Tethered Worlds: Unwelcome Star

by Gregory Faccone

  He had captains for minutia. They had officers and AIs for directing plasma flow and teleforce beams. His job was to put them all in a strategic position to win. His appointment by Perigeum Starmada High Command confirmed they thought nuance required for the operation.

  "Celebrating, my ass," Pheron said, half listening to the report delivered through Gaston Canterbury's pearly white teeth.

  Another VAD showed an orbital view of New Vernon, lit by the last of the setting sun, and fires. Of course, the Legion agents they had sent down contributed to that. Take out the shepherds, and the sheep will scatter. It kept the opposition off balance. Once the egress synced, there would be no stopping Perigeum designs.

  "You said something, sir?" Aetaire asked.

  Aetaire, the field commander's adjutant stood a respectful distance behind the big chair atop the task force's flag bridge. The two men were a study in contrast. Pheron's dark gray ship suit was rumpled despite construction of supposedly wrinkle-free material. His treaders were scuffed. He wore no decorations and only one oversized rank insignia on his left breast—a black hexagon with gray circles at each point, all outlined in a thick line.

  The gray circles represented Earth and its first five colonies. The hexagon, with its thick white outline, represented the egress and how it linked the six sister worlds. It was the symbol of the Perigeum. But the insignia's other element was more personally significant to Pheron: a yellow six-pointed starburst at its center. It was the symbol of a field commander. Few wore it. The yellow contrasted his grayish dark skin. His long face, large forehead, and hairless scalp gave the impression of an enlarged brain. That was okay. He'd spent the majority of the past 150 years scraping to get where he was, and his worn appearance reflected it.

  By way of comparison, Administrative Captain Aetaire Mingus wore his spotless uniform as if issued only five minutes before. His pale skin looked as if it had never seen sun.

  "What do you make of the disturbances down there, Aetaire?"

  "Seventeen delegates or former delegates of the local Assembly were protesting their government's egress vote. A legitimate vote, I might add. Our plain-clothes legionnaires, ah, 'encouraged' some action, and apparently at least one of those seventeen met with an unfortunate accident. Another is wounded. All are on the run. Their resistance is hopeless, and, if I may add, piteous."

  Pheron expected that kind of response. "You lack imagination, Aetaire." That was the difference between adjutants and field commanders. But Aetaire was good with details, and that made him worth keeping around. It allowed Pheron to focus on the big picture.

  The field commander was well aware of the years of wheeling and dealing, bribes and blackmail the Perigeum invested to set up this operation. Adams Rush was filled with extraordinarily stiff-necked people, especially in comparison to the more compliant member worlds. Finally at this tipping point, he was glad to take the credit. He was practical that way.

  "Desperation breeds unpredictability," Pheron said as he looked at a VAD showing the four enormous superhaulers pulling the final egress piece ever closer. "But these are just civilian superhaulers with legitimate cargo."

  The action caught many below by surprise. High Command couldn't send a war fleet directly to Adams Rush. Anything traveling through manifold space broadcast its size and vector far and wide. The Cohortium would have been obligated to send their own welcoming Vallum Corps fleet, per its charter.

  "Surely the Cohortium sees where this is going," Aetaire said.

  "Oh they do, but they're trapped. The structure of 'volunteer societies' means their Vallum Corps can never deploy to an Asterfraeo world without an official government invite, unless under assault." A VAD to Pheron's right, dedicated to protest leaders, flashed an update. The Legion was closing in on one headed for the local mountains. "You can't save a society from itself."

  A lone fanicle raced up hills bordering the Thule-Riss Range. Numerous metal battens flexed beneath, conforming to the road surface. Between them, many hard air panels, generated on the fly, directed dangerously unsafe amounts of thrust. The old utility vehicle hardly slowed as it rounded a bend. Battens brushed the road and fans whined.

  Wind buffeted Vittora's dark auburn braids, one in front and the other behind. Loose strands blew across her elegant features, which were set with determination as she pushed the craft to its limit.

