Tethered Worlds: Unwelcome Star

by Gregory Faccone

  The two stepped into the link tube, and the hatch closed behind them.

  ADAMS RUSH WEATHERS TURBULENT TRANSITION TO MEMBER WORLD STATUS

  Adams Rush, Asterfraeo Territories

  (Gaston Canterbury,

  Confederated Comm senior staff writer. 335/2613)

  The unprecedented arrival of a fully intact egress section has been greeted warmly by the majority on Adams Rush. The bold move halved what would have been over six months of assembly and tuning to bring the egress online. The office of the Prime Orator released a statement:

  "It's the Perigeum's responsibility, and frankly our duty, to facilitate the smoothest transition possible for Adams Rush in this trying time of cultural change. Our family of worlds is growing, and we know that takes some adjustment. Soon, we'll all benefit from a stronger and more diverse community."

  A few die-hard traditionalists opposed to their own government's decision to join the Perigeum have been detained. Such protests are dwindling and likely to be a memory by inaugural sync. The Perigeum Starmada is providing logistical support to local authorities ensuring the frontier population's safety.

  "Logistical, my ass."

  The older Pheron became, the more amused he was by media spin. He pushed Gaston Canterbury's VAD to the bottom.

  "Although he does have a way with words. You had better with a name like that."

  Pheron's dark skin regained its neutral pallor from the red of last night's outburst. The colortat going around the back of his bald head stood out in lighter but equally neutral gray.

  "Quite, field commander," Aetaire said while multitasking, as usual. One ear always listened for the field commander. One eye oversaw the reprogramming of the command AI, which the highest ranking bitsmith in the task force, a rather frayed lieutenant, was conducting right on the flag bridge.

  The effort proceeded all shipboard night, the lieutenant ordered to stay until all the command AI's secret directives were uprooted. The exhausted bitsmith coordinated with his team in the AI lab and looked both stressed and ready to topple over.

  Pheron had barely napped and was also slightly more unkempt than usual. As for unwrinkled Aetaire, the field commander suspected he was a bat who hung upside-down for a few off shift hours.

  "Status," Pheron said over his shoulder.

  The lieutenant, in way over his head, was out of sorts. "We've found most of the hidden directives and isolated them. They're in deep and, ah, rather complex." He swallowed hard then stammered on. "We—can't stop them from running and can't even find exactly what they're looking for."

  Pheron frowned. Even Aetaire was dissatisfied.

  "However," the lieutenant was quick to add, "we can limit their dominance and keep them off top layer priority."

  "What about their transmissions?" Pheron asked.

  "You would have to disable every method of transmission on board to stop it, but you can at least monitor every transmission sent." The lieutenant lost himself in his programming world for a moment. "Even then I bet it'd flash the ship's running lights in code to get information out." It almost sounded like he admired the engineering genius.

  Aetaire was ready to burst with righteous indignation, but Pheron raised a silencing hand. "I want better results, lieutenant. Return to your lab. Keep this information need-to-know. I want hourly status reports. Dismissed."

  Aetaire read his commander and waited for the lieutenant to leave. "Commander, this is most irregular. Our mission is highest profile."

  "You can protest, Aetaire," Pheron said, "but when High Command finds out it's the Archivers, their ears will become surprisingly deaf. Worse still, you may make some dangerous enemies."

  Aetaire let out a long exhale. "Yes, commander."

  Pheron fixed on the trimensional nav. The Adams Rush ships maintained a defensive formation on the planet's far side. Their lot was made more piteous by planetary governmental chaos. The naval units were paralyzed, and even if they chose to act, they lacked the firepower to dislodge him.

  That didn't even take into consideration the Archiver squadron, undoubtedly more powerful than it seemed. The Archivers wouldn't participate, though, unless it served their purpose—whatever that was. Pheron stared at their squadron depiction. He disliked X-factors.

  "What are the Archivers doing, Aetaire?"

  "They dispatched owls near the Legion sniper team's last position before contact was lost."

  "'Contact lost'? Cut the drak, Aetaire. They were atomized in a mystic explosion I could see out the crystal panes."

