by Mike Freeman
On arrival, the Intrepid was designed to be self-sufficient for at least seven years.
It wouldn't last three days.
9.
In Havoc's world there was nothing. Then out of nothing there was a pianissimo tremolo of violins, a spacious horn, a mellow flute and a gentle trill on a cymbal.
His first thought: this cannot possibly be what death is like. His subconscious knew what was coming next and his conscious was fast catching up. The strings grew a little louder and more imposing, but he could still sense their restraint. The flutes played point-counterpoint with the strings, enjoying their mutual seduction as they teased and weaved together. Unmistakably an der schönen blauen Donau op. 314. On the Beautiful Blue Danube. The prelude built to a crescendo of release and then, with exquisite grace, the waltz commenced its three four rhythm. Havoc saw sylph-like ballerinas twirling around a ballroom in floaty, multi-layered dresses. He wasn’t dreaming – he actually saw them.
Someone was taking the piss.
Everyone could choose what they woke up to, unless, of course, their unconscious body was sent somewhere without their knowledge or consent. In which case someone chose for you. The blue Danube was the ultimate cliché but Havoc still enjoyed it. Touché.
Also performing, though sadly not synchronized with the music, fine needles interfaced with his feeds, ports mated and connectors snaked around him. It was a snakes wedding with him as the guest of honor and the extended family crowding in for the group photo.
At least that answered the question of where he was. Most likely, in the middle of nowhere and closing quickly with a system ravaged by conflict. One that could surely only benefit from an outward transfer of funds and an inward transfer of hired guns.
His pod slid backward, spun horizontally and swung him upright. He expected the usual feeling of motion sickness but was pleasantly surprised. The brass section triumphantly punctuated a march and he switched the music off. The ballerinas vanished from his mind’s eye. Shame, he thought.
The sound of his breathing came into sharp relief. He became aware of the barely audible hum that tickles the edge of consciousness in space – the subtle sounds of smooth automation and technology at work. Ships were a Matryoshka doll of pipes. Tiny pipes in small pipes in medium pipes in large pipes ultimately inside the mother pipe they called a ship. Pressurized gases and fluids circulated continuously inside many of these ever recursing pipes, keeping everything functioning and everyone alive.
The liquid in his pod drained away, lowering smoothly past his chest. He was in space, coming out of cryofreeze. This would entail sickness and discomfort as the tissue damage that he’d accumulated while traveling flushed his system with toxins. Considering the last couple of hours that he could recall consisted of a painful death, plus a strange dream where he floated in a bubble of light while a benevolent God rammed lighting up his ass, discomfort implied a refreshing absence of torture.
They used to spend a week nurturing crews through wake up. These days they hit you with five grams of vikaltrityne instead. It was cheaper, faster and better. Except for your liver, kidneys and heart.
Being frozen for six months was around the upper limit for a Standard-1, though for a crew of heavy hitting Enhanced or eXceptional it might mean no more than quick nap and a mild headache. But, Havoc thought, that's life, it's never fair. In a universe of wildly varying human capability, the peasants paid while the demigods played. All things considered, he felt surprisingly good. It must have been a short trip.
A prerecorded message pinged in his mind's eye. He opened it and experienced the rushing sensation of being drawn into a setting and oriented to a point of view.
Acharya (his title, not his name) Laztal, an old academic from the Morvent Academy, sat by a stream looking relaxed, free of stress and generally in remarkably good shape for a man who was more than six hundred years old. His eyes crinkled as he smiled.
“Hello, John.”
Havoc felt himself relax. Laztal's silky voice was the aural equivalent of a relaxing shoulder massage.
“Let me say how indebted we still feel after your help in the Dyntrator incident. Truly, I will never forget.”
Laztal looked into the distance as if recalling past events. Havoc felt humbled, gratified and, he couldn't help it, a little bit suspicious.
Laztal smiled.
“When Acharya Yadesi happened across you on Gevale in your rather poorly condition, he jumped, as indeed we all would, to intercede and repay a small amount of what you have done for us.”
Laztal gazed benevolently at him. The man was so clearly at peace with himself that Havoc felt better just looking at his face.
“Given your condition, John, we started with the fundamentals – I hope you don't mind. Subjects can be overwhelmed and even dissociate from their new body if they are introduced to their augmented capability too quickly, so you will grow into yours or have it revealed as the need arises.”
Across time and space, old Laztal's eyes were twinkling.
“We have some beautiful new vineyards, John. You must come and see them.”
With a smile, Laztal blinked away.
Havoc sighed. It was a classic Morvent Academy message in that it raised more questions than it answered.
Amongst his gratitude, he felt a rising paranoia about the possible implants and surveillance technology he could be carrying. He self-scanned and was stunned by the results. Blessing or curse? He had no idea. What he couldn't deny was that he'd been dead and now he was alive. It was a gift. An old Avascan expression sprang to mind. He frowned at the thought of it.
Gifts make slaves.
A pod slid past at waist level. A lap dancing girl gyrated on the viewer and the name 'Ekker' was illuminated on the id-screen. Havoc winced as an erect cock smacked against the window. Goddamn. Did that dick actually have a tattoo down the side? Ekker was a grunt, he'd bet his pay on it. Then Havoc remembered he wouldn't get any pay for this. Pertinax might but not him.
