted the meat concoction before him. “We’ve all got our addictions, Lex. Those little things that we know are bad for us, but we do anyway. You know how you know an addiction when you see one? It is when you enjoy something and tell yourself you don’t, or when you don’t enjoy something and tell yourself you do. The worst is when it is both at the same time.”
He finished his celebratory treat and washed it down with a beer. Lex said nothing.
“I’m hungry now. Vice Stix always give me an appetite. Ma, get food ready.”
“Beans, Rice, and Burritos will be available shortly after Mr. Alexander’s departure.”
“Do I keep showing up on beans and rice day, or is that seriously all you eat?” Lex asked.
“Beans and Rice are a complete protein. Everything a growing boy needs. I think Ma adds vitamins to the mix, too.”
“Variety is the spice of life, though.”
“Meh, food is fuel. I like to keep it simple. Easier that way,” he said with a shrug, turning to admire the ship, “Oh, that reminds me. You still haven’t christened this sucker. You think that dogfight gave you enough of a feel to know what to call it?”
Lex looked at the sleek black vessel and thought back to the short, intense flight that seemed like it had happened weeks ago.
“It isn’t Betsy, but it’s definitely in the same family. Sort of the next generation. How about Son of Betsy?”
“Sounds good to me. By the power vested in me, I hereby christen this ship Son of Betsy,” he said, heaving his empty beer bottle at the ship. As it shattered, he fired off a salute, “The mighty S.O.B.”
“Wait, it doesn’t sound good when you say it like that,” Lex objected.
“Too late. Already threw the bottle.”
“In order to be in position to utilize any identified windows quickly, it is advised that you launch SOB as soon as possible,” Ma stated.
Grumbling, Lex climbed into the ship. What was it with him and nicknames?
“Try very hard not to die!” Karter called after him, “And if you do get killed, make sure to use your dying breath to convince someone to send me the field data from those devices!”
The system start procedure began, Lex ticking a mental checklist for each step. As he did, Ma’s voice sounded over the communicator.
“Your ship is fully fueled, optimally cooled, and lubricated. A full system check reads all parameters nominal. A twenty-one day supply of water and MRE rations has been stowed in the cockpit-accessible storage, and your programmable transponder has been repaired and reinstalled, complete with a refreshed complement of ship codes, including numerous up-to-date police and emergency values. Karter was able to determine and replicate your means of activation and deactivation, and your hidden sub-menu has been given an overhaul in order to increase usability, legibility, and responsiveness.”
“You didn’t have to do that, Ma,” Lex said, “Thanks.”
“You, as always, are perfectly welcome, Mr. Alexander. I also wish for you to know that, whereas Karter is primarily interested in your survival due to the increased feedback you will be able to provide following your experience, I encourage your survival based upon general principles. And to be frank, I rather enjoy your company. It is my hope that you will visit again in the near future.”
Lex smiled as he guided the ship into the air and out of the hangar doors. “I’m not sure Karter would appreciate that.”
“With all due deference to my creator and his desires, screw Karter. This one is for me,” she said.
Lex laughed out loud. “I’ll tell you what. If I survive this, we’ll keep in touch.”
“That is extremely agreeable, Lex. Thank you. Please proceed to the following coordinates and await a visual trajectory through the debris field. And Lex?”
“Yes?”
“May the aggregated statistical aberrations inherent to any high risk enterprise convolve to facilitate a favorable outcome to this endeavor.”
“…”
“Good luck, Lex.”
“You were just trying to make up for being so un-computer-like with the ‘screw Karter’ remark, weren’t you?”
“Processing... That is not an entirely inaccurate assessment. Standby for exit window. Talk to you soon.”
“Here’s hoping.’”
A countdown appeared on his display, and superimposed on his cockpit view was a jagged-walled digital corridor with a color coded timing; a visual representation of his narrow and carefully calculated escape window. With a few last adjustments to his seat, to the controls, and to the hatches and panels within the pilot’s cabin, Lex flared his engines and entered the field.