  "Ah, yes. Well, one owl won't see space again without repairs. Both are coordinating a search of the region. The Archiver commodore inspector has deplaned with a squad of combat bots."

  Pheron pushed a finger through the trimensional Archiver transport representation. "Get our aphids flying. I want in-atmosphere eyes and the city pacified."

  "We've neutralized more anti-aircraft. We should be flying within twelve hours."

  "Make it happen, Aetaire. We're not authorized to joy ride owls over our soon-to-be sister world." He stared at the Archiver squadron symbols. What are you seeking, commodore?

  Morning below the Thule-Riss revealed pools of cooled slag, bits of debris, and craters. The violet blue sky was giving way to clouds. Though the air was clear, it carried a burnt smell.

  Civil unrest was regrouping after the previous night. Adams Rush was set on an unpopular but inevitable path. The possibility of changing course was unlikely. Those who entertained such hopes had but to gaze up and see the nearly complete hollow hexagon.

  Below the high clouds, an owl wheeled in slow, perfect maneuvers. It was too high for its wendells to be heard, but still not likely to be confused with a soaring bird. Its blackened sister ship sat ground side. In the nearby woods a mechanical menagerie centered on a lone human.

  The outer members were spherical espies the size of eyeballs. Small enough to evade detection, at least from a distance, they passively monitored multiple spectra. Closer in, seeker drones orbited on fans just waiting for the signal to go rockets on.

  The innermost layer was populated by three dangerous machines. Designed to share equipment and vehicles made for man, their silhouette was roughly humanoid. But their black angular shapes could not be mistaken for human. Where society had little tolerance for irksome AIs, they had even less for dawgs and close to none for soulless combat bots. Machines that could and would kill a human, no matter how tightly programmed and controlled, remained anathema to most people. They remained bogeymen who scared children, and provided fodder for fictional cineVADs. This fearsome lot, a model never fielded before, bore a frighteningly striking resemblance to their fictional counterparts.

  Solid hips formed a stable platform for multi-functional legs. The torsos flared above omni-directional waist joints into bulky triangular chests. The bots' construction was top heavy, and their powerful arms, which bristled with weaponry, only added to that impression. Atop their torsos sat faceted heads. Spotted with various scanning eyes, they were alien and masked. Smooth where facial features would be on a human, they sported supranameled Perigeum symbols encasing Archiver stripes.

  Combat bots were almost always fielded with humans, usually in mixed platoons. Commodore Inspector Rewe Frixion didn't care for unpredictable and untrustworthy humans. For that matter, he didn't care for robots or AIs. But he could strictly control robots' programming, and even recalcitrant AIs could be made to obey with the right tools.

  Rewe toed the dirt in a blackened crater where the night before a fanicle had been. His heavy, armored treader dug a rut. "What about trails?"

  "Nothing in the immediate area," said an old model command bot with worn, gold trim. Combat bots had low-pitched, metal-tinged voices designed to intimidate.

  Rewe glanced at a low, multi-treaded utility bot carrying a scanning device. The two bots occupied the center of the formation with him. "And those that branched off earlier?" His patience was thinning.

  "The trail l
eading higher into the mountains has grown indistinct," the command bot continued, "but our espies continue to find traces. The trail leading back to the road was lost on earthpack closer to city limits. Shall I have an espy continue into the city?"

  "Radiated slag." Rewe shook his head. "Auscultare!" His normally pink complexion grew redder. Neither crisp morning air nor uniform cooling could keep sweat from forming on his face.

  "Yes, commodore," came Auscultare's calm voice.

  "You getting this?"

  "I've been monitoring your squad."

  "Then collate these trails with last night's surveillance and save me from talking to this bit-brained moron."

  "Surveillance from last night is sporadic," Auscultare said. "I've also tapped the task force's feeds. There's nothing to help with the woodland trail. However..." A VAD appeared before Rewe showing a grainy nighttime shot. "A lightwheel stopped on the earthpack and picked up one passenger before proceeding into the city."