  The hard air screens on the sides and back were off as the Wilkrests prepared to engage seeker drones. If the vehicle ever had a hard top, it had been discarded decades before. Only a couple of roll bars spanned the vehicle's width above the front and rear bench seats.

  Kord grinned admiringly at his wife in a way that did not match their predicament. He glanced back at Jordahk, apparently undeterred by the world blowing up around them. "Jordahk, I'm a very lucky man."

  Jordahk didn't share his confidence. He knew driving this extreme had just as good a chance of killing them as helping them escape. "Really?" He gripped the back seat's support bar and wondered if Vittora was going to rob the seeker drones of their murderous chance.

  The mountain road turned to earthpack, an economical road surfacing used for low traffic areas. The fanicle spouted a cloud of dust like dragon's breath every time an overstressed batten dug a rut.

  The security contraption beeped twice, forcing Kord out of his reverie. Highearn said something to him through his link, and he looked back.

  His father's link, nestled in the bone behind his ear, had been implanted in his youth. Like those implanted within ninety-nine percent of humanity, it allowed him to interface with compies and devices by touch. Despite technological advancements, links performed roughly the same function today as they had centuries before. They had no computational ability but acted like what one ancient scientist called, "a modem to the brain."

  "Let's get ready," Kord said to Jordahk as if it were one of their practice sessions at the range.

  Loosening his grip on the support, Jordahk felt for his shouldered sling bag. His skills brought little comfort.

  Wincing with pain, Kord reached down with his bloody right arm and withdrew a formidable pistol from his holster. The action buoyed Jordahk with a ray of hope. Then Kord switched the pistol to his off-hand, and the ray dimmed. But hope diminished was not hope extinguished, especially when it came to his father, whom Jordahk knew to be a better shot off-hand than most people with their primary.

  Kord's dark pistol, a thick and powerful grister, fit him well. The family made a living teaching others how to shoot. In the process, they never stopped getting better. Kord always procured the latest and greatest in pistols. This one favored punch and rate of fire over accuracy. Much of it was certainly constructed of longchain materials, which made it incredibly strong and heat resistant. Longchain was also used in the lifesaving securewear Kord wore beneath his jacket, although apparently not enough. It was becoming increasingly affordable and essential for high-end accelerators like those in Kord's grister.

  The vehicle jolted again, scraping around another bend. The fanicle's battens, which Vittora was in the process of breaking, were not molecularly aligned longchain. A piece bounced behind them before whipping off into the thickening trees.

  Jordahk shook his head. "Why'd you do it? Why put yourself out there like a target? You're the last person in the universe to make a tactical error like that."

  "That wasn't tactics, that was strategy," Kord said as he checked his pistol. "You remember that Andrew Jackson story?"

  "Oh God, not again," Jordahk said. His mock exasperation was perhaps ill-timed.

  "Jackson knew he was out-skilled," Kord continued undeterred. "He knew he only had one shot in the duel. So he chose to receive the first hit. He withstood it and then delivered his sole reply. A killing blow." That kind of impractical lesson Jordahk never heard Kord deliver in defense seminars. "This is the last chance for Adams Rush. Their last chance to wake up."

  The mountains of the Thule-Riss Range loomed while trees shielded them on
the side. But behind, the lights and fires of the city lit the sky.

  "You woke someone up," Jordahk said. He looked up at the newly arrived egress piece. As night came on, the four white dots surrounding it were easily distinguished.

  Kord stared at Jordahk with piercing eyes. He became uncharacteristically solemn. "From where we are in space, son, the egress can only take you backwards."

  Jordahk sensed something in his father's tone and rare use of "son." At thirty-four standard years, he was still in the tail end of long adolescence. And yet, an element was apparent in how his father spoke to him, something that made him feel like a man.

  Jordahk reached across his body and drew a pistol from his sling bag. For a long time he'd been in subtle competition with his father. Now he greatly desired his father to show him up.

  "Did you bring what you need for that thing?" Kord asked.

  "Yeah, all the original stuff," Jordahk answered, patting the bag.

