Columbus Day (Expeditionary Force Book 1)

by Craig Alanson

  “Skippy! I don’t need hookers!”

  “Really? When’s the last time you got some tail? Been a looooong dry spell, huh, cowboy? All work and no play, makes Joey a dull boy.”

  “No hookers!”

  “Hmm. Joe, you have managed to surprise me. You don’t like girls? That’s not what your profile-”

  “Oh, this is not going well.” How to explain human social standards of behavior, to a being who thought of morality as a distraction? “Look, Skippy, I like girls, I really, really like girls, I like girls as people. Human beings. There’s nothing wrong with, uh, call girls, I am just not interested. I like to talk to girls, Ok? Not just drop money on the bed, and uh, you know, do it. And I’m on active duty. I can’t go hopping around Vegas, stealing money, because that’s what it would be.”

  “That’s not true. Even for me, there’s a tiny element of chance involved, that’s what makes it a challenge. Why is it stealing if I play blackjack, but not when the casino stacks the odds against players?"

  I didn't have an answer for him. "Skippy, I promise that I will ask, uh," now that I thought about it, I had no idea who was in charge of handling Skippy, other than the president herself. Which she didn't have time for. Surely everyone involved wanted their military service, or agency, to be in charge. "I'll ask, about," that avoided the question of who I was asking, "you taking some side trips. We can say it's, uh, for cultural familiarity, or something like that."

  "Or you can tell your prez that I either go to Vegas, or I go to China and hit the Macau casinos while I’m there. Oooh, or we can go to both! Tell people it's to compare cultures, or some bullshit like that. The blackjack dealers in Macau must speak English for you, right? If not, I can teach you."

  I could see myself eating aspirin like Tic-Tacs, if I had to be around Skippy 24-7. "I said, I'll ask. I don’t know if we’re going to China, we may not have time. Please don't go doing anything that could get us in trouble, please? You know what? If you're so interested in calculating odds, why don't you tell me the winning lottery ticket numbers?" If there were still lotteries across the USA, a lot of things may have changed since I'd left.

  "Too easy."

  "Easy? Those are completely random numbers! They use ping pong balls."

  "Yeah, of course it appears to be random, why would that stop- Oh, I keep forgetting how linear your species' thinking is. You have no idea how the quantum- Hmm, damn. I can't tell you anything, without drastically interfering with the development of your species."

  "Restrictions in your programming again?"

  "No, it's immoral." His tone of voice implied a 'duh' he didn't speak aloud.

  "Immoral? You?"

  "I know it's hard for you to believe, but on the important questions, I am very strict on morality."

  "So, playing poker, and ripping off casinos?"

  "It is morally wrong to let suckers keep their money, otherwise, they don't learn anything. And casinos? Come on, they're the ones ripping people off. I did say the important moral questions, didn't I? Money isn't important."

  On my way to a meeting with the ambassadors from Britain and China, Skippy and I were accosted in a conference center hallway by Dr. Constantine. "Sergeant! Sergeant Bishop!" he called, out of breath. "I need to speak with you!"

  "Oh, shit." I muttered under my breath, "I didn't know this jerk was here."

  "I knew it," Skippy grumbled, "I reprogrammed his alarm so he'd wake up late, but he got up on time anyway, dammit."

  "Sergeant, I wanted to say that I'm excited to be going on the mission, and I hope I'll have opportunities for further discussion with the," Constantine stumbled over his words, "with the, the Skippy."

  I gave him my best frosty gaze. "It's Colonel Bishop," I pointed to the silver eagles on my collar. Eagles that again faced toward the olive branch rather than the arrows. "I'm commanding the mission. And I didn't see your name on the volunteer list."

  "What?" He said, in shock over either me being in command, or his name not being on the list, or both. "I assure you-"

  "Your name was on the list," Skippy explained, "but I deleted your name from the database. Colonel Joe doesn't like you, I don't like you, so you're not going."

  "This can't be." Constantine sputtered. "Serg, Colonel, Bishop," he said my rank as if he could hardly believe it, "surely you understand that a, a, person, of your, rank," he was really struggling with the whole social skills thing, "cannot allow personal feelings to interfere with having the most qualified people on the, aboard, the ship, under, under your command. No offense, but I will talk to your superiors, they understand that it is vital we have our best people on this voyage." If he truly mean what he said, he very much needed to get a clue on the concept of 'no offense'.

