I said, “I think the Bird People regarded this as him, and it inspired them.”
If humans flunked the test of learning how to cooperate with another intelligent species back in the Paleolithic, we may have another chance coming. So far on Planet Green, there were birds whose intelligence waxed after the waning of a civilization powerful enough to move the blue moon. That, our government assures us, was two hundred million years ago, a span of time that takes the definition of ancient history to an extreme, and we don't need to worry about the world-movers. But one thing about petroleum is that there's such a thing as young oil that forms in ten or twenty thousand years. We haven't found any of that either. I think somebody used it up or took it away, long after the Birds, who never seemed to have done much with metal, much less oil. The latest guess is that the Bird People laid eyes on the Sky Spiders very late in their long oral history, long after the lives of their early culture heroes. The Sky Spiders probably had nothing at all to do with moving the blue moon. They might have been like us: an intelligent race from across the stars, intent on colonizing this old world—or this star system—with how much ultimate success, it's so far impossible to say.
I touched the feathers impressed in the fine-grained gray stone.
My intuition insists that we'll have a second chance to figure out how to cooperate with another species. Maybe in my lifetime. It might be the Green seals. Thanks to Joe, at least we didn't start out by setting up a machine that mangled them. Or maybe there'll be new arrivals from interstellar space. If we weren't the first newcomers, we probably won't be the last either. Or maybe we'll send a mining expedition to the asteroids of this sun and find the remote descendants of the Sky Spiders.
Somewhere not far away, there are people besides us. They have something to offer us, we have something to offer them, if both sides see it that way. It never worked out on Earth. But this is a new world. When the time comes, I hope we'll be guided by a kindred spirit named Wander, and get it right.
Copyright © 2009 Alexis Glynn Latner
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* * *
Novelette: RENDEZVOUS AT ANGELS THIRTY
by Tom Ligon
* * * *
Illustrated by Laurie Harden
* * * *
What does blurring the boundaries of reality do to ethics?
* * * *
The Bf 109 in front of me continued to jink erratically, attempting to spoil my aim. I rolled smoothly toward the kill position. I ignored his wingman, who was attempting to do the same to me, but had fallen hopelessly far behind. Both pilots were obviously inexperienced and had squandered their kinetic energy with high-gee maneuvers. The plane behind me was not an immediate threat and would not be unless I allowed myself to be led back within his range. I pressed my variable scissors attack on the lead plane, essentially a corkscrew pursuit that allowed me to keep my speed up without overshooting him. My opponent attempted an ill-advised reverse, and I was above him and inverted, an excellent position to counter the maneuver. I nudged the controls to drop in behind him, estimated the lead, squeezed off a quick burst, and was rewarded by little flashes against his wings and fuselage. I use API, a mix of two rounds of armor piercing, one incendiary, no tracers. Tracers give away your position. The incendiaries produce flashes when they strike, and ignite the fuel released by the armor-piercing rounds.
His plane became a torch. That made four.
A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed the location of his wingman. I let him close in behind me, not quite enough to allow a good shot. I own a Bf 109, and have trained on a simulated version. The slender fighter with the menacing sharklike fuselage and “greenhouse” canopy is the archetypical German fighter commonly depicted from the era, and no collection would be complete without one. I knew exactly where his blind spots would be. A flick of my forearm and a nudge on the rudder and my Mustang rolled gently inverted, then a little back pressure on the stick dropped me below his nose. He would expect I had performed a split-S, but once out of his sight, I transitioned into a big barrel roll. He predictably rolled inverted, expecting to dive onto my six, but my maneuver had kept me out of his field of vision. My left hand unconsciously worked the prop, throttle, and trim controls as I traded airspeed for altitude. In seconds, I was above him, also inverted, and slightly behind him. I could almost sense his confusion, wondering where I was, as I pulled back on the stick and poured forty-eight rounds a second of half-inch diameter, two-inch-long steel projectiles, traveling at three thousand feet a second, into his wings. His main spars disintegrated, and his wings came off cleanly. Unlike the last pilot, this one managed to bail out. That made five.