  As far as pistols went, theirs could hardly be more different. Jordahk held a long, heavy, metal piece. Its gray luster shone under the growing light of the egress moon. The mystic autobuss didn't just look like an anachronism next to Kord's latest in scientum technology, it was one. The weapon dated back to the Sojourners' Crusade. More than any other, it symbolized the Sojourners, the masters of mystic technology, inasmuch as anyone ever was. Those familiar with mystic knew it a technology as likely to master its user, as be tamed.

  The esoteric methods Sojourners used to create their mystic creations were impossible to duplicate. With them gone, scientum was the only conventional alternative. It could not perform unexplainable feats, but it could be mass-produced. Of course, scientum had the added benefit of not potentially destroying the user's brain.

  The Sojourners were long gone, and out of their hands the autobuss wasn't the most practical weapon. Modern makers of mystic technology, imprimaturs, saved their brainpower for more profitable endeavors than making the signature pistol. That was assuming they even could, which was unlikely. The province now for the strange weapon resided with collectors, enthusiasts, niche scientists, and those who believed that they were, or would become, Sojourners.

  Jordahk liked to categorize himself as a collector, but if that was the case, what was he doing right now?

  "I'm such a faux," he mumbled to himself.

  "Break out your fastest ammo," Kord said. He reached behind to the stor-all on his belt. "I need the hot stuff, Highearn."

  The stor-all bulged, presenting a magazine by the time Kord's bloody hand arrived. He placed it gingerly into the auxiliary magazine well in front of the trigger studs. It auto-seated with a hum.

  A modern grister's magazine capacity was significant, and that was in addition to the magazine in its grip. From what Jordahk saw, his father was going to war.

  A pouch within Jordahk's sling bag held all the ammunition available. Through his mystic link, Jordahk could sense much about mystic technology by touch alone. He ran his fingers along the presented cartridges and lifted the one that felt the fastest. With a mental command and a subtle ping, the autobuss hinged open near the center, revealing seven chambers.

  Six loaded cartridge chambers surrounded a larger, empty octagonal shell chamber. A cartridge lifted, and Jordahk swapped it out. With a flick of his hand the autobuss clicked shut like a piece of fine jewelry. Two thirds of its metal body extended in front of the grip. The rest protruded back over the hand. Its styling was a unique blend of Combustion Age revolver, formfitting target pistol, and a "retro-future space gun" one might see in an old science fiction cineVAD.

  "Lead your target; use your ret vectors," Kord said, "and for God's sake, get it early." He scrutinized behind them. The road was a blur receding into darkness.

  "Just get me close, kid, and I'll take care of the rest," a gruff voice intoned.

  "Max, nice of you to join us," Jordahk said sarcastically. "I hope we haven't taken you from some important ancient battle simulation."

  Maximilian v4 wasn't a popular AI. In fact, 4 was the last rev ever made. Kord searched long and hard to find the most modern compy that could even run it. The one he found was 50 years old; a tarnished metal ring Jordahk wore on his right hand.

  Modern combat pistols had smart barrels, which performed a fractional adjustment when a shot was fired. The calculations of a fast compy combined with the judgment of a good AI could turn a near miss into a hit. Jordahk's mystic autobuss was one of the first to implement such a feature.

  "Don't argue with your AI," Kord said. An urgent triple tone sounded from the retrofitted box. "Split them up. You know the drill. Here they come!"

  They extended their pistols, scrutinizing everything in their wake. Flex metal autostocks unfolded from pistol to shoulder to brace their aim.

  "Watch for an eight o'clock final approach," Max said privately into Jordahk's link. "If I know this type, it'll be eight o'clock high."

  Jordahk could sense the inner workings of the autobuss. He focused his thoughts into it.

  Ready the fast ammo.

  The weapon hummed, lining that cartridge up to fire. Two fist-sized objects hovered around the bend 100 meters behind them. The devices visually acquired their targets and abruptly switched from fans to rockets.

  The AIs coordinated, circling designated targets in different shades of red on Jordahk and Kord's rets. It was a task well suited to the eyeball lenses, the strength of which was displaying simple lines and text. The circles rocketed upward. Seeker drones were wily little killing machines, not likely to dive straight in and let themselves be intercepted. The pair etched three-dimensional exhaust trails at crazy angles suspended in the darkening air.

