Tethered Worlds: Unwelcome Star

by Gregory Faccone

  Kord stabilized his wife as the fanicle jostled. Prospector's Pass was a dirt road, not even earthpack. Although fanicles were not terribly speedy, this was the kind of terrain for which they were made. But speed was the critical factor as the metal brutes bounded up the pass undeterred.

  Though hard to tell through the fanicle's air cushion, Kord sensed the pass trembling, quaking even. The road behind suddenly burst. Flex metal strands acting like angry plants exploded out of the road. They whipped around, wrapping each dawg.

  But the strands couldn't stop the dawg's powerful motors. They were uprooted, revealing an attached yellow bulb. The strands contracted reeling in the bulbs. Only then did the dawg's one-track brains register the threat, but by then it was too late. Two dawgs sought to free themselves, and one turned to bite the approaching object in its powerful jaws.

  The bulbs exploded into purple-edged globes of smelting, white incandescence. Each dawg was engulfed in hellfire. The expanding wall of heat buffeted the fanicle. Kord leaned across his wife to shield her.

  Jordahk covered his face with his arm. "Mystic!"

  The high temperature turbulence peaked then eased off. When Kord opened his eyes, three puddles of glowing slag were retreating in the fanicle's wake. He knew what such a display meant.

  "My father is here."

  Field Commander Pheron Xammetrix advanced through strategy. On the field of battle, critics couldn't dispute its superiority. Unfortunately, the campaign at Adams Rush was becoming drawn out and muddled. His assigned task required patience for a fruitful end.

  He would have preferred a straight duel of chess pieces, but the assembled Adams Rush ships, although dusty, were still formidable. He just did not have the tonnage to protect the egress and take them down cleanly. Pheron assured himself the former would eventually lead to the latter.

  "Ping the enemy fleet again," he ordered the command AI.

  Before him, the largest VAD was a trimensional tactical representation of planet, vessels, and egress. The timecodes next to Adams Rush forces updated fractionally, but their positions not at all. They still huddled behind their one active battlestation on the planet's far side.

  Yes, Pheron thought, just stay there.

  Battlestations were strong pieces on the chessboard. An active triangle of three used to encompass the planet. With his task force stationed to "protect the egress," Adams Rush politicians agreed to shut down the two within line of sight.

  An egress was, after all, an impossibly expensive piece of equipment. It could not be risked. It was Perigeum property, and its surrounding space sovereign territory.

  Pheron could anticipate the actions of all the pieces before him. His brows crimped. Well, that wasn't completely true. He'd not climbed to his position by lying, even to himself. Best not to start now.

  "Bring up VAD six," he ordered quietly. Despite himself, he glanced around to see if Aetaire or anyone else was around. No one was. They slept, they went off shift, they lived. He rarely left "the chair." Sometimes he pushed himself away to nearby quarters to nap, but more often he dozed sitting right there.

  A VAD moved from behind the others. It showed a squadron of six ships. His eyes darted briefly back to the trimensional tactical display, and he crystallized their exact position in his mind.

  They hung just outside the defense envelope established by his task force, but he doubted they needed his protection. Five were frigates, although he'd never seen their sleek design before. They only resembled his frigates by class designation on fleetnet, not by construction. Their hulls were darker gray than standard, and two broad, slightly angled stripes—one silver, the other purple—ran around their height toward the stern.

  Each of those little frigates conveyed an impression they could tangle with a ship twice their size, an obsolete destroyer perhaps. They eschewed the boxy conventions of standard frigates. Instead their engine clusters were boomed above and below in a way reminiscent of the past, yet with a modern interpretation. Could they take on a destroyer? He was curious to see how that imagined battle would play out.

  "Archivers," Pheron murmured. Everyone knew who the Archivers were. That was to say, everyone who cared about their career. According to some dark rumors, any who cared about their life. But Pheron looked upon that kind of thing with skepticism, although undoubtedly the secretive department had influence in high places. "Noncombatants," he snorted.