It was easier this time. When he came in through it the first time he was flying by the seat of his pants and being fired on. When he left it was in the DAR, an excellent ship, but nothing like Betsy. Now he was in a new and improved version of his old ship. As a souped up version of stock, the handling was completely different than it had been. That should have made things difficult, but a little dogfighting and a difficult to describe feeling of familiarity had quickly given him a firm grasp on the controls, and the razor thin ribbon of safety felt like a four lane highway as a result. In no time he was in open space, plotting his trip forward.
First would be a series of random jumps. A long series of random jumps. Followed by a longer series of them. Then a few more. There was a better than average chance that Big Sigma was being watched by some people who weren’t going to be shaken by just one or two stops. So he twisted and sprinted, sometimes with a transponder on, sometimes with it off, but never matching his own. He looped and backtracked, crisscrossed and zigzagged, and when he was absolutely sure that no one could keep track of him, he did three more jumps. The process took about half a day, and thanks to the almost unbelievably powerful engines he was now sporting it had covered an impressive amount of space. With the paranoia gods appeased, he began his mission in earnest.
The first stop was a populated planet, it didn’t matter which one, to drop off a message and a bribe to ensure its delivery. Trying to communicate effectively without dragging any new people into this mess was a tricky puzzle to work out, but he and Ma had decided that, if he kept the message short, deeply encrypted it, and sent it along with a short unencrypted message including a hint as to what password could access it, then gave it to a stranger to send, and made sure it wasn’t sent while he was on-planet, then at the very least it wouldn’t get caught by their network sniffers. It also might not get to the intended recipient, depending on how dependable the stranger was, or if the person on the other end couldn’t figure out the password, but for this portion of the plan “making things better” fell well behind “not making things worse” in importance.
Two more messages were delivered in the same way. Then came the part h
e was hoping he would have been able to avoid. He pulled up his star maps and his calendar. The VectorCorp State of the Company speech would be taking place on their corporate homeworld in just over four days. If he was right, then he had at least until then to do what he had to do, but probably not much longer. In that time, he would need to make it to their headquarters, break in, find ironclad evidence of their intentions regarding the Gemini project, and find some way to broadcast that information far and wide without them being able to sensor it. The task had been plotted out, and he had some fairly impressive toys to help him, but at this point in his life Lex could count on one hand the number of things that worked in reality as well as they’d worked on paper.
After crunching the numbers, he worked out that if he pushed the new ship as hard as he could, and took as straight a path as was possible without effectively guaranteeing a collision, then he could get there with about twelve hours to spare... Good God was this ship fast. Twelve hours wasn’t going to leave him much wiggle room to be careful and subtle in his infiltration, but it was the best he was going to get, so he entered the waypoints into his machine, crossed his fingers, and shifted to FTL. He fully expected to start running into difficulties within the first thirty seconds.
To his surprise, it ended up taking nearly an hour.
That was when, during a routine slowdown to check for emergency broadcasts and other warnings, he discovered that security and law enforcement were on high alert. He knew they would be, but he’d never imagined what a difference it would make. Sensors were canvasing areas that should have been completely devoid of life. Radio channels were alive with chatter, relaying warnings, reports, and tips. The narrow areas around VC routes where patrols usually ran had swollen like the banks of a river during monsoon season, spreading a thin but visible security presence over huge swaths of the sky. What little snippets of communication he was able to hear over his universal receiver were all obviously, but not explicitly, about him and his VectorCorp problems. He heard himself described a dozen times, for the first time making him thankful that he wasn’t particularly distinctive looking. All around the galaxy they must have been arresting lanky brown-haired twenty-somethings on suspicion of being him. They also described the ships he’d been seen in, which included the now deceased Betsy, and the DAR he’d been loaned. Neither even remotely resembled his current ship, which was virtually his only stroke of good luck. And he needed it, because if the transmissions were to be believed, he was wanted for a laundry list of charges.