There are many myths about air combat. Most people think it is all about lightning reflexes and the ability to pull high gees. They believe it is best done by the young. I claim otherwise. If you rely on reflexes, you are reacting to the situation instead of controlling it. A good pilot will stay well “ahead of the plane.” If you rely on pulling high gees, you rapidly lose speed. Speed is life. Air combat is about figuring out a way to put your guns on the other guy without letting him put his guns on you. It takes patience, understanding of the maneuvers, and strategy. It is a problem to be worked, not a desperate and totally unpredictable dilemma. It takes experience.
I eased back the throttle, reduced propeller RPM, and adjusted trim, scanning the sky as I completed my roll back to horizontal. Except for my flight of Mustangs about a mile behind me, the sky was mine.
“Nice job, Hellfire,” said the voice on my headset. “Ace in a day!”
“Eh, like shooting fish in a barrel,” I replied flippantly. “Old age and treachery beat youth and skill. Okay, end simulation.”
The scene around my cockpit simulator dissolved. I removed my oxygen mask, unlatched and slid back the canopy, and began unplugging and unstrapping. The last of the nanoticles that had created the simulation faded into the quantum foam, or wherever they go when not needed, and revealed the walls of the simulator chamber. The hatch opened, and Wendy Taylor stepped in.
I wondered what she would look like without her dishwater blond hair pulled back in that hideous bun. Most young ladies try hard to catch my attention, not because I'm some stud, but for my money. Wendy was more interested in delivering on her company's claims for their simulator tech. I had to respect that. I try not to judge people by their appearance, but it is hard to not appreciate a healthy member of the opposite gender. Wendy would not meet the Hollywood definition of beauty, but she had an unusual and interesting face and intensity in her eyes that reinforced the overall impression of intelligence. The combination was curiously attractive.
“Well, Mr. Doyle, what did you think?” she asked.
I climbed out of the cockpit, trying to look casual. In truth, I was a little stiff and one foot was numb. “I can't tell you how many times I've flown Yeager's ‘ace in a day’ mission. The pilots are inexperienced, and the planes are obsolete. This was child's play.”
Wendy rolled her eyes. “Okay, hotshot, you know what I mean. How'd it feel? Was that the most realistic feeling you've ever experienced in a simulator, or what?"
I pointed to my left foot. “The heater is only effective on my right foot. My left foot is nearly frozen solid.”
“We can fix that if you like, but...”
“Fix it hell!" I pointed to my Mustang, parked across the hangar. “It is exactly like the real thing, in every respect I can tell. The gee forces, vibration, temperature ... you even got the smell right. But Walkin’ Cane over there does not have real guns. I've flown simulators for decades, civilian and military. Most make a nice rat-a-tat-tat noise when you pull the trigger and shake a little. But this one ... incredible! I felt like a god! I felt like Thor hurling thunderbolts! It was frickin’ awesome!"
Wendy beamed and then turned to admire Walkin’ Cane. I tipped my head to suggest we walk over to it. Everybody loves P-51 Mustangs, which many consider both the best and the best-looking fighter
of World War Two, and possibly of all time. Streamlined aircraft influenced art deco, but I wonder if art deco influenced the wonderful grace of the Mustang, including the characteristic belly scoop that housed the radiators. And Walkin’ Cane is the D model, with the bubble canopy, the feature that was really the finishing touch. I keep her in polished aluminum with blue trim, and I can't imagine a prettier way to show her off.
“Can I touch it?”
I nodded. She stroked its sleek sides. I would polish it again after she went home.
“This one still flies? Is it original? Can you give me a ride?”
“Yes, reproduction, and no,” I apologized. “Walkin’ Cane III is a faithful reproduction, which means single seat. I have two others that are original, and in flying condition, but they're too precious to risk anymore. There's one back east in Kissimmee, a two-seat trainer, if you really want to give it a try. I could set it up for you.”