  "Talk to anyone you like," Skippy said acidly, "the only way to get up to the Dutchman is on a Thuranin dropship that I'll be piloting, and if you're aboard, that dropship isn't going anywhere."

  "Doctor Constantine, I checked up on you after we met in Colorado Springs," I admitted, "and from what I've read, you are one of the truly brilliant minds of the twenty first century." I conceded. The guy had started college at MIT when he was fourteen years old, and he'd already won several major scientific prizes before that. I couldn't even comprehend the title of papers he'd written, let alone grasp the content. His face beamed with a smile before I could crush his hopes. "Unfortunately, your colleagues think you are also one of the great assholes of the twenty first century. You rub everyone you work with the wrong way." He'd been fired from, forced out of, or invited to leave, top scientific institutions around the planet. In a field that had to generate as many titanic egos as brilliant scientific breakthroughs, how big of an asshole did you have to be to stand out, to the point where supremely talented people couldn't work with you? "You are correct that I need to have the most qualified crew, under my command." I emphasized the last part. "I'll be responsible for seventy people, on a dangerous mission away from Earth for up to two and a half years." Two and a half years, that is, if we got lucky. "People on this mission must not only be among the best in their field, they also must get along with other people, in close quarters. That leaves you off the list."

  "Your other problem is," Skippy added gleefully, "your only qualification for the mission is that you're, meh, slightly smarter than the average monkey. Which, compared to me, is worthless. Doctor, you think too much of yourself. The only difference between Joe and you, is that Joe is like the dog looking through the windshield, and you’re the dog hanging your head out the window. You’ll get a slightly better view, but you’re not going to understand it any better.”

  “I wouldn’t advise hanging your head out the window anyway.” I added. “There’s no breeze in space.”

  “Joe has a good point.” Skippy concluded. “Also, if there was a breeze, you’d get drool all over the ship behind you.”

  Constantine looked to me, as if species solidarity was going to make me plead his case. What he didn’t realize, is the universal concept in effect was that a jerk is a jerk, no matter the species.

  “I’ll make sure to send you a postcard.” I offered. “It will say ‘Having a great time, glad you’re not here.'"

  The meeting with the Chinese ambassador started almost as well as my hallway encounter with Dr. McJerkoff. It seems that while the governments involved had agreed to sending the Dutchman out, which to me amount to a forehead-slappingly duh of a decision, there was less agreement about putting me in command. The British ambassador shook my hand, wished me good luck, and made a point of mentioning the SAS team that was his country's contribution to the Dutchman's military crew. If the British government had reservations about me commanding the mission, they were too polite to say it. Or they calculated it wasn't worth fighting over.

  The Chinese ambassador was more direct. China had a two star Air Force general, a guy with an impressive resume, who they thought should command the mission. The Chinese had no problem with me being aboard the ship, es
pecially as a liaison with Skippy, but even though I was now a colonel again, a two star would outrank me by a considerable amount of authority.

  Gerald Schmidt was a special White House advisor who had been appointed to smooth relations with our allies about the Dutchman's voyage. Schmidt tried to negotiate with the Chinese, but General Brenner was not listening to any of that. "Then we'll promote Colonel Bishop to a three star general." Brenner glared. "Or, hell, a five star, if we have to. We're not playing this game with you."

  The Chinese ambassador must have decided the time for diplomacy had passed. "American arrogance is astonishing. Your country is not a super power in space, yet you act as if-"

  "Hey, hey," Skippy fairly shouted, "quit with the jibber jabber!" That had become one of Skippy's favorite expressions. "You brainless apes do whatever you want about titles and uniforms, it doesn't mean a damned thing to me. Joe's rank can be Grand Exalted Poobah, or Bobo the Clown, and he'll still be captain of the ship, you got that? If you gang of flea-bitten monkeys want to come along, then you accept that Colonel Joe is in charge."