There was a gurgle followed by hissing air as the last of the liquid drained away. Connectors retracted, the pod door opened and he stepped out assisted by a walker.
He moved toward the changing and testing area, passing the empty pods of crew members already revived. His gaze glided over the tags: Brennen; Novosa; Tyburn. The names meant nothing to him.
He stepped out of the walker. He didn't need it. He felt great. He was back from the dead. Reborn. On reflection, it was obvious.
The Moirae had spoken.
The Fates weren't finished with John Havoc because Forge was still alive.
10.
Inside the targeted crew member's body a preprogrammed process began. The initiation trigger was the carrier passing their security scan after being roused from cryofreeze.
The package the crew member carried was nicknamed, by those who knew about such things, an Eaton Mess. The person carrying the Eaton Mess didn't know what had commenced inside them or why. Why would they? No one had asked them. They had been asleep at the time the materials were inserted and since.
Substrates released compounds that flowed around the carrier's body. Nanotechnology routing valves drove an increasingly sinister set of materials until the end product trickled to a halt inside a rectangular compartment beneath the abdominal skin. Nerve pathways were spliced into, interfacing with the carrier's central nervous system in order to pick up signals sent by comcast.
Octanitrocubane, the end product, had a number of critical attributes. It was stable and shock insensitive. It had the highest density of any hydrocarbon and its cube shaped molecular structure placed its carbon bonds under great strain, providing even more potential energy than its high molecular weight would suggest. Its properties made it, quite simply, the most powerful chemical explosive in existence.
Condensing and flowing around the carrier's body was sufficient raw material to form fifteen hundred grams of octanitrocubane – enough to snap the Intrepid's spindle like a toothpick.
>
The preparation of the Eaton Mess would take around four hours to complete. The process placed a mild strain on the carrier's body as it drew off fluids and generated heat.
Once it finished, the carrier would be a walking, talking, radio-controlled biobomb.
11.
Havoc stepped out of the flexipipe, which was like walking on a blancmange, and passed through the lock.
He was used to utilitarian ship interiors, so the fit out of the main meeting hab (the 'Hub Hab') was a genuine shock to him. The spacious interior resembled a cross between an exclusive latte bar and an executive briefing room.
The far wall was dominated by a huge engraving of a muscular young man in a loin cloth, clutching a leather strap in one hand and hauling on a bridle with the other. Above him, wearing the bridle and none too happy about it, reared a muscular black stallion, mane flying, mouth foaming and massive hooves swiping at the air. There were other paintings and, in one corner, a marble bust of a man's head with part of his nose broken off. Most striking of all, however, was the three tiered crystal chandelier adorning the center of the ceiling. Given the penchant of soldiers throughout the ages to liberate souvenirs on their journeys to distant lands – which left unchecked resulted in a vessel incapable of traveling home – military ships tended to have a mass officer. Havoc had met more than one mass officer who, having entered this luxurious room, would be clutching the air, mid-coronary, right now.
“Woe for a life lived without art?”
Havoc turned to the two men standing beside a row of mission holos – a de rigueur accessory in any briefing room. The man speaking had striking blue eyes and blond hair that curved across his forehead in a shallow sine wave. He stuck out his hand as he spoke in a cultured, aristocratic voice.
“Touvenay. Communications of the linguistic variety, archaeology, planets. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
They shook hands.
“Havoc. John Havoc.”
“I'm not meant to be here,” Touvenay said.
Havoc looked at him quizzically. Touvenay wrinkled his nose.
“I was brought under false pretenses. They told me I was going to look at relics.”
“They lied to us all.”
Havoc turned to the second man, who was rugged and older looking. He had silver-white hair and a short bushy beard. Deep lines scored his face, converging on his brow from numerous points above and below.
“Jed Fournier. Walnut farmer.”
Havoc laughed. Even he'd heard of Fournier, the foremost physicist of the Alliance.
Touvenay regarded Havoc with an amused expression.
“And ethics, Havoc, I should have mentioned that. And you would be here to...?”
Havoc shrugged.
“No idea. Nothing to do with walnuts, I hope.”
“You've not been torn from the bosom of your family then?”
Fournier asked this in a voice that suggested that it was exactly what had happened to him.
Havoc shook his head.
“No.”
Touvenay nodded.
“Good. As my own mother said to me, never have children, they’re just not worth it.” Touvenay held up his mug as he wandered toward the counter area. “Please excuse me. Top up.”
Touvenay walked past the door to the self-reporting facility – commonly referred to as the ‘diary room’. Its purpose was as a ‘sanity sanctuary’ on long missions, though Havoc had never been in one. Yet, he reminded himself. Never say never, after all.
Fournier rubbed his hands together.
“Seven months without a decent coffee. Mine is coming out of storage now.”
Havoc swept his gaze across the Hub Hab.
“You don't approve of the stuff they have here? It looks a good set up.”
Fournier’s face screwed up in derision. Boulders crushed to dust in his larynx.
“Muck.”
“Seven months did you say?”