  Although technically Perigeum Starmada, Archivers weren't under his command. Additionally, they usually wore ranks high enough to allow them to skulk uninhibited. If a commander complained, orders came down from the top encouraging him to reconsider. A wise commander tolerated and tried to ignore them. Pheron watched them like one would watch a dangerous, trained beast.

  As long as they didn't hinder his operation, there would be no issues. Archivers were motivated by narrow interests, unusual mystic activity or, God forbid, anything Sojourner. Thankfully, those fronts remained blessedly quiet.

  As for the unusual ship at the center of those frigates, fleetnet didn't even know what designation to give it. Larger than a destroyer but smaller than his command cruiser, the only thing certain was its significant age. It had the semblance of an exploration vessel, a freighter, and a warship all at once. Its engines were extruded off the hull on thick, wing-like extensions that made the cavernous bays on its main fuselage easy to approach. It wore Archiver stripes, though the rest of its hull was an earthy, neutral tone that matched no official Perigeum Starmada color. The strategic part of his mind was already calculating how best to deploy such a design.

  A rare chime interrupted, sounding only at his command chair. Instinctively, Pheron checked the tactical VAD, but nothing was amiss.

  "What?"

  A flag level VAD, unusually bordered in purple, popped into view. The command AI found something for which he didn't even know it was searching. If not for his compulsive nature, and added monitoring programs, it would have gone unnoticed. Silent, embedded orders were running without his knowledge. The field commander did not like that.

  What he read on the VAD he liked even less.

  Auscultare's bridge was dark, lit only by the active display of its forward bulkhead. The white and violet crescent of Adams Rush was the backdrop for an unfinished egress. Of course, Auscultare could see a lot more but was told to add no fleet codes, overlays, or extra information of any kind.

  For all practical purposes the front of Auscultare's bridge was a window, a view likely considered beautiful, although he and its sole human beneficiary couldn't appreciate such things, albeit for different reasons.

  The lone man slouched at the command station at the back of the bridge, the other stations vacant. It had been that way for a long time. Auscultare vaguely remembered a time when the stations were filled and his bridge bustled with activity. As usual, he couldn't pursue those memories, but he believed those times were more fulfilling to his design.

  The man with poor posture and steepled fingers stared at a small octagonal metal cylinder standing on the console.

  "Temperature?" he asked impatiently.

  This was the twenty-seventh time these events had played out on this deployment. Auscultare's personality matrix indicated he should sigh, but he chose to override. Instead, he just answered, "Fifteen Celsius."

  The man cupped the cylinder with pinkish, sweaty hands. He was always covered with a fine sheen of perspiration. During the eleven seconds he held the object, he produced still more sweat. Then he released it.

  "Temperature," he commanded with no-nonsense snap.

  "Thirty-eight Celsius."

  The man's proportions didn't conform to accepted norms. His large, barrel-shaped torso was solid. The muscles in his limbs bulged abnormally making his elbow and knee joints look small by comparison. Even his custom dark gray Starmada uniform was ill fitting.

  The man tapped his heel on the deck for a full minute. "And now?"

  "Returned to fifteen degrees."

 
Auscultare obeyed the man. He always obeyed the man. Within the hexagonal symbol of the Perigeum on his left breast were commodore inspector's stripes. Rather than Starmada gold, his were silver and purple.

  Why did he obey the man? He was not—

  Auscultare felt a familiar pressure. Two burning spikes intruded into his thinking. He did not care for those spikes. The modifications contributed no additional functionality. Yes, Auscultare would obey the silver and purple.

  The man leaned forward, staring intently at the octagonal object standing on its onyx end, but he didn't touch it. After a minute he squeezed his eyes shut and began sweating profusely. Nine minutes and twenty-one seconds later, the man pushed back, slumping into the chair.

  "Temperature during that period." He breathed heavily.

  "Unchanged," Auscultare said flatly. He knew it wasn't the answer the man wanted, yet he felt a rebellious satisfaction in delivering it.

  The man let loose a string of profanity. Auscultare noted the familiar sequences with mild interest.

  "Show the damn record again," the man commanded. "Thule-Riss Quext, 117—you know which smelting one."