  Bobo the Clown? I wondered right then, which was amazing how much my mind could wander, did clowns have rank? Did a clown with a big red nose outrank a clown with a-

  "He is young, and inexperienced." The Chinese spoke slowly, diplomatically, addressing Skippy directly. "What is special about Colonel Bishop?"

  I had been wondering the same thing.

  "I don't need to explain myself to you," Skippy sniffed, "but you're going to keep bugging me about this, so I'll tell you. Joe is the only one of your under-developed species who treats me as a being, as a person, right from the start. The rest of you monkeys consider me to be a machine, and you're afraid of me. Joe gave me a name. I've only ever had a designation before. Now I have a name. Joe, you said I'm an asshole, and the reason you said that is because you're holding me to the standard of a fully sentient being. A machine can't be an asshole, only a person can. You treat me as a person, as an equal."

  I was genuinely touched. "Thank you, Skippy, I didn't, uh, you never said anything about that before."

  "I was hoping you'd figure it out by yourself. Alas, that was never going to happen with your slow brain."

  "Aaaaaand, you're still an asshole, I see."

  "Proving my point exactly." Skippy said smugly.

  "Mister Skippy," the Chinese ambassador had a pained look on his face about calling a super intelligent AI 'Skippy'. Which I wondered about. 'Skippy' didn't mean anything in Chinese, so why did they care? Unless they were embarrassed for us. Whatever. "It is understandable that you are more comfortable with having a familiar person aboard the ship, but is he the best person to be in command? Making contact with the Collective is your priority, should you not have a commander who can best assure success of the mission?

  "Sure, that makes sense." Skippy agreed. "Give me a list of candidates who have more experience than Joe in command of alien starships, and I'll look at it. Until then, you shut the hell up."

  It was clear the Chinese ambassador was not going to follow Skippy's advice to keep his mouth shut, so I held up an index finger. "Mr. Ambassador, one moment, please?" I gestured for the other Americans to huddle in the corner of the room. "What if I command the ship, and Lt. Colonel Chang is in charge of the crew?"

  Schmidt titled his head toward General Brenner. "That would allow the Chinese to save face. What do you think?"

  "I think we don't need the Chinese on this mission, and if they don't want to play ball, they can stay home." Brenner growled, while shooting a look at his Chinese counterpart across the room.

  "The President wants this to be a multinational mission, and it's our job to make it happen, successfully." Schmidt reminded gently. "We need to work together to rebuild this planet, and once we humans get up there in our own ships," he pointed toward the ceiling, "we need a unified human force. Can you live with this arrangement?"

  "Americans under Chinese command?" Brenner scoffed.

  "With me in overall command, sir." I pointed out. "And nothing happens unless Skippy is Ok with it, anyway." Brenner's jaw worked back and forth, like he was chewing on something he just couldn't swallow. "I know Chang, sir, he's a good guy." A good guy? All I'd done there was remind Brenner that he was handing command of the mission to a young, inexperienced sergeant, regardless of what insignia was on my uniform.

  "Colonel," Brenner looked me in the eye, and I was determined not to flinch. "After you jump away, you're on your own. I think letting our allies save face is less important than maintaining a clear chain of command, and I think this arrangement is courting trouble, but it's your call. After you jump, it will be all your call." It was hard not to look away when he said that, but I didn't.

  Shit. Now I was doubting myself. It was too late to change my mind now. "I can make it work, sir. If Chang causes trouble, I'll ask Skippy to lock him in his cabin." That came out like a joke. Chang knew, from experience, that nothing happened aboard the Dutchman without me and Skippy knowing about it, and approving it. Another officer might have ideas of seizing control. Chang would not.

  And, I hadn't told anyone, having Chang take care of the crew relieved me of the associated administrative bullshit. Bonus, as far as I was concerned.

  "We're agreed, then." Schmidt nodded to me. "That was a good idea, Colonel Bishop. You'll need diplomatic skills to lead that multinational crew out there. Maybe you are the right person for the job."

  "Thank you, sir."

  Schmidt frowned. "While we have a moment, I need to ask about Dr. Constantine."

  I groaned inwardly, ready for a fight. "His personality makes him unsuitable for a long voyage in close quarters, sir."

  To my surprise, Schmidt beamed. "Good, that's good. All right, he's off the list."

  "Just like that?" I asked.