“Wow!”
“Yup, wow. If you can get this simulation running as promised, you've earned it. And trust me, you couldn't afford it if you hadn't earned it. So, how long until you can integrate the time-drill snapshots?”
That took the wind out of her sails. “Months. The guy you really need is Rostov.”
I laughed and switched to my best phony Russian accent. “What was thing that Rostov said? ‘Not put hi-fi historical engrams in sims. Have tried. Not got ethics.'”
Wendy shrugged. “I can do it, but I'll just be following procedures. I have no idea how it will turn out. As far as I know, nobody has ever tried putting that high of a fidelity quantum snapshot engram into a simulated person before, much less a flight of eight pilots. And no way can we get ten bombers with ten men each in at that level, or the enemy aircrews.”
“I thought we could set the nanoticle density as high as was needed,” I countered. “What's the problem?”
“We can set the nano density to anything we want, but there's a fundamental bandwidth limit to the laser hologram that loads the simulation,” Wendy explained. “They'll have to be at lower fidelity, but they'll still be very realistic.”
“Can you at least make the bomber pilots and radiomen full fidelity?”
She shook her head. “It's all or nothing on a given aircraft. Even working a notch lower in fidelity, hi-fi sims are spooky to work with. They spot stuff that isn't real. They're damned near alive, and they have a lot of the memories and perceptions of the person they copy. Make a bomber pilot that real and his crew less real, and he'll think he's flying with zombies. The bomber crews and enemy pilots will have to be stock sim AI characters with personality upgrades based on the snapshots you provided. That's what's going to take all the time. I need to create a static character for each individual, pixelize their personalities down to a usable bandwidth, then manually cut and paste the personalities to the avatars. Speaking of which, how the hell could you afford all this?”
“I inherited a pretty good fortune,” I confessed. “I invested it in space mining and transportation, back before the boom. And the stock market has been good to me.”
“Okay,” she said, eyeing me a little like a teacher talking to a spoiled brat, “so you're rich enough to have the World War Two project divert a time drill to Earth's location on the particular date and time where this engagement happened, get the needed quantum snapshots, and then pay for damned near a year's worth of transmission time on a broadband laser to beam it back here from deep space. But why such a minor engagement? Why not something with commercial potential like the Battle of the Bulge, or the Pearl Harbor attack, or maybe the Marianas Turkey Shoot?”
“Because this is not about making money.” I shook my head. “This is personal. The flight leader, Captain Vince Doyle, is one of my ancestors. A few minutes after the snapshot, his whole flight vanished. Never found a trace. The original investigation suspected a big midair collision. Whatever the cause, they never met up with the bombers they were supposed to escort, and those guys got slaughtered. I think four planes limped home. The bombers suffered sixty-eight casualties on top of the guys in great-great-grandpa's unit.”
“And I guess you don't buy that explanation?”
“Heck no.” I shook my head emphatically. “They did take off into a low overcast, and that often caused midairs between pairs of aircraft, but usually near the base. Standard procedure was to fan out as soon as wheels were up, each plane taking a preassigned heading. Then, above the soup, they would form back up. We found them out over the English Channel, formed up and on course, approaching the Dutch coast, but there's a rocket plane below them and I think that must be the answer. The snapshot a few minutes later shows nothing. They must have wound up in the Channel, and I intend to find out how. There was no official finding against Gramps, but it happened on his watch, and the stink of a suspected screwup bothers me, even if it was a minor incident nobody else cares about. I want to find out what happened, try to avert it, and see what they would have done if they had the chance to do their jobs.”
“You could do that with a lower fidelity sim, you know.”
I nodded. “But I also want to get to know this man. Flying is in my blood, from more than one side of the family. I got it from my mother, and I got it from Gramps.” I smiled. “That's actually what his men called him, because he was the old man of the squadron. He was twenty-two.”