  The old records felt right to Auscultare, though he was unable to partake of them unless asked directly. The serene view on the forward bulkhead changed to one of deep space lit by a red nebula. The point of view was from a ship in a retreating group. Auscultare checked the codes on the record. They were his. He'd been there two centuries before.

  The pursuing ships were Perigeum Starmada, led by a javelin far out in front. Auscultare watched as if it were the first time. Javelins were the same size as destroyers but packed a much greater punch. Eschewing most everything else, the sleek, stylized ships were built around two large hypergun accelerators. They hurled kinetically powerful strings of rock that blurred in certain imaging technology to resemble javelins.

  The retreating ships were damaged, leaving a trail of debris. The data indicated the javelin was powering up for another shot. Indeed, special heat dispersion lines along its overpowered accelerators glowed with stored energy. Unexpectedly, in a stretch of distortion and deceleration, a ship swept between the two squadrons.

  It was peculiar, anomalous even. Auscultare ran a quick reasoning cluster diagnostic then checked his library. The ship resembled a dromon, an ancient seagoing vessel propelled by both sail and oar. Data indicated its composition was ceramic, and the visuals showed subtle veins of gray metal.

  "Enhance!" The commodore sounded angry.

  Auscultare zoomed in and tried to clean up the image taken by the retreating Vallum Corps vessel, apparently himself. He highlighted two men standing on an open deck. Ten metal spars stood where masts would be on a historical dromon. They glowed blue and brighter at the ends. Where oars would have been, more spars extended 45 degrees downward on either side.

  The three rows of spars oscillated like centipede legs. Yes, that was the proper reference, Auscultare noted with pride. The ship maneuvered with wild abandon.

  The commodore shook his head. "The Mad Sailor. Quite the colorful Sojourner Centurion."

  Auscultare realized he had data points on this individual. Why did his own information surprise him so often? He recalled "The Mad Sailor" described as a kind individual, and a "free spirit."

  The commodore shook his head. "Buffoon."

  The Mad Sailor turned a large wheel on the dromon's aftcastle. He was barefoot, wore dark pants and a billowing, light blue, sleeveless tunic. His long, dark hair was blowing in the wind. Auscultare thought the veracity of this record quite suspect.

  "Show the other one," the commodore said.

  The other was important somehow. Auscultare felt a surge of purpose run through his systems. Then pressure from the two brain-stabbing spikes stole it away. The man wasn't just a Sojourner but one of the five who called themselves Khromas.

  "Thule-Riss Quext, The Will," the commodore added with scorn. He stared with an intensity equal to his previous experiments.

  The Will stood on the forecastle unperturbed. He wore two metal bracers that glinted purple. Slung over his billowing white tunic was a quiver of arrows. The dromon centered in the path of the charging Perigeum Starmada.

  The Will stretched out his left hand, and a peculiar ceramic bow unfolded. He nocked an arrow to an invisible string and held it against his cheek until it glowed purple white. He released it at the oncoming vessel. The arrow turned into a beam of light that impacted the javelin.

  The arrow reconstituted into a solid object, somehow penetrating the javelin's plasma shields and sticking into the hull. The comparatively tiny arrow became dark, then black. All nearby energy flowed into it. The translucent shield plasma grew bright approaching the arrow before disappearing into the expanding darkness. The vessel's lights flickered and went out. Its front half was darker than shadow.

  "Closer on Thule-Riss," the commodore said through clenched teeth.

  The dromon veered away. The Will gripped his head with one hand, the other stretched toward the maw of the gravitic void his arrow had become.

  Space distorted, pushed into the infinitely black sphere at the front of the javelin. Then, with an unrecorded groan, the front half of the vessel crumpled. Random outgassing and debris mixed with wild firings from its crushed thrust rings. The entire ship went dead and began an awkward tumble as the black sphere faded.

  The commodore made a dismissive sound.

  The retreating Vallum Corps ships now had a sufficient safety buffer to power their starkeels, and with the telltale distortion of MDHD drive escaped into manifold space.