  "The wounded one," Rewe mused. "Tap into the city's feeds. I want those individuals alive." The brutish Legion had nearly killed his quarry. But their heavy-handed tactics had also brought rare mystic usage into the open. The Thule-Riss Hold was nearby, possibly only kilometers away. He could almost feel it. He might even share some of the find with his Archiver masters. Maybe.

  "There are no public eyes in the city to tap," Auscultare said. An odd note touched his voice. "Adams Rush has privacy policies that differ greatly, from—your Perigeum."

  "My Perigeum?" Rewe's expression reflected his disdain. He sub-whispered into existence a private backdoor VAD. He manipulated two powerful control systems. "Run a diagnostic Auscultare." He watched the VAD for a number of seconds until he was satisfied. "No mistakes. Find those individuals."

  "Yes, commodore," Auscultare replied flatly.

  "Now locate the nearest structures along the mountain trail." A VAD showed the mountains. Large amounts of data, time-lapse orbital observations, public and not so public data regarding roads and construction, were crunched over it in a flash. Even weather patterns were applied to the sporadic woodland traces the espy was following. In just seconds, Rewe had his first possible destination.

  A hundred flexible paddle-ended spokes extended from his treaders. They formed lightwheels outside each ankle. Their radii went nearly to his knee, lifting him off the ground. The "wheelies" turned smoothly, conforming to the rough terrain and propelling him rapidly.

  "Move out, slags."

  Jordahk slept 12 hours, drained both physically and emotionally. The laver's scrub was too quick and efficient, so he raised the temperature and leaned for a long time in the swirl. That was more work for the recyclers, but the ship wasn't a fully loaded troop transport running at max efficiency.

  He usually didn't require that much sleep. Solidly under for most of it, in the end he dreamed his parents were being chased. He hoped that was true, for it certainly beat the alternative.

  He'd talked to no one, nor did he want to. Not even Max. The AI had years of interaction experience and was wise enough to know when to leave him alone. Jordahk didn't know how Aristahl did it, surrounded constantly by unconventional and troublesome AIs. Just him and Max was fine.

  Aristahl had left him new clothes, quality stuff. This wasn't a training mission with his parents. This was the real deal for which Aristahl needed his help. The idea was strange. He felt inadequate to the task. His grandfather was as capable as his father in his own peculiar way, and in light of recent events, perhaps more dangerous.

  "Time to grow up," he murmured.

  He could fake that well enough. He still had two more years before Investiture, although at the rate things were going, the prospects of that being a joyous occasion seemed slim. Perhaps Aristahl only needed an extra set of hands and someone to watch his six. Jordahk felt confident he could do that if nothing else.

  He donned the pricey, active systems sillifiber undergarments. They were quite comfortable and would also keep him clean. The dynamic color pants and shirt reminded him of Aristahl, although they had a more modern cut, and a vest like his grandfather's was missing. Jordahk left the straight pants smooth black, but changed the stark white shirt to an earthier cream.

  The long greather coat reached down to the middle of his shins. Knowing Aristahl and the seriousness of this mission, if it could be called that, the coat was filled with unusual tech. Jordahk had no doubt it would stop a grister at any range.

  "Max, interface with the coat."

  The AI whistled appreciatively. "There's a lot here. A full eye and detector suite, environmental controls, scale armor, dynamic pattern coloring—"

  "Merry Christmas, Max, but later." He changed the coat from Aristahl's smooth black to a dark warm gray, and the purple accents to the violet blue of the Adams Rush sky. He stepped into his treaders, which shone like new since thrown into the swirl. They secured around his feet, rising to where the coat ended.

  It was time to see where they were going, time for him to leave his cabin. He realized how little he knew about the ship he was on, having only glimpsed it on approach.

  "Bring the ship's specs up on the wall, Max." It was nice to use an active wall for a change instead of a VAD.

  The entire bulkhead came alive with a display of the ship suspended in space. Constructed for light action, its elongated shape tapered on the ends. The Monte Crest bulged prominently in the middle with extra command decks and again farther back where its teslanium reactor lay.

  "What is this thing, Max? Masses like a frigate, except not so compact, or dangerous."