“Do you really think you can get to know him, looking at him from, what, no closer than maybe a dozen meters? Because there is no way we can continue this simulation until you get back to England and land, without sims of this high of a quality spotting that it is all fake. It's one thing to simulate eight guys in the air. A fake airbase of hundreds of people on a fake island nation won't sell.”
“You'd be surprised at the things you can learn about somebody's character from one cockpit over.”
“And another thing,” Wendy continued. “At this high of a nano density, if you get too close to these guys when the bullets are flying, they might as well be real. This is not just some laser hologram, we're dealing with synth-space and synth-mass here. Virtual particles still have a lot of the properties of the real thing. You could be killed.”
“So I've read. I gather the dangerous volume is roughly a sphere, about the radius of their apparent wingspan. I'm not planning to sit on their laps.”
Wendy shook her head. “At this level of realism, I'd double that, at least, and that's just if we had one plane at that level. With eight, plus your own, I have no idea what the sim will do. Space is distorted to fit your perspective and the volume of the chamber. At lower resolution, I've seen regions of high realism connect two nearby zones of high fidelity.”
I looked her in the eye. “This has been my fantasy for years. That's a risk I'm prepared to take, but I'm not in the habit of letting the bad guys point their guns at me. I'm very, very good.”
She looked right back. “Yeah, I know your rep. Gerald ‘Hellfire’ Doyle, world champion. One of the top five simulator pilots in the world. Twenty-something thousand kills. Well, superjock, this may technically be a simulator, but the fact is, you'll be up against what might as well be the real thing. And I believe a couple of those German aces had kills up in the hundreds, didn't they? Real kills, not simulated.”
“Granted,” I agreed. “But consider that I have more real flight hours in actual warbirds than most of those pilots ever did. Besides several Mustangs and a Spitfire, I own a Bf 109 and a FW 190, a reproduction Me 262 in flying condition, and a B-17. I have trained either in the real thing or faithful simulations of them. I have been in almost every conceivable flight combat situation, including a single Mustang against a hoard of modern jets, and I'm usually the last guy flying. Yes, I have around twenty-four thousand sim kills, some against AIs, most against other human pilots, but to accomplish that I've probably been shot down well over a thousand times. No real pilot in real combat situations can possibly do that and survive. I have learned from a thousand mistakes that would have been fatal for pilots in
real combat. Ergo, no real pilot who has not trained in simulators can possibly have my level of combat experience.
“I'll tell you what,” I challenged. “Set me up a combat situation. You should have sims of all these guys. Give me a flight including Walter Nowotny, Heinrich Ehrler, Heinrich Baer, Erich Rudorffer, Walter Schuck, and Erich Hartmann. I think all of them had over two hundred kills apiece. Put them in whatever German aircraft from the Second World War you like. Put them a mile behind me at six o'clock high. Let's see what happens. You work on that, and I'm going to change into a warmer flight suit and fur-lined boots.”
I'll admit, on the nano simulator they were more of a handful than I expected. I had to cheat a little and take the fight down to treetop level where I only had to worry about planes I could keep an eye on. When it was over, my plane was shot to crap, but I was the last guy in the air.
* * * *
The months passed slowly. It took all my willpower not to analyze the time-drill snapshots further. I was itching to know more about the enemy plane far below, but I already knew too much about the threats we would face. I had an unfair advantage, and that was nagging me. It would affect the realism of the simulation.
I acquired a few more snippets of information that clarified the history surrounding the mission. One fact became clear: The mission was planned primarily as a diversion. A larger fleet of bombers and fighters launched a little later, on a slightly different heading, and pasted its target thoroughly, with minimal losses. In spite of the catastrophic losses the diversion suffered, it accomplished this goal, and so there had never been a serious inquiry. They were expendable.
Looking at the area snapshots, those poor bomber crews had attracted way more than their fair share of fighters. Considering the fur-ball they found themselves in, they accounted well for themselves. Assuming I could get Gramps and his eight planes past whatever had killed them, they were still going to be up against formidable odds. An extra plane with good aim would help.
Analog SFF, May 2009 Page 9