“For this leg. Ten months for me so far in total. Waste of time.”
Havoc felt surprised. Given how he felt, seven months of travel was much farther than he’d expected. Any low Standard human would have a hangover to rival a millennium celebration.
A pale man ambled toward them, his black hair flopping down either side of his face. Havoc stuck his hand out toward the approaching academic – who else would wear a diagonally crisscrossed tank top, he reasoned.
Havoc introduced himself.
“Kemensky. Physics. Mathematics.”
Kemensky’s strong accent turned the word into 'matematix'. It was quite a strange picture so far. What on earth were they doing here? Havoc echoed Fournier’s words to Kemensky.
“What do you think, Kemensky? Is it a waste of time?”
Kemensky pursed his lips.
“Ze mathematics are beautiful.”
Touvenay, returning with mug in hand, snorted.
“So is the ceiling of the Magadh chapel.”
Havoc turned as his attention was caught, indeed captivated, by a beautiful young woman who had just moved out from behind the counter area and was now looking at the tropical fish in the water tank. The spherical tank curved out from the wall like a giant eyeball. Havoc assumed it would double as a radiation sanctuary – five meters of water provided ample shielding for most solar activity. They needed the water in any case and the fish were a cathartic touch. The ship's cat seemed to think so as it sat by the woman's feet gazing into the tank. We can all dream, Havoc thought, admiring the woman's figure. She had dark, slightly chaotic hair that bunched around her neck and wore a blouse over a short flared skirt. Great legs, great shape, just... great.
Kemensky nodded toward her.
“Evelyn Weaver. Daughter of Professor Weaver himself.”
Havoc's head whipped round to Kemensky. He stared hard at the mathematician, who in turn looked rather alarmed and gushed effusively.
“Professor Weaver came up with the theory of Weavrian energy. It might explain the data that we're here to understand.”
Havoc gave Kemensky an understanding smile, as in, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply I was about to kill you, I was just a little surprised by what you said'.
Kemensky relaxed. Fournier stood shaking his head, possibly thinking about coffee, walnuts or their pointless mission. From Havoc’s perspective, a mission to understand energy didn't sound at all violent, which suited him perfectly.
Touvenay nodded at a suited man and woman drifting along the wall toward them, examining the art. Lawyers, Havoc speculated. Her, definitely. Him, not so sure. He looked more commercial.
“Lucius Darkwood,” Touvenay said, “if he doesn't own it, he doesn't want it. This is his ship.”
Havoc couldn’t help but overhear Darkwood as he gestured across the room at the engraving of the rearing horse.
“And this is what the picture shows, Miss Bergeron. Alexander, thirteen years old, turning Bucephalus into the sun.”
Miss Bergeron was, Havoc noticed, looking rather more at the explainer than the subject of explanation. She brushed her hand through her hair.
“Magnificent, Mr Darkwood.”
Havoc frowned and looked back toward Weaver. She had turned from the fish tank and was, he saw, appraising him in return. Their eyes met and held each other’s. Her gaze was cool and confident; not aggressive but not weak or shy either. She was just looking at him and no apologies for that.
Kemensky glanced between them.
“Stone played her at tennis before. He said, 'shame about those baggy shorts'.”
“Hmm.”
Kemensky's tone dropped conspiratorially.
“Here perhaps more for her name than her scientific reputation?”
Fournier snorted.
“Bullshit.”
Kemensky stammered.
“Yes, well it's not as if... I mean, a lot of first class research, but...”
Fournier looked distinctly unimpressed.
“People in glass houses?”
Kemensky apparently couldn't handle such a direct assault and stalked toward the counter area. Havoc was looking down and sideways, absentmindedly watching Kemensky leave, when a pair of heels came into view, followed by shapely calves, thighs, skirt, hips, breasts, neck, mouth, eyes. Beautiful green eyes. Looking straight at him. Shit. He'd just unintentionally done a full one eighty on Weaver, his scientific crewmate, panning up in ultra slow motion. Even a complete moron, such as himself, would have been able to tell. Her emerald eyes twinkled, her head angled back a touch, her eyebrows slightly raised. Well?
“Do you have girl scientists where you come from?” she inquired.
He smiled, his face acknowledging his blatant guilt.
“You had me at hello.”
Her face was a mixture of a confusion and amusement.
“I haven't said hello.”
“Well you've got me. What do you want to do with me?”
She frowned a little as she smiled.
“Do you play tennis?”
“Sure.”
He remembered that he didn't play tennis.
She stuck her hand out.
“I'm Weaver.”
She spoke the word with a kind of delicious and unplaceable continental twist.
“Havoc.”
She looked him up and down a little.
“You just up, Havoc?”
“I am.”
She smiled and raised an eyebrow.
Did I get you up, Havoc?
Goddamn, she was killing him.
Lucius Darkwood leaned over and shook Havoc’s hand.
“I'm sorry to interrupt. Pleased to meet you, John. Can I call you John?”
Rescue me through the wonders of informality, he thought.
“Sure.”
“I arranged for you to be here, John. Could we talk briefly before your match?”
Havoc noticed the question was addressed more to Weaver than himself.
Weaver nodded as she looked steadily at him.