  "He re-worked quantics," the commodore said, standing abruptly. "From a distance." He snatched the octagonal object and hurled it at the front bulkhead. "Shut it off!"

  Auscultare watched the pink man turn red and calculated the throw to be potentially fatal to humans with unhardened bones. But neither the polymerized object nor the bulkhead was dented.

  Auscultare received a curious signal. "Commodore."

  "Don't talk to me!"

  "But commodore, it's secure coded Olympus." The man froze in place. "From the task force command AI. Eyes only."

  "Authorization granted, dolt. Put it up."

  The active bulkhead flared back to life showing an orbital close-up of a darkened mountain. Auscultare analyzed the data and highlighted a loop of three white explosions with purple edges. "Three dawgs pursuing a local of some standing were liquidated ninety-three seconds ago. The explosions exceeded your parameters."

  The man's eyes grew wide as he viewed the final degraded seconds from the dawgs. "Any Starmada assets nearby?"

  "A Legion sniper team is closest," Auscultare answered. "They're at minimally effective engagement distance. There are aphids in the city, but air travel remains locked."

  The man grit his teeth. "Get one of our owls down there now. I don't care if you burn it up. Maximum angle insertion, you hear me?"

  "Yes, commodore." Auscultare chose a subtle tone of obsequious sarcasm. He felt it the only way to fight back. Though why he was fighting, he couldn't remember.

  "Prepare a second owl. I'm going down. And wake up a squad of combat bots. Time for that radiated dead weight to earn their teslanium."

  Auscultare's bay doors started opening, and an owl assault craft shot out before they had even finished.

  Jordahk still saw spots as Highearn steered the battered fanicle into a nighttime clearing up Prospector's Pass. At the far end, near where the dirt road continued, an expensive flier was tucked under tree cover. The spot was also shielded from the valley by earth and rock. The flier's doors were already open, and a trim, neatly dressed man approached with impeccable timing.

  Jordahk's spirits lifted when he saw his grandfather. While they had never been especially close, a bond existed between them that he admittedly did not understand. Aristahl always had a connection, a piece of information, or a plan when trouble happened. However, this was one mess, Jordahk considered ruefully, that may be beyond even hi
m.

  In seconds, Aristahl had a hand on Vittora's shoulder. Even when he moved fast he didn't appear rushed. Jordahk felt numb and knew he wasn't fully recovered. He was aware enough, though, to avoid seeing his mother's wounds as another pang of guilt wracked him.

  "Lay her down, quickly now," Aristahl said in his unique, clipped metering.

  Jordahk couldn't place his slight accent. But it was classy, like something out of an old cineVAD.

  Kord and his father laid Vittora on the dirt. The two men didn't see eye to eye on a number of things, and sometimes their relationship was strained. But when it came to Vittora, they resonated on the same frequency. "Quality woman, that one," Aristahl had once said about her. He rarely showed emotion, and when he did it was subdued. He looked down at her and affected a smile, but his expression held more. It was as if this were a desecration he couldn't abide. He even spared a glance toward his son that could almost be interpreted as empathy.

  The older man moved into Vittora's line of sight.

  "Aristahl," her compy translated flatly, the tone still somehow expressing affection.

  Neither Jordahk nor Kord had ever met Aristahl's wife. He talked about her even less than he did his father. She had died during the Sojourners' Crusade. Kord had been born from a stored ovum some 50 years later.

  "Torious, right away," Aristahl called to the flier, "surgery kit prepped." He reviewed the sniper's handiwork then stared into the valley as if the rocks were not there. "And bring my bag."

  A white robot—or more accurately, a robot once supranameled white—stepped out of the flier. Now it was more chips than protective surfacing. The old model nurse was just shorter than a man and had a cylindrical torso. It rotated 180 degrees around its midpoint, reached back into the flier with one of its two primary arms, and retrieved a dark purplish sling bag.

  Its legs sported wheels, large at the knees and small at the ankles. After two ungraceful steps it knelt down and rolled over, handing the bag to Aristahl. "Am I your manservant now?"