  "It was commissioned fifty years ago for system patrol and supply. Twenty years ago it was retired and bought by one Longwei Luck."

  "That a fashion name?" Jordahk asked.

  "It means 'dragon greatness and luck,' but I can't find a record to tell for sure. Anyway, the name's not granting any luck. By my reckoning the ship is in debt. Jobs for the last ten years have been low risk and lower profit."

  Jordahk moved his hand casually, causing the image to focus on various parts of the ship. Armament was unimpressive, and the warm plasma shields were nothing out of the ordinary. He examined the thrust rings visible as thick vertical stripes. Two near the bow, two more bracketing the centerline, and two near the stern. On the greenish gray hull, the rings were the only things that looked above grade.

  "Well, at least it can maneuver."

  He felt little hunger, but knew he had to eat. It had been that way since receiving his lifetime therapy. At eight, Aristahl performed the ravelen on him, one of the benefits of knowing an advanced imprimatur. Most people considered the mystic ravelen superior to the retta, the scientum lifetime therapy. Every year, fewer imprimaturs could perform ravelens.

  Jordahk's had all kinds of extra benefits, and he knew it. So he never complained about the hunger thing even though he would like to enjoy food more.

  "Where's my grandfather?"

  "In his cabin," Max said.

  "Hey, Pops, I'm going to eat. Feel like joining?" Max relayed.

  "No thank you, Jordahk," Aristahl's voice came back. "I'm working on some software. Why don't you familiarize yourself with the crew?"

  "Okay."

  Jordahk shouldered his sling bag as he walked out. "Schematic."

  From his new coat a VAD projected the ship's basic layout. He spotted the crewroom/mess. "What's the crew on this bucket?"

  Some text flashed by, but Max summarized. "Four permanent crew, six hired hands, and about a dozen full-sized bots."

  "How does the permanent crew break down?" Jordahk noted the worn corridors. They weren't dirty, but they weren't exactly clean either.

  "After Capt. Luck, an engineer, a data rider, and someone titled 'security and procurements.' Now that's a gem of a euphemism if I've ever heard one."

  The hatch for the crewroom slid aside. "I wonder how good their data rider is?" Jordahk asked absently. The rectangular room was large for a small ship, but not so much that his qu
estion didn't carry. All eyes turned to him as he entered. Not a great way to make a first impression.

  A bank of tall, crystal panes lined the far wall looking out into the cool, distorted hues of manifold space. Near them two large men sat at a table, staring at him. They weren't thrilled.

  He thought it best to just go about his business and not do anything else to annoy the locals. Unless one of them was the data rider, he was going to chalk their expressions up to, "Who's the new guy?" syndrome.

  Nearer the hatch, about as far away from those bulky men as the cabin allowed, sat three average sized men. Undoubtedly they also heard Jordahk as evidenced by their disdainful countenances. One added conceited superiority.

  "Max," Jordahk sub-whispered, "are any of these cheerful people the data rider?"

  The AI flashed an outline on Jordahk's rets around mister "superiority."

  "Great." He maintained a lopsided, semi-friendly grin and continued with his original purpose, soldiering on to the food-jerk.

  "To answer your question," Max link-said, "I believe he's good."

  From his home in the old ring, Max resonance-transmitted to Jordahk's link. Resonance transmission required touch since it sent pulses directly through matter. The body was a good medium, and it was impossible to intercept barring touch. So at least this dialog wasn't falling upon inappropriate ears.

  "I've noticed some unusual yet effective routines set up in the sensor suite and ship AI."

  "Advanced stuff?" Jordahk sub-whispered.

  "Not exactly. More like creative usage of existing assets. As I can attest, effectiveness and cutting edge aren't necessarily linked."

  Conversations resumed, although more hushed. The uncomfortable stares continued.

  "Our party is probably the news de jour." Jordahk suspected they thought Aristahl some wealthy client willing to pay serious coin to get himself and his hapless grandson away from the Perigeum. He sighed. "Why am I on this..." His murmur paused. "Mission. What am I bringing to the table?"

  "Probably a bunch of things. Put a little trust in your grandfather's judgment," Max link-said. "You've got skills."