  Seeker drones often settled for getting close and detonating a directed cone of deadly shrapnel. Closer than that risked being fried by the lightning arc of a bracer. Soldiers and security personnel always wore bracers, the bane of a seeker drone's existence. No one in the fanicle was wearing a bracer though, and the seeker drones' tiny crystal brains knew it. Tonight, going all the way in was their preferred objective.

  Jordahk's racing mind stretched the seconds. His chest vibrated from the pulsed throb of his father's grister. He was surprised his father had a shot so quickly. Five ammo nuts, super accelerated out of Kord's pistol, burned the air. The line of pointy pellets passed harmlessly underneath the first seeker drone, leaving a wispy black trail.

  Kord rarely missed. "Drak!"

  Jordahk followed the wildly dancing red circle in his vision. He kept his aim on the averaged vector line Max drew as well as the possibility cone sprouting off it. He mentally unlocked the old pistol and fired it with slight, intuitive pressure on the trigger studs. The autobuss emitted its unique hollow thunk. A triangle of three perfectly round ammo nuts cut a blurry distortion through the air. The fading effect completely missed. Jordahk fired twice more. The blurs were closer but didn't hit.

  His chest vibrated wildly. Jordahk didn't know whether his heart was going to burst or Kord was firing full auto. He heard a staccato tinkling sound followed by a blossom of light. The high-pitched hiss of mini rockets halved.

  The other seeker drone closed on the fanicle. It veered to the side, angling in at eight o'clock. Jordahk knew this was it. Final approach. Time for only one more shot. When a strange spike of resonance between his mystic link and autobuss peaked, he fired. One corner of his triangular shot nicked the drone, knocking it sideways. It sprayed propellant wildly, trying to reorient for detonation. It was suddenly a much easier target for his father. A tinny sound accompanied a line of sparks that stitched across the seeker drone before it exploded.

  Jordahk shielded his face from the blast with a trembling hand. The fanicle jolted as the explosion illuminated two receding, zigzagged exhaust trails. Debris clinked around them.

  Kord's concerned expression was covered with a smile. "Thanks for leaving the coup de grace for me." Their autostocks folded back into the pistols.

  Vittora glanced back, pleased the
men she loved were still in one piece. "You made that dramatic." Her tone made it sound like they shot seeker drones every day, and now it was time to head home for dinner. Just then, the whine of the fanicle turned to a warble. Vittora wrestled with the controls as their speed stuttered and slowed. "Something hit us."

  Vittora's driving the fanicle way past specs was strain enough. Now a new grinding sound joined the mix. On cue a few more parts scattered on the earthpack behind them. Jordahk's heart sank with the same feeling he suspected generations of drivers felt when their vehicles threatened to strand them.

  "Now that they're onto us," Kord said, "things are going to get serious."

  "Going to get?" Jordahk exclaimed.

  "We've got to get you to my father," Kord said.

  It was a sore point upon which Jordahk could get no traction. "Dard, I want to stay. We can make it to the cabin. Contact your friends and we'll start—" Jordahk's voice faltered as his father lowered his head and his mother was extra intent on the road.

  "Please, Jordahk," Vittora said, "don't make this harder."

  "You've got to go off with Aristahl," Kord said. They rarely talked about it directly, which was the least fractious approach. "You thought you'd have more time; we all did. Look, I'm not going to say this isn't your fight. But that doesn't mean this is the only place it's to be waged."

  Jordahk stared up at the highest peaks of the Thule-Riss. The last coppery rays of sunlight bent over the horizon, striking the snowy caps. At sunset, the Thule-Riss was a beautiful thing. It was also a fleeting thing, and now it was over.

  "Sure, my father has some crazy notions," Kord said.

  That understatement wasn't much of a concession. Aristahl was definitely unique, a character more mystery than fact, an imprimatur who fought in the war. How much did Kord even know about his father?

  "Once we thought I'd be joining his 'mystery quests.'" Kord said. "Just wasn't the time when I was young."