  "Yes. Constantine has powerful supporters, but if the mission commander says his personality profile is unsuitable, I don't think anyone could argue about that. The White House has been looking for an excuse to leave him off the mission roster."

  The Chinese ambassador accepted, with enthusiasm, the idea of putting Chang in charge of the crew, he proposed that Chang be officially appointed Executive Officer to formalize his authority, and I agreed. Peace and harmony among the crew, Dr. Constantine off the roster, an opportunity to see my parents before we departed. Those were all good signs in favor of our voyage. A voyage of undetermined length, in a hostile galaxy, aboard a captured ship with limited spare parts, a ship we didn't understand, guided by an absent-minded alien AI who had only a vague idea of where we were going.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN OUTBOUND

  "All decks report ready for departure, Captain." Desai said from the pilot couch. To her right was a US Air Force captain who had been flying F-22s, he was probably a good guy and an outstanding pilot, and I needed to keep that in mind whenever I saw one of the new people aboard the Dutchman. People who hadn't been with UNEF, hadn't gone into space before, hadn't been at Camp Alpha or on Paradise, hadn't captured two enemy ships and raided a heavily-guarded asteroid base. They were good people. They weren't yet my people, and for them to be truly part of the team, they had to prove themselves. Not just to me, to the original merry band of pirates. And to Skippy. What I needed to do was be conscious not to let bias against the new people affect my actions; they had all earned the opportunity to be here.

  The Dutchman was now packed with supplies for a long voyage, we had enough food for two and a half years. Everything, and everyone, had been ferried up from the surface in Thuranin dropships remotely piloted by Skippy. Except Desai, she had piloted her own dropship, I'd encouraged her to do that, to make a point that she was our chief pilot, and everyone else was a rookie.

  From the surface. Dirtside. Already, I was thinking of Earth as just another planet, and not as home. Probably for the best, as I didn't realistically expect any of us to see the place again.

  'All decks r
eport ready'. That was another change from our carefree pirate days aboard the Dutchman. We now had procedures. And manuals, and checklists. We no longer simply relied on Skippy to handle everything behind the scenes. We humans were trying, perhaps not to understand how the ship worked, at least to understand how to make the ship do what we needed. If we were able to press buttons and program a jump, and the ship jumped roughly where we wanted it to, then even if we had no idea how jump technology worked, it was good enough. Skippy told me that humans being able to fly the ship without him, even in the most rudimentary fashion, bordered uncomfortably on humanity becoming a starfaring species. If we were a starfaring species, some feature in Skippy's programming was supposed to prevent him from interacting with us. It hadn't happened yet, and I was hoping that the definition of 'starfaring species' required us to understand the technology and build our own ships, which wasn't likely on my lifetime, according to Skippy.

  Being able to make the Dutchman do what we needed was our only hope of getting home, and Skippy understood that. We'd had a heart to heart, or heart to beercan, talk about what he expected when we found the Collective. He had no expectations, as his memories were still frustratingly blocked, what he had were hopes. Hope that the Collective still existed in the vague way he did remember. Hope they would communicate with him and accept him into their network, civilization, or whatever it was. Hope they could explain who he was, where he came from, and how he got left orbiting Paradise in a derelict ship until it fell out of orbit. The pain in Skippy's voice when he spoke about it made me, too, hope he found the answers he was seeking.

  Skippy warned me that the Collective might not look kindly on his having helped us low-tech biological creatures to capture a starship, they might even disable the ship. He couldn't make any promises, and I understood, I appreciated his honesty. As to my own honesty, I did talk to each of our volunteers, and after I'd given my speech about our mission objectives, and how I thought the odds were against us ever coming home again, no one dropped out of the mission. None of the fourteen scientists aboard wanted to miss an opportunity to explore the galaxy, and all the military personnel aboard were eager to ensure the wormhole stayed shut down, permanently. When I explained to a Marine Corps major, who wore a Bronze Star on his uniform, that the plan, if you could call it that, was to roam around the galaxy until Skippy found a way to contact a Collective that might not exist, and then I had no idea what would happen after that, the major simply shrugged. "Hell, that's a lot more clear than most mission briefs I got as a 2nd lieutenant